calloused: ʙᴇᴛɪᴄᴏɴꜱ (299.)
ᴅᴇʀᴇᴋ ʜᴀʟᴇ ♔ ([personal profile] calloused) wrote 2021-02-20 08:17 am (UTC)

[ Derek winces a little, not sure what to say - there are some pretty fucked up ways to learn that you've died back home, but having the news delivered with the casual, irritating arrogance of a teenage boy can't have been easy. He sighs, watching Kavinsky play with his cigarette case, wondering if he should stop him - on the one hand, he thinks that if this is Kavinsky's second chance at life, he should be trying harder to make it matter, but on the other...

On the other, fuck, there's a difference between trying to stop Kavinsky from drugging people at his parties and self-medicating when he's in grief. Maybe Derek should just focus on being here and trying to make him feel better. Maybe that's a better way to make the world softer than by doing what he's doing these last few months - relying on Kavinsky for rough, fierce fucks and stringing him along because he can't just commit to saying he cares about him.

There's a bit of a delay, and then Derek's reaching out, resting a hand against Kavinsky's thigh. With Stiles being back, Derek feels luckier to be here than he ever has, and maybe that's contributing to the guilt he feels for not saying enough to make things easier for Kavinsky right now. Derek gently squeezes Kavinsky's leg, trying to show some measure of silent reassurance. ]


... I was seeing this woman, once. I was fifteen - she was in her twenties.

[ Derek hesitates, then takes back his hand. ]

She killed my family. Boarded up the house, trapped everyone inside, lit it on fire. Ten people died. Kids, some of them.

[ A pause. ]

If this is your second chance at life, and - you're having a hard time, or you're burning out - then tell me what I can do to help. Second chances should be... better.

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