[Even though Derek's shirt-shedding is more aligned with a dog ripping its christmas elf-hat off in a fit of shaking heads and wet dog smell, Tate's eyes flick back to him - assuredly only to look at the now fully exposed tattoo for a moment of time before he turns away. Goes back to get his notebook, picking it up off the ground with his pencil.]

We'll know when I pick where I want it. It's... stupid, 'cause I can...

[He looks down at his hand, fingers curled around his pencil. He holds up his hand, the back of it facing Derek. Soft white lines trace out a triskele against his already pale skin; faded like moonlight-white scars. He flexes his fingers and it's gone.]

Perk of being dead. You can look how you want, sometimes.