[ Tate smells like death. Not physically, maybe - but with some of the drugs dulled in his system and his regenerative powers overworking the parts of him so brutally damaged from night, Derek can smell it in his blood. Sickly and rotten and sweet. It's-- alarming, but Tate's moving, he's breathing, and all Derek can do is watch him. Dragging him to a hospital neither of them trusts wouldn't do shit for their relationship. Offering him the bite might, but there's no room here to deploy the finesse an offer like that might need.
He sits in his seat, cold, dried sweat sticking his shirt to the back. He doesn't answer Tate right away - just gives him a few seconds to wake up and orientate himself the right way, then speaks soft and quiet to save aggravating whatever migraine might be slamming itself against the inside of his skull. ]
Since last night.
[ Derek watches Tate, concerned, then looks away, as if he needs to - give him some privacy, or something, like he's worried he might feel humiliated or ashamed by the state he's in. He picks at his bottom lip with his thumbnail, feeling cracked and dry skin that he quickly wets with the tip of his tongue. ]
no subject
He sits in his seat, cold, dried sweat sticking his shirt to the back. He doesn't answer Tate right away - just gives him a few seconds to wake up and orientate himself the right way, then speaks soft and quiet to save aggravating whatever migraine might be slamming itself against the inside of his skull. ]
Since last night.
[ Derek watches Tate, concerned, then looks away, as if he needs to - give him some privacy, or something, like he's worried he might feel humiliated or ashamed by the state he's in. He picks at his bottom lip with his thumbnail, feeling cracked and dry skin that he quickly wets with the tip of his tongue. ]
I picked you up. Brought you back here.