[ tate takes a swing at him the way a cat takes a swing at a wilting toy. derek smiles, just for a second, the corner of his eyes belying how fucking exhausted he feels. he rocks back on his heels, then nods his head towards the street and starts walking, slower than before. christ, he wishes he had his car.
tate asks if he's happy. of course he's not happy. how the fuck could he be happy? tate's this destructive, unhinged force in desperate, crushing need of guidance and structure, he needs someone who can teach him to express that anger and that hate and that toxic build up of pus and misery and resentment in a way that makes him stronger, rather than weaker. he's adrift and fucked up and derek has to lie to his fucking face just for the chance to sink his teeth into his hip and make him bleed.
the bite not might even work. tate's a fucking flight risk - derek can't control a beta with anger issues, only a stupid, stupid alpha would even try. he might not measure up, he might not be the guidance tate needs. the bite not even take. if it doesn't - it'll be paige, all over again. black ichor, liquid rot. bubbling, sour ink that boils from the inside of someone and shuts them down in excruciating pain. he could be killing tate. tate could be killing himself. there's nothing about this that could possibly make him happy.
but he smiles, anyway, turning around so he can walk backwards, holding eye contact with tate. again, he smiles. quiet, exhausted. forced. ]
Yeah.
[ ... but. ]
I'll be happier when we're off the streets, though.
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tate asks if he's happy. of course he's not happy. how the fuck could he be happy? tate's this destructive, unhinged force in desperate, crushing need of guidance and structure, he needs someone who can teach him to express that anger and that hate and that toxic build up of pus and misery and resentment in a way that makes him stronger, rather than weaker. he's adrift and fucked up and derek has to lie to his fucking face just for the chance to sink his teeth into his hip and make him bleed.
the bite not might even work. tate's a fucking flight risk - derek can't control a beta with anger issues, only a stupid, stupid alpha would even try. he might not measure up, he might not be the guidance tate needs. the bite not even take. if it doesn't - it'll be paige, all over again. black ichor, liquid rot. bubbling, sour ink that boils from the inside of someone and shuts them down in excruciating pain. he could be killing tate. tate could be killing himself. there's nothing about this that could possibly make him happy.
but he smiles, anyway, turning around so he can walk backwards, holding eye contact with tate. again, he smiles. quiet, exhausted. forced. ]
Yeah.
[ ... but. ]
I'll be happier when we're off the streets, though.