[ Derek can't keep looking away from Tate, regardless of whether or not it feels like an invasion of privacy. He's fucking struggling, and Derek hates it. He tilts his head, looks at Tate out of the corner of his eye, then just - stares, straight on, piercing and unwavering. Tate asks for some water, and Derek worries, because it feels like a way to keep him distracted so he can sneak out. ]
Yeah.
[ But Tate's not going to go anywhere. Even if he could move, where would he go? Back home to the down, to sleep among the filth and the roaches? Maybe he'd go straight to-- to whoever hosted the party, to get more drugs and fuck himself up even more so he wouldn't feel sober, but. He'd have to get past Derek to get out, and Derek wouldn't let that happen.
So he nods. Gets up, heads to the kitchen, grabs a glass, fills it with water, doesn't add ice this time, just takes it from the fridge instead of the faucet so it's cold. He heads back and sets it on the bedside table, giving Tate the chance to wake up and have a drink on his own speed instead of rushing to grab it from Derek out of some unneeded sense of politeness.
Derek doesn't sit down, though, not now that his up. His bones are aching and he's not blinking as much as he should, but he just - stands, close to the bed, trying to give Tate a minimal amount of distance and maybe not giving him enough. ]
You're not feeling well.
[ most obvious statement of the century, he figures, but "how are you feeling?" sounds so fucking shallow and cheap. ]
no subject
Yeah.
[ But Tate's not going to go anywhere. Even if he could move, where would he go? Back home to the down, to sleep among the filth and the roaches? Maybe he'd go straight to-- to whoever hosted the party, to get more drugs and fuck himself up even more so he wouldn't feel sober, but. He'd have to get past Derek to get out, and Derek wouldn't let that happen.
So he nods. Gets up, heads to the kitchen, grabs a glass, fills it with water, doesn't add ice this time, just takes it from the fridge instead of the faucet so it's cold. He heads back and sets it on the bedside table, giving Tate the chance to wake up and have a drink on his own speed instead of rushing to grab it from Derek out of some unneeded sense of politeness.
Derek doesn't sit down, though, not now that his up. His bones are aching and he's not blinking as much as he should, but he just - stands, close to the bed, trying to give Tate a minimal amount of distance and maybe not giving him enough. ]
You're not feeling well.
[ most obvious statement of the century, he figures, but "how are you feeling?" sounds so fucking shallow and cheap. ]