[ Derek's... relieved, honestly. He's seen too much of Tate at his worst to not feel relieved, hearing the quiet gratitude in his voice and the solemn willingness to be helped. Derek nods, jaw clenched tight, and he's spent too many years hiding from people to know how to react to being thanked like that. His voice comes out strangled, though he attempts to sound sturdy. ]
It's. It's okay.
[ He lingers at the doorway for a little too long, staring at Tate's back. The curve of his shoulderblades, the dip of his spine. Maybe it's the rain, maybe it's losing Violet, but he just looks - fragile. It's not until Tate's fully threaded his belt from his pants that Derek realizes he's too close. He doesn't close the door behind him when he leaves, not all the way. He leaves it ajar. Just in case.
Derek hovers in the bedroom, running his hand down his chin and staring at the light coming from beneath the bathroom door. He just - feels like shit. Feels like he has to keep one eye on Tate to make sure he doesn't hurt himself. He focuses on getting some clean clothes and leaving them on the bed for Tate when he comes out; most of Stiles' are in the wash and even though they're closer to Tate's in size, he's not sure how Stiles would feel if Derek lent somebody his shit, so.
He chooses some of his own clothes, instead. Layers, because he knows Tate likes that. A henley, one of the looser ones with longer sleeves, and a plain black tee to pair it with, if he wants it. Sweats, too, a dark wine red. He takes his time, getting it all ready, laid out flat on the sheets of his bed. He needs to leave; he's hovered and wasted enough time for Tate to be nearly done, but he just... doesn't feel right, leaving Tate alone.
Derek sits on the corner of the bed, running his thumb over the side of his phone, feeling sick. He'll go, once Tate's out, obviously not intending to fucking watch him while he gets changed. He just wants to make sure he's gonna come out of that bathroom in one piece. ]
no subject
It's. It's okay.
[ He lingers at the doorway for a little too long, staring at Tate's back. The curve of his shoulderblades, the dip of his spine. Maybe it's the rain, maybe it's losing Violet, but he just looks - fragile. It's not until Tate's fully threaded his belt from his pants that Derek realizes he's too close. He doesn't close the door behind him when he leaves, not all the way. He leaves it ajar. Just in case.
Derek hovers in the bedroom, running his hand down his chin and staring at the light coming from beneath the bathroom door. He just - feels like shit. Feels like he has to keep one eye on Tate to make sure he doesn't hurt himself. He focuses on getting some clean clothes and leaving them on the bed for Tate when he comes out; most of Stiles' are in the wash and even though they're closer to Tate's in size, he's not sure how Stiles would feel if Derek lent somebody his shit, so.
He chooses some of his own clothes, instead. Layers, because he knows Tate likes that. A henley, one of the looser ones with longer sleeves, and a plain black tee to pair it with, if he wants it. Sweats, too, a dark wine red. He takes his time, getting it all ready, laid out flat on the sheets of his bed. He needs to leave; he's hovered and wasted enough time for Tate to be nearly done, but he just... doesn't feel right, leaving Tate alone.
Derek sits on the corner of the bed, running his thumb over the side of his phone, feeling sick. He'll go, once Tate's out, obviously not intending to fucking watch him while he gets changed. He just wants to make sure he's gonna come out of that bathroom in one piece. ]