[ Ah, man. Tate snaps, and Derek would be lying if he said he didn't feel a burst of frustration underneath a thin layer of hurt. Tate's shaking from the cold, he's shaking from grief, and for a second Derek is just-- immobilized by how fucking badly he wants to help him. He holds his hands up, out to Tate like he's reaching out to touch him, or something, wishing he could ease some of this but having know fucking idea how to do it.

But Tate breaks him out of it by allowing himself some obedience, and when he starts shrugging off his jacket, Derek helps him. He peels the jacket off Tate's body, takes it from between his hands and callously drops it to the ground, because-- because right now, it doesn't matter. He loves that jacket more than anything in the world, but right now, it's in the fucking way. ]

Okay. It's okay. She might not be gone. We don't know yet.

[ He doubts it. Allison was the same - Stiles went looking for her, he reached out to her, but calls bounced back, messages went unanswered, and now she's gone. Fuck, for now, he's wrapping the towel tight around Tate's shoulders, trying to just keep him as warm as he can. Drying him off is a fucking fool's errand while he's still covered in wet clothes, but he's not really thinking coherently enough to get him something dry.

He doesn't want Tate to spiral over this. ]

Look - you love her. I know you do. I'm sorry for ever....

[ He-- shakes his head. He can get to that. He drags his towel up to Tate's hair, smoothing it back. He's still bent down, staying eye to eye, so Tate can really see him. Hazel, not red. ]

I'll help you look, okay? But-- but for now, you need to get dry.