[ The den is - home. It's a home carved into the furthest edge of the Up, as far from civilization as a residential property in Duplicity can be. They made it, Derek and Stiles, to be a refuge for the two of them. A sanctuary from some of the shit this city puts them through. A place to hide. A place that offered an illusion of safety. It was designed to be theirs, and Tate - Tate was never going to be a part of it.
But things change. Tate changes people. He's static, a ghost that hasn't evolved since 1994, but despite being still and constant and so concretely himself, he's the center of so many ripples in people's lives. Derek is weak to him. The way he cries, the way he looks broken and small and pathetic, the way he's always in such desperate need of-- of something, in need of a hug or in need of love or in need of fucking help, it all just-- it breaks Derek. Rewrites him.
None of the bad feelings, none of the hurt, none of the signs that Tate might be dangerous - none of it matters, not when Tate's standing on his doorstep, tear-streaked and lost and alone. Not when he's saying, again, that he needs Derek. Not when he's feeding Derek's need for him in turn. Of course he's allowed in the den. This place should feel like a second fucking home to him. He needs his pack. He needs his Alpha.
Derek slides open the door to the den without responding to Tate's message, lightly confused and pretty fucking worried. His heart seizes in his chest when he sees him, and-- and he doesn't think much of anything, past frantically ushering him inside to get him in the warm. He all but pulls Tate in over the threshold, closing and locking the door behind him. The rain's coming down harder, echoing off the distant roof and battering against the floor to ceiling windows. The world feels muted and cozy and distant, in the den. Warm. ]
Are--
[ Are you okay seems like a stupid question to ask, so Derek cuts himself off, holding his hands on Tate's shoulders. Tate's small and miserable and Derek has to bend down a little to get close, seeing through the wet, blond hair that hangs over his eyes to try and see him better. Fuck, he-- he needs to do something. Derek squeezes Tate's shoulders, mumbles a quick wait here, and then rushes down the hallway.
He comes back with a moss green towel, the same colour as his henley. Tate's wearing Derek's jacket, and - any other day, Derek might get on his case about wearing it in the rain, but fuck, he doesn't care, not right now. Nothing matters, except for getting Tate warm. ]
Take this off. [ He tugs on the edge of the jacket. He'll have to make him shower and get warm, he'll have to lend him some of Stiles' clothes. ] You're gonna get sick.
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But things change. Tate changes people. He's static, a ghost that hasn't evolved since 1994, but despite being still and constant and so concretely himself, he's the center of so many ripples in people's lives. Derek is weak to him. The way he cries, the way he looks broken and small and pathetic, the way he's always in such desperate need of-- of something, in need of a hug or in need of love or in need of fucking help, it all just-- it breaks Derek. Rewrites him.
None of the bad feelings, none of the hurt, none of the signs that Tate might be dangerous - none of it matters, not when Tate's standing on his doorstep, tear-streaked and lost and alone. Not when he's saying, again, that he needs Derek. Not when he's feeding Derek's need for him in turn. Of course he's allowed in the den. This place should feel like a second fucking home to him. He needs his pack. He needs his Alpha.
Derek slides open the door to the den without responding to Tate's message, lightly confused and pretty fucking worried. His heart seizes in his chest when he sees him, and-- and he doesn't think much of anything, past frantically ushering him inside to get him in the warm. He all but pulls Tate in over the threshold, closing and locking the door behind him. The rain's coming down harder, echoing off the distant roof and battering against the floor to ceiling windows. The world feels muted and cozy and distant, in the den. Warm. ]
Are--
[ Are you okay seems like a stupid question to ask, so Derek cuts himself off, holding his hands on Tate's shoulders. Tate's small and miserable and Derek has to bend down a little to get close, seeing through the wet, blond hair that hangs over his eyes to try and see him better. Fuck, he-- he needs to do something. Derek squeezes Tate's shoulders, mumbles a quick wait here, and then rushes down the hallway.
He comes back with a moss green towel, the same colour as his henley. Tate's wearing Derek's jacket, and - any other day, Derek might get on his case about wearing it in the rain, but fuck, he doesn't care, not right now. Nothing matters, except for getting Tate warm. ]
Take this off. [ He tugs on the edge of the jacket. He'll have to make him shower and get warm, he'll have to lend him some of Stiles' clothes. ] You're gonna get sick.