[ derek just... watches tate. the way his eyes drift in his skull like jelly sliding down a pane of glass. he stares at the pillow instead of derek, he speaks quietly, fuzzily, barely there. there's a promise tentatively built between them, a vow to do better by each other, and derek's still not entirely sure if this is the right thing to do, but it all feels better than letting tate rot and suffer alone. carefully, derek stands, gets off the bed. he'll spend the night in the chair facing the bed, watching tate. he won't sleep. ]
Okay. Deal.
[ he would have tate shake on it, but he figures he's so out of his fucking head that he won't even remember this promise, come morning. he's not going to drag him upright when he'll probably just throw up all over the edge of his mattress. derek wonders - not for the first time - if he needs to take tate to the hospital, but.
he doesn't. he won't. subconsciously, a part of him wonders if he could be blamed for biting tate, if he was sick enough to need it. if saving his life would be a good enough reason to forego all the explanations, forego the difficult conversations. if he knew that's how he felt, he would be disgusted in himself for being such a coward.
derek takes his seat, leaning back in the armchair, letting one arm dangle over the side, propping the other up by his elbow. he shuts his eyes, leans against his knuckles. "it'll be better", tate says. asks. derek can't tell which. ]
Yeah. I promise. All I want is to be someone who makes your life better.
[ which isn't a lie. he hopes it's obvious that that isn't a lie. derek yawns, mouth closed, inhaling deep and letting go. he watches tate for another few seconds, listening to his heartbeat. irregular, faster than it should be, given that he's laying there, relaxed. the drugs have done a number on him, even after they've started to wear off. just another thing to be worried about. ]
You should get some sleep. I know this has been... a lot, to throw on you. Especially now, when you're so...
no subject
Okay. Deal.
[ he would have tate shake on it, but he figures he's so out of his fucking head that he won't even remember this promise, come morning. he's not going to drag him upright when he'll probably just throw up all over the edge of his mattress. derek wonders - not for the first time - if he needs to take tate to the hospital, but.
he doesn't. he won't. subconsciously, a part of him wonders if he could be blamed for biting tate, if he was sick enough to need it. if saving his life would be a good enough reason to forego all the explanations, forego the difficult conversations. if he knew that's how he felt, he would be disgusted in himself for being such a coward.
derek takes his seat, leaning back in the armchair, letting one arm dangle over the side, propping the other up by his elbow. he shuts his eyes, leans against his knuckles. "it'll be better", tate says. asks. derek can't tell which. ]
Yeah. I promise. All I want is to be someone who makes your life better.
[ which isn't a lie. he hopes it's obvious that that isn't a lie. derek yawns, mouth closed, inhaling deep and letting go. he watches tate for another few seconds, listening to his heartbeat. irregular, faster than it should be, given that he's laying there, relaxed. the drugs have done a number on him, even after they've started to wear off. just another thing to be worried about. ]
You should get some sleep. I know this has been... a lot, to throw on you. Especially now, when you're so...
[ a pause. ]
Tired.