[Talk about cutting to topics that suddenly cut through Tate's good mood like a hot knife. He's uncomfortable almost immediately, like someone just disrupted a happy conversation with unsettling news. He keeps walking in line with Derek but again, like sitting up in the tree, he's aware he can't just walk away from this. He's pinned into the situation, the conversation, and he needs to handle it intelligently.

His jaw sets and he's quiet for maybe a beat too long, but they're talking about his death and he thinks he's granted that. He doesn't shut down per se but he gets a bit more reserved, partially because he doesn't know what to share and what not and then also in that he doesn't know how to word this. He never had to with Violet, she just... figured it out.]

No.

[He feels small inside Derek's jacket, tugging the collar further up his neck and settling inside it - he tucks his nose in and breathes in the faint scent of Derek's cologne, his after shave, whatever it is. It's familiar and it calms him, but he refuses to look at Derek. He just stares forward. Stays quiet.]

I died in 1994. Met Violet in 2011. Time in between I - I just existed, sort of. Stuck where I died. It's... complicated. I don't like talking about it. It wasn't fun.