Derek's known, on some level, that Tate's always been dangerous. More than once, he's been made aware of that, and there's always been a deftly silenced voice in the back of his mind telling him not to toe too close to certain lines; don't set him off, don't say the wrong thing, be careful. He's always ignored that voice. Shot it and buried it and believing against every bit of evidence thrown his way that Tate wouldn't hurt anybody, that Tate's stable. Easily heartbroken and quick to hurt himself, quick to panic and cry and lose himself to his feelings, but - stable.
For a second, Derek remembers Fort Harmony. The razorblade. A second later, Derek's killing that voice again, pretending that everything's okay, and seeing Tate entirely through the lens of the narrative Derek's been building in his head for him for months - Tate's just sad, and he needs help, and he's a soft, sweet victim without a single bad bone in his body. Derek takes a breath and steps forward, leaving his sense of danger behind him. ]
He did this to you?
[ The blood. The hurt. Derek steps forward, and he knows being tactile could backfire on him, but - that voice is dead. He hesitates for barely a second before he's putting one hand on Tate's neck and the other on his shoulder, gripping down and stopping him from moving. Wrangling him in. If Tate will let him, Derek will take his hand from Tate's shoulder and put it on his jaw, tilting his head to get a better look at the damage. Blood down his nose, barely smeared away into his cheek. Little purple marks, here and there. Derek's heart breaks. His eyes haven't changed, but he still sees red. ]
Tell me-- tell me.
[ Tell him what happened, tell him-- how, tell him anything. ]
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Derek's known, on some level, that Tate's always been dangerous. More than once, he's been made aware of that, and there's always been a deftly silenced voice in the back of his mind telling him not to toe too close to certain lines; don't set him off, don't say the wrong thing, be careful. He's always ignored that voice. Shot it and buried it and believing against every bit of evidence thrown his way that Tate wouldn't hurt anybody, that Tate's stable. Easily heartbroken and quick to hurt himself, quick to panic and cry and lose himself to his feelings, but - stable.
For a second, Derek remembers Fort Harmony. The razorblade. A second later, Derek's killing that voice again, pretending that everything's okay, and seeing Tate entirely through the lens of the narrative Derek's been building in his head for him for months - Tate's just sad, and he needs help, and he's a soft, sweet victim without a single bad bone in his body. Derek takes a breath and steps forward, leaving his sense of danger behind him. ]
He did this to you?
[ The blood. The hurt. Derek steps forward, and he knows being tactile could backfire on him, but - that voice is dead. He hesitates for barely a second before he's putting one hand on Tate's neck and the other on his shoulder, gripping down and stopping him from moving. Wrangling him in. If Tate will let him, Derek will take his hand from Tate's shoulder and put it on his jaw, tilting his head to get a better look at the damage. Blood down his nose, barely smeared away into his cheek. Little purple marks, here and there. Derek's heart breaks. His eyes haven't changed, but he still sees red. ]
Tell me-- tell me.
[ Tell him what happened, tell him-- how, tell him anything. ]