[ Honestly, the hospital would never have worked. It's a knee-jerk option thrown pointlessly into the air between them because Derek doesn't know how to fucking help Tate through something like this. A part of him knows he needs help, knows he's not a good enough Alpha to fix this incredibly, incredibly human problem on his own - and he's scared. Scared that he'll fuck up and send Tate crawling back on his hands and knees through glass to Kavinsky to apologize when he's done nothing wrong.
But Derek doesn't trust the people who run this place. Doesn't trust that each falsely sympathetic doctor and nurse wouldn't unanimously agree to cart Tate straight back to Kavinsky after fixing him up, out of respect for his contract, even as Derek begged them to let him stay with him in the Den. Derek wants to call Stiles, but - Christ, human problem or not, this is still a pack thing, and if a Beta comes to their Alpha alone, that has to be respected. Derek thinks he's going to throw up.
Fuck, fuck, okay. The most important thing is keeping Tate safe and warm. Derek can provide him that, and he has enough options to tackle everything else as time goes on - for now, he just. Needs to get Tate to calm down. Derek drops his hand away from Tate when he presses in, resting his head against his chest. He holds him there, but - not for long.
Derek, without warning, tugs Tate away from the bonfire. He grabs his arm and marches straight straight to the water lapping choppily against the sand, grey and thick and dull. He walks until foamy waves are crashing against his shins, bringing Tate down into the water with him, and he turns his back to the sea, facing Tate. ]
Here. Look at this. All of this.
[ Derek pushes one arm out towards the ocean, holding eye contact. It's getting windy, and Derek has to raise his voice to be heard. Tate doesn't want blood to save him - but the ocean, what it represents, that's always mattered to him. If Derek can just remind him of that, maybe that'll help. Derek's nails bite into Tate's wrist from how hard he's holding on, but he doesn't seem to realize he might be hurting him, his fingers kissing little crescent moons into his skin. ]
This is your fucking home. This beach, the woods, even the den, eventually - this is your home. This view? This horizon? This sea? That's yours. Come July, you'll be able to sit on the sand and just-- watch the tide come in. You'll be able to write, you'll be able to read, and you'll...
[ Derek swallows, feeling his throat itch. This isn't-- helping, this isn't stopping Kavinsky, this is just-- asking Tate to stay strong until July, but he's just trying, desperately, to give him something good to think of. Another anchor. The ocean. Him. Anything that doesn't hurt. ]
You'll be able to know that this is the life you've been waiting for. Every night you spent looking out over the ocean back home, thinking of a better life - this is the other side you wanted to reach. I can be that for you.
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But Derek doesn't trust the people who run this place. Doesn't trust that each falsely sympathetic doctor and nurse wouldn't unanimously agree to cart Tate straight back to Kavinsky after fixing him up, out of respect for his contract, even as Derek begged them to let him stay with him in the Den. Derek wants to call Stiles, but - Christ, human problem or not, this is still a pack thing, and if a Beta comes to their Alpha alone, that has to be respected. Derek thinks he's going to throw up.
Fuck, fuck, okay. The most important thing is keeping Tate safe and warm. Derek can provide him that, and he has enough options to tackle everything else as time goes on - for now, he just. Needs to get Tate to calm down. Derek drops his hand away from Tate when he presses in, resting his head against his chest. He holds him there, but - not for long.
Derek, without warning, tugs Tate away from the bonfire. He grabs his arm and marches straight straight to the water lapping choppily against the sand, grey and thick and dull. He walks until foamy waves are crashing against his shins, bringing Tate down into the water with him, and he turns his back to the sea, facing Tate. ]
Here. Look at this. All of this.
[ Derek pushes one arm out towards the ocean, holding eye contact. It's getting windy, and Derek has to raise his voice to be heard. Tate doesn't want blood to save him - but the ocean, what it represents, that's always mattered to him. If Derek can just remind him of that, maybe that'll help. Derek's nails bite into Tate's wrist from how hard he's holding on, but he doesn't seem to realize he might be hurting him, his fingers kissing little crescent moons into his skin. ]
This is your fucking home. This beach, the woods, even the den, eventually - this is your home. This view? This horizon? This sea? That's yours. Come July, you'll be able to sit on the sand and just-- watch the tide come in. You'll be able to write, you'll be able to read, and you'll...
[ Derek swallows, feeling his throat itch. This isn't-- helping, this isn't stopping Kavinsky, this is just-- asking Tate to stay strong until July, but he's just trying, desperately, to give him something good to think of. Another anchor. The ocean. Him. Anything that doesn't hurt. ]
You'll be able to know that this is the life you've been waiting for. Every night you spent looking out over the ocean back home, thinking of a better life - this is the other side you wanted to reach. I can be that for you.