[ It's not until Tate moves that Derek backs off a bit, taking a few paces backwards. He folds his arms over his chest, tilts his head down. Tate still reeks of death. It's not that he's rotten, exactly - it's like he's been rotten, and now he's not. It's residual, the smell that sticks to his blood. Like something prevented the rot from really lasting. ]

That's not what I want.

[ For Tate to leave. To lecture him. Derek shakes his head. He knows Tate doesn't respond to that kind of support, and even if he did, Derek's too fucking sad for his temper to run short. ]

I'm not going to lecture you. You don't have to leave. You'll feel better faster if you sleep it off here.