[ so - it's fine. derek shuts his phone off after that, pocketing it away and easing out the tension in his neck with a few lazy rolls.
tate's been through a lot. he sees himself in him, obviously - two damaged kids who did horrible things, both of them responsible for their ruined homelives, both of them grieving their siblings and the families they should have had but didn't - but there are stark differences between them that stand out against an otherwise sickly familiar backdrop.
derek's responsible for every death he's ever seen. without exception, it all traces back to him. paige, the fire, everyone his uncle killed. that kid in the woods who stopped him to talk when they were running from the hunters, whose name he never learned. countless other wolves who found trust and safety in the hales who he'd never been there for. laura. peter.
and derek survived. derek survived when he shouldn't have, and tate didn't when he didn't deserve to die. it's - hard, thinking about that.
buying pretzels feels cheap, but he does it, ignoring the comments and the looks he gets just by being a dom, all that overzealous gratitude and respect. he's got a bag of pretzels and a twelve pack of soda and when he's checking out, it just-- feels-- fake. this kid died, this kid lost his family, and all derek can do is buy him shitty snacks and give him a day at the beach he doesn't feel like he's doing enough. even with training, even with the promise of a bite dangling uselessly between them. he's not enough.
it's an hour and some change before he's cutting through the woods and making it to the beach. it's private and unattended, meaning it's not exactly pristine, but it's still pretty beautiful even with the seaweed, the swept-in rubbish and the occasional dead jellyfish lining the tide. tate's already here, and derek pads in behind him, lightly knocking him on the back of the head with the still cold soda to get his attention. ]
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[ so - it's fine. derek shuts his phone off after that, pocketing it away and easing out the tension in his neck with a few lazy rolls.
tate's been through a lot. he sees himself in him, obviously - two damaged kids who did horrible things, both of them responsible for their ruined homelives, both of them grieving their siblings and the families they should have had but didn't - but there are stark differences between them that stand out against an otherwise sickly familiar backdrop.
derek's responsible for every death he's ever seen. without exception, it all traces back to him. paige, the fire, everyone his uncle killed. that kid in the woods who stopped him to talk when they were running from the hunters, whose name he never learned. countless other wolves who found trust and safety in the hales who he'd never been there for. laura. peter.
and derek survived. derek survived when he shouldn't have, and tate didn't when he didn't deserve to die. it's - hard, thinking about that.
buying pretzels feels cheap, but he does it, ignoring the comments and the looks he gets just by being a dom, all that overzealous gratitude and respect. he's got a bag of pretzels and a twelve pack of soda and when he's checking out, it just-- feels-- fake. this kid died, this kid lost his family, and all derek can do is buy him shitty snacks and give him a day at the beach he doesn't feel like he's doing enough. even with training, even with the promise of a bite dangling uselessly between them. he's not enough.
it's an hour and some change before he's cutting through the woods and making it to the beach. it's private and unattended, meaning it's not exactly pristine, but it's still pretty beautiful even with the seaweed, the swept-in rubbish and the occasional dead jellyfish lining the tide. tate's already here, and derek pads in behind him, lightly knocking him on the back of the head with the still cold soda to get his attention. ]
Hey.