[ derek just needs to keep putting one foot in front of the other, eyes open and unblinking and staring dead ahead. he watches for other partygoers, he watches for other subs, and he watches for other doms. anyone that could interrupt them and distract tate and take him back home. ]
Don't worry. We can go back to the party later.
[ to get tate's shirt, he means. that's a lie, and the guilt that hits him is small and sharp, like a spider bite. tate stops and lets go of his sleeve and derek wants to shake him, because they're so close to the elevator, and if he just gets tate into the up things should start getting better. they'd be in the home stretch.
but tate scratches his arms, and derek winces, nausea rising to his throat again. he needs to help tate. he needs to help tate, he needs to lie, he needs to give him the bite so getting high won't work anymore, he needs - a pack. they both do. ]
You forgot your shirt. Remember? You just told me.
[ he reaches out, sets his hand on tate's shoulder, and he thinks of erica, and isaac, and boyd. he thinks of how he looked them in the eye and spoke to them like they were the only people in the world that mattered, and he thinks of how the bite saved each of them. he'd be saving tate. he just needs to keep telling himself that to smother the guilt.
derek bends down a little, gets to tate's level. he makes eye contact, and he holds it, staring at tate with intensity and lowering his voice to a quiet, smooth rumble. ]
You're just cold. That's all. Do you want to wear my jacket?
[They can go back to the party, he says. Tate feels a sweep of relief at that, like a hand has coaxed its way through his hair, alleviating the tension that built at the back of his neck. It dissipates the nagging thought that something's left behind. He doesn't even own much here, making the shirt all that more important, so he exhales sharply with a soft nod. And then he closes his mouth, mouth a bit dry as he looks into Derek's eyes because there's nowhere else to look.
He shies away from the intensity first, staring down at Derek's lips or at his cheek, but like a scolded dog, he eventually caves and looks into the hazel of his eyes directly. And feels like he's suddenly exposed, swallowing hard and feeling his stomach tense. If he wasn't already flushed with color he might've blushed at that moment, the swooping feeling in his gut not unfamiliar.]
No. Yeah? Maybe, okay.
[That wasn't just an answer, it was every answer - but he's pulling away from Derek to keep moving. Just slow drags of his heels, sneakers shuffling on the pavement as he glances at Derek before watching where he's walking instead. His arms sting and he just rubs his fingertips over the welts absently, looking up at every street light as they pass it.]
I lost my beer too. Do you have beer at your place? I'm thirsty.
[ okay. okay, this is fine. tate starts moving, disoriented but... present, for the most part. derek lags behind for a second or two, just to watch him go, and there's that same sickly shot of guilt coiling down the back of his spine that he can't quite abate. he knows he's doing the right thing, he knows he's trying to help - but that doesn't make his lies any less of a lie. ]
Stop worrying so much.
[ he paces after tate, manages his speed so they're shoulder to shoulder. he keeps his hands in his pockets until they get to the elevator, and he heads inside, the heavy metal doors shutting solemnly behind them. derek shrugs off his jacket once they're inside and alone, a draft coming through from somewhere above them and making his skin prickle from the coolness of the air, and he makes a motion like he's going to hand the jacket to tate so he can put it on himself, but. then he thinks better of it. there's no way tate's that coordinated right now.
so he heads behind him, slips the jacket over tate's shoulders, the inner lining warming and comforting in a way you might not expect. he casts a cursory glance at tate's arm, notices the welts and the red and the old scars. he doesn't say anything, only... steps away, heads back to the elevator's control panel. they're moving so slowly. ]
[Tate looks behind him at Derek when he's draping the coat over his shoulders, awkwardly accepting it before settling into it when he's moved away. He's not quite up to the task of maneuvering his arms into it yet but he lifts his hands to the lapels, holding it on. He's quiet for a long moment and it might be hard to tell why - he's zoning in and out of focus but after a period of thought (or lack there of,) Tate moves closer to Derek's side. Like a feral cat brushing up against his legs, Tate sticks close to his shadow.]
Thanks. It's... warmer.
[Something about feeling Derek's body heat spikes his heart beat, a jumble of memories in his head from the orientation room. From experiences between then and now with other people, and the curbed inhibitions he's been having today his excuse - he looks up at Derek's face while holding his breath for a beat.]
You know.
[He doesn't know if this is right, if he's going to be shut down again - to feel that prickling sensation of being played the fool, but. He's not really thinking with much more than the throb of arousal that lives in his pants. Why else would Derek take him home if not to...
Yeah - He can think of other reasons. But they bother him. They don't fit the slots the way he wants them to, so he pushes them away. He reaches out to drag his fingertips along the waistband of Derek's jeans, fingers navigating the strip of denim from belt hoop to the button. Slow, steady, deliberately pressing in against his abdomen when he reaches the closure.]
[ the elevator feels too small for the both of them. derek just - waits, staring at the doors, counting the seconds in his head as they ascend to the up. he hears tate coming, but he doesn't think anything of it. doesn't react to the thank you, doesn't react to the weight against his side. he only thinks about... how to fix this. how to help.
and then tate's touching him and the nausea that's been trapped in derek's chest only starts to feel worse. he winces a little, turning to look at tate, the light, intrusive touch of slender fingertips catching him off-guard. this doesn't... turn him on, this doesn't do anything. this just makes him feel sad. terrified, again, about what could have happened to tate if he'd left him at that party alone. ]
We are.
[ but if he rejects tate now - really, solidly rejects him - then tate will bail as soon as those doors open. the kid's zoned out of his fucking gourd, and if he does manage to stumble away from derek long enough to get lost among the buildings and the crowds, he could be in real, genuine danger. if he's still too weak to walk, let alone run, then he'll just... panic, when derek so easily manhandles him back to his apartment, and that might be even worse. tate already said derek fits the role of a dom, and that's stuck with him, made him feel horrible. he doesn't want to make tate feel weak. derek doesn't want to act or feel like a scumbag, he just wants to help.
so he feels trapped. he feels like his priority has to be getting tate home. he has no intention of sleeping with him - but once they're locked in his apartment, he can distract tate, he can sober him up. he can do something. he just... he just needs to get tate home. no matter how he does it. ]
But - we won't be for long. So...
[ derek swallows, looks to the doors, the little panel telling them how long left they have to the surface of the city. still a few minutes to go. ]
Just... let's get back to my place, and then - we can do anything you want. Okay?
[Tate's fingertip had only just wiggled beneath the denim, grazing the warmth of Derek's skin on the other side - when he's speaking and Tate freezes to look up at him. There's a keen, rapt attention that Tate gives him now that he hasn't necessarily before. With no shield of a cold composure, no disinterest to mask the desperation in his eyes, Tate looks childish in just how expectant he is. How attentive he is to the words that sit in the air.
Derek's right in that the wrong word just now could've set Tate off like a match to dry bush, but Derek has a way to him that's - just scraping by that entirely. He curbs the situation in a net that catches Tate, pulling him along with a thoughtful screwing of his nose before he seems satisfied.]
Okay.
[And the wick is extinguished just like that, with Tate pulling back his hand and looking at his palm before closing his eyes. He stays where he is, tucked close to the front of Derek, but he just - rides the feeling of ascension in the elevator with his eyes shut. Pretends for a few seconds that he's flying before groggily blinking himself back into the elevator itself.]
Would've pegged you more of an exhibitionist though.
[A snort and a sudden smile, Tate's a little too amused but it's at least an expression that lights up his face in comparison to the bleak blankness he was just wearing only moments ago.]
[ since becoming an alpha, derek hasn't let himself feel like prey. he's a predator, top of the foodchain. the world is supposed to bend to him, even when it's propped up by guns and wolfsbane and fire. the fort made it hard to stick to that confidence, and veracity made it even harder, but he's ultimately tried to live his life like an unstoppable force - someone who has all the power a hale is supposed to have. he wants to be unbreakable. he's tried to be unbreakable.
now, though? in this long stretch of silence where tate's just staring at him, innocent and soft, fingertips so close to the base of derek's cock, derek feels snared. he's a rabbit in a trap, waiting to see if the bear in front of him is going to do more, do less, leave, stay. he watches with his heart stuck in his throat, staring at tate with that same carefully manufactured neutrality. he just... waits.
and then tate backs off, makes a joke about him being an exhibitionist. he's right, but derek's sure as shit not going to say that. he just shrugs, with one shoulder, adjusting the hem of his henley, smoothing the edge over his belt with his thumb. tate's happy. good enough.
he doesn't say anything until the elevator reaches the up, the doors softly sliding open, smooth and polished and taken care of. derek's tongue darts between his lips as he breathes in the air, so much less muggy and stagnant than the hellhole of the down. he needs to get tate out of there for good, somehow. needs to find him a dom. ].
Come on. [ he starts walking, hands in his pockets. ] It's not far.
Edited (im sO tIRED I DONT K NOW HOW WORDS WORk) 2019-03-10 04:35 (UTC)
[Tate might've felt like there was an awkwardness to the silence before the doors opened, but he's not as tuned in to the cues as he would be on a sober night. He doesn't quite startle but he looks sharply to the doors when they ding, looking to Derek before following him out. It's now that he starts to work his arms through the sleeves to wear the jacket properly, though it takes most of his attention for the following few minutes.
And when he manages that? Well, shit. The Up has a glamour to it that he gets stunned by every time. This beautiful green oasis that's better than the dirt heap he lives in, but never somewhere he's sought to stay. He doesn't belong here, doesn't want to be here. Even if the few people he knows and likes all tend to live here now. He's only slightly jealous.]
You... There's a book store here. Stiles told me about it.
[Stiles: The Forbidden Topic doesn't get focused on, instead Tate's more interested in the scenery and catching up to Derek in stride. His own are still somewhat unbalanced, slow and uncoordinated. But he's still got an electricity in him from when he laughed, a spark of light that infuses his attitude. Thankfully, it doesn't change when talking about Stiles.]
I want to go there but I can't buy anything. Even if I had the money, they don't... subs don't get shit.
[ tate busies himself with derek's jacket, and derek considers stopping to help him fit his arms through each sleeve, but - he won't, not unless tate starts looking frustrated or actively asks for the help. it's fucked up to just let him struggle with something so simple when he's this high, but it keeps him preoccupied, which should stop him from fixating on derek semi-sorta turning him down. the last thing derek needs is for tate to... fall off any edges into anger or depression or-- or something else. they're so close to the apartment, they're in the home stretch.
stiles gets namedropped and derek feels cold, but tate moves past it without acting jealous or talking about the fort. derek picks up the pace a little, scratching his thumbnail against the inner lining of his pocket. he's focused on getting home without being seen, so he's only half-listening to tate, but - ]
You don't have to find the money. I'll take you there and buy you anything you want.
[ - he means that all the same. derek looks over his shoulder, sees tate ambling behind him, a little further away than derek thought he'd be. he winces and stands still, waiting for tate to catch up. he can't rush this. ]
[Tate's trying not to think of the sinkhole in his chest that erupts any time he remembers the shed at Fort Harmony. But like a piece of gum stuck to his shoe, it stretches out and he can either pretend it's not there or forcibly detach it. It's the latter he tries to do with a calm head, perhaps only as steadily balanced as it is on account of the euphoric baseline he's still living in.
He blinks a few times, considering Derek's offer before continuing. He's got both arms through the sleeves now and the jacket looks a little too large for him, like the borrowed thing it is. But it has a certain smell to it, a familiar feeling that makes it feel right. He tugs it closer to his neck, arm folding across his chest to keep it closed.]
I don't want to be... exploiting you. I'm...
[A tired, weary sigh. He rubs at his eye until he sees stars through it.]
If you're gonna act like a sugardaddy you might as well get something for it.
[ there's an honesty in tate that derek hasn't seen too often. a softness to him. something that drew derek to him in the first place, outside of the harsh, reactive explosions, the cutting insults and the constantly expanding black hole of pity and concern that makes up half of their relationship. this is the side of tate that's just... a scared, lonely kid. no razors, no drugs, just an interest in books and a longing for acknowledgment. if derek gives tate the bite, and all the confidence and security that comes with having a pack - maybe he'll be like this more often. someone... sweet. ]
Don't be stupid. We're friends.
[ he thinks. he's not sure. it's hard to say they're friends, after everything, but the word still fits right, especially after he's practiced using it so often with stiles. derek shakes his head a little, and he walks closer to tate, bridging distance. derek reaches out, and he lightly taps his knuckles against tate's shoulder, pumping his eyebrows up. his voice is quiet, almost monotone. still carefully neutral. ]
If I can make you happy, then - that's enough for me.
[To please Derek. Although despite the intention Derek happens to have in mind, Tate's still thinking in more selective terms. He's still fooled by the false atmosphere of the elevator, the shrouded mess in his head that thinks there's still something here that's innately sexual. He's attracted to Derek and still grappling with that fact, but after a few exchanges he's had here with other people... tentatively toeing the line of what he's comfortable with and what he wants... this could be something.
And, of course, in the same way Derek actually is thinking this, Tate wants to please him too. He's got that deep seated fear of rejection, the desire of measuring up and yet simultaneously not having to be held to any ideals or any molding. He blinks when he's touched, swatting again at Derek with the splayed fingers of his hand. It's light, playful, edges on a shove.]
[ tate takes a swing at him the way a cat takes a swing at a wilting toy. derek smiles, just for a second, the corner of his eyes belying how fucking exhausted he feels. he rocks back on his heels, then nods his head towards the street and starts walking, slower than before. christ, he wishes he had his car.
tate asks if he's happy. of course he's not happy. how the fuck could he be happy? tate's this destructive, unhinged force in desperate, crushing need of guidance and structure, he needs someone who can teach him to express that anger and that hate and that toxic build up of pus and misery and resentment in a way that makes him stronger, rather than weaker. he's adrift and fucked up and derek has to lie to his fucking face just for the chance to sink his teeth into his hip and make him bleed.
the bite not might even work. tate's a fucking flight risk - derek can't control a beta with anger issues, only a stupid, stupid alpha would even try. he might not measure up, he might not be the guidance tate needs. the bite not even take. if it doesn't - it'll be paige, all over again. black ichor, liquid rot. bubbling, sour ink that boils from the inside of someone and shuts them down in excruciating pain. he could be killing tate. tate could be killing himself. there's nothing about this that could possibly make him happy.
but he smiles, anyway, turning around so he can walk backwards, holding eye contact with tate. again, he smiles. quiet, exhausted. forced. ]
Yeah.
[ ... but. ]
I'll be happier when we're off the streets, though.
[Tate's smile resurfaces, warmer than before. He takes that still along the same vein of being wanted, stumbling through this the way teenagers sort through their first moments with their crush. Tate's insides are a fumbling, nervous, giddy and excited mess and the drugs have only enhanced what was there. Let it come out to the surface in the form of shy smiles, of feeling warm from the inside out. It's like when Violet first started liking him, that confirming feeling of being needed. He mistakes this for that, something he'll obsess over later.
Again he laughs, putting his hands into Derek's jacket pockets, feeling for what's inside while walking along. He closes his eyes and tips back his head, enjoying the night air. The beach felt so freeing and this is like that, doubly so. When he bats open pale lashes to flick his gaze to Derek once more, his voice is soft and low.]
Me too.
[He's still contently smiling when he pulls Derek's phone out of his pocket, looking it over curiously.]
[ there's nothing - good, about this. about tate's smile. it's charming and brilliant and openly happy, but it's surrounded by sallow and blotchy skin. there are bags under tate's eyes and his hair is a mess, he's red and sweaty and looks like shit. he's smiling because of the fucking drugs, not because of derek. this only makes him feel worse.
but they're at the apartment building before too long, and derek doesn't have to think about it. he ushers tate into the elevator and hits the button for the eighty-first floor, leaning back against the wall and watching the floors light up and change as they ascend. he's quiet, and he stays quiet through the ride, only looking at tate when he needs to offer a reassuring smile or when tate looks like he might to faint. even derek's starting to feel a little woozy when they finally get to the higher floors of the highrise. derek wets his lips, nods at tate again, and guides him down the hall to his apartment.
tate's still got his phone, but derek doesn't mind. he can fidget with it as much as he wants, if it keeps him occupied. derek needs the keys to his apartment from the jacket pocket, but rather than ask, he just - fishes in and takes them, mumbling something that could almost sound apologetic as he pulls them away from tate and slips them into the door.
derek's apartment is pristine. it's barely been used, outside of a night with stiles. there's a chessboard on the coffee table and an empty pizza box on the kitchen counter he hasn't taken out yet, but other than that, it looks barely lived in. just - big. spacious. carpeted and soft and clean and white. derek ushers tate in and closes the door behind him, locking it.
he motions for tate to sit down wherever he wants, then heads to the kitchen. he doesn't have any beer, but he's hoping tate's out of it enough at this point not to care - he just needs something to drink, and derek could give him soda, but he opts for pouring him a glass of water, instead, filling it with ice nearly to the top. tate needs to stay hydrated. he calls out from the kitchen as he gets it ready. ]
[Tate's distracted by the phone and only lifts his elbows to let Derek get his keys without incident, quirking his brows in a cheap imitation of Derek before being ushered inside. He looks back only when he sees the deadbolt turn, feeling that thrum in his gut again. He feels flushed with color again, heat creeping up his neck as he's left to his own devices with Derek's still in hand.
His heart hammers against his ribs and he's a bit woozy, but he heads toward the living area. Derek's phone really isn't that fascinating, but Tate keeps holding on to it simply because he doesn't think to put it down. He skims his fingers over the surfaces of the room, looking over the chess board before heading toward the couch. He spends a long minute looking down at it, wanting nothing more than to crash face first into the cushions.
Instead, Tate peels off the jacket and feels cool air touch the sweat soaked into the back of his shirt and he shivers. He drops everything on to the cushions and almost sinks into them, before something snags his eye. He wanders off, toward the bedrooms - investigating the other nooks and crannies of Derek's apartment with conflicting senses of wonder.]
[ as tate moves around his apartment, derek listens. he listens to his footsteps, quiet and barely there. he listens to the creaking crinkle of leather as tate pulls off his jacket, draping it over the cushions. he listens for tate's heartbeat, and he doesn't know if he's just worried and projecting and hearing things that aren't there, but it feels - irregular. unhealthy. frantic.
derek follows after him with the glass of water in hand, stepping towards the bedroom after tate, narrowing his eyes. if tate thinks this is empty, well - ]
You should see where I live back home.
[ at least this place has a roof. no open, burned holes that give way to open skies, stars drifting overhead and illuminating the ruins derek himself razed. no long stretches of concrete and dust, peppered only with rusty traincars and stacks of tarps and tires. derek nudges tate, gets his attention, then holds out the water. ]
It's okay, I didn't live with a lot of stuff either for a while.
[You can't, when you're dead. You can stash a few things away in cubby holes and under floorboards, but you can't have possessions the way you used to in life. He watched his room get torn apart but unlike Nora, he didn't really feel anything toward it. It was repurposed and rearranged to suit someone else. And then someone after that, rinse repeat. It actually looked good for Violet, better than it ever did for him.
Tate takes the water, looking at it before narrowing his eyes. He sips, lip brushing the ice before he's already looking for somewhere to set it down. He backs toward the bed, still in his sneakers and jeans when he perches against it and puts the glass on the night stand. He didn't come here on purpose, but he's not going to shy away from the solitude and the tension in his heart. He leans back, arms behind him on the bed. But then his stomach flips and he sits forward suddenly, a bit paler.]
I don't like ice in my water.
[He murmurs, like talking is going to take him out of his own head where memories of a seedy motel and Kavinsky between his knees aren't at the forefront of his thoughts. He scratches at his knee and looks up through the veil of blond hair that sticks to his face in parts, feeling like he's hollowing out. Crashing. Soon to burn out.]
[ once they're inside the bedroom properly, derek just - shuts the door. he's not planning anything, of course he isn't planning anything, but if prior experience has taught him anything, it's that quiet, confined intimacy is more conducive to the kind of conversation derek wants to have tonight. the latch clicks shut, and derek breathes out. tate sets the glass down, and derek frowns. ]
Too bad. Drink. You're dehydrated.
[ he's avoiding the last question, at least for a secnd. he's had time to think through how he wants to handle this, and he thinks he can... grease the wheels here without making tate feel like he's been trapped, or like he's been lied to. he'll have to lie to keep it going - feign responsibility and regret for what happened in the storage building, which he feels, but not nearly to the degree he's about to pretend he does. derek scrubs his hand over his beard, and then slowly paces over to the bed.
he kneels. it's not sexual. he just - kneels in front of tate. a form of submission, to some degree. putting himself lower than tate, giving tate the higher ground. derek cautiously pinches the cuff of tate's jeans, just by the ankle. he frowns, and - he tries. ]
I just... miss you. We were doing okay, until I fucked up at the fort. I haven't apologized to you, and I'm... sorry.
[ for throwing an arm over stiles when tate was freaking out, for lying about how they knew each other, for pushing. he's not a liar. he's been lying to tate a lot, recently, but he's not a liar. he's lying to tate right now, but it's... a means to an end. he's going somewhere with this. ]
I thought we could talk, before - anything else. I want to know what's going on in your life, and... and I want to tell you some things about myself, too. If that's okay.
[He murmurs softly, more to himself than in protest. The water's cold and the ice gets in the way, but his fingers graze over the side of the glass and send beads of condensation racing down the side. His heart jumps when Derek kneels and his eyes widen slightly, this panicked switch in his head flicked. It's like somehow what he was just thinking about has leaked into reality again, and he's not sure he likes it. He does like it, really, but not like this. Not when he feels dry mouthed and edging on frantic. If he had another hit of coke, maybe...
Tate absently worms his fingers into the pocket of his jeans, looking for what he swiped at the party. He's distracted enough by the flare of anxiety in his head that it doesn't register immediately that his pocket is empty. He just frowns at Derek, feeling an itch in his skull he tries to ignore. But past a point, he can't, and he pulls up his legs onto the bed. Puts a sliver of space between them that feels like a mile, and he wonders if he's ruining it. Ruining this.]
Don't apologize.
[He grunts, digging the heels of his sneakers into the bed to push himself back a little more. To then flop backwards and spread out across the bed the wrong way, arms stretched out at his sides. It feels vulnerable, belly up like this, but his stomach feels too hot from looking down at Derek from an angle that reeks of motel and back alley blowjobs. He breathes in slowly, trying to will away any hint of arousal.]
Most people want to talk after they fuck. You don't want to fuck, do you.
[Not accusatory.]
Me either. I mean, I could. But I'm tired of... I'm just tired.
[ derek's eyes follow tate's hand as it drifts down, briefly wondering what he'll do if tate's fingers thread through his hair or rest on his shoulder. he doesn't have to wonder for long - tate's fingers slip into his pocket and grope around like they're looking for something, and derek might realize that that something's missing before even tate does. his eyes flick back up to meet tate's, reading into him. reading into this.
"don't apologize". that's not what he expected. "you don't want to fuck" - quiet and open, not at all angry. that's another response he hadn't expected. tate slips back against the bed, inches away from him, and derek's relieved, albeit concerned. he's... happy tate's just going to lay down, instead of storm back to the party when he realizes derek doesn't want him like that. he's worried, then. he doesn't know why tate came back with him. why he even invited him out. ]
No.
[ a pause - ]
But I could. If you were sober, and if it's what you wanted.
[ which isn't to say that he wants tate, just - that he'd be willing, if he had to be. if it was another means to an end, even if the thought makes his stomach twist and his hands sweat.
derek stands. he stands, and he waits at the end of the bed, like someone will tell him where to sit. it doesn't come, so he wanders to the window, pulling back the black-out blinds and peering out over the city. it's such a long drop, from here. the lights are distant, the people are barely there. nobody cares that their half of the city is built on the backs of subs. derek hates how the down is treated. unclean water, dirty food. filth in every corner, while people in the up are so fucking excessively comfortable.
he turns, and he leans his ass against the windowsill, heels of his palms resting on the ledge. tate's aroused, derek can smell it on him, but it doesn't do anything. doesn't mean anything. tate's so fucking high. he lowers his eyes, takes in the curve of his stomach and the long, slender stretch of his arms. if derek hadn't taken tate home tonight, would he have just - given himself to someone else? even if he were... tired?
derek takes a breath. ]
I just... I want to be so much more to you than just a quick fuck.
[ he crosses one foot over the other, ankle against ankle. he's not going to bite tate tonight - he needs to tell stiles that he's intending to do it, and he needs to know that tate wants it first - but he needs to bring it up. needs to find a way to bring it up. derek chews his bottom lip, then presses on. ]
[The longer Tate lays prone, the heavier his limbs start to feel. He's tired in a way that exhausts him. The uppers wear off and the exhaustion returns like a bullet to the forehead. He hasn't slept in a day or two at least, insomnia strangling him even when he lays like this and stares up at the ceiling like he's expecting to see an expanse of stars. His body is tired but his brain won't rest, it won't sleep, and he closes his eyes almost pained. What's better, this? Or the nightmares?
He hears Derek speak and blinks open his eyes, looking at him by the window with vague interest. His figure looms there, looking so put together and certain in a world Tate feels so lost in. His eyes narrow when Derek tells him things that he feels conflict with reality. Derek wants to be something to him and yet he chose Stiles first and foremost - was he that... screwed up at the time? Why's Derek still trying.
Tate drapes his arm over his eyes, shielding his expression from view. His heart still hammers in his chest, breathing deep and even.]
I wanted to just... feel okay. Feel good. Not lonely, or sad. I thought it might be nice to be around people but I just felt farther away from everyone the closer I got. I want to go home.
[A bold finish to that statement, which Tate doesn't really mean. He likes Duplicity more than the house but - just for this instant he feels like at least those halls were familiar. Some other souls were familiar. He was hated, loathed and trapped but it was all in a way he knew how to cope with. He doesn't know how to be alive again. How to make friends. How to keep friends.]
[ tate hides away, ducking behind his arm, disappearing in the shadow of it. derek watches tate, quiet and unseen, a tension headache rolling through the base of his neck and shooting sharp streaks of pain across his skull. he grabs his shoulder with his opposite hand and rolls it in its joint, trying to ease some of the taut pulls of muscle and bone. ]
You should've just... talked to me.
[ he drops his arms back to his side and heads over to the bed, sitting down on the edge of it. there's guilt in him, again. he doesn't feel guilty about wanting to give tate the bite - he genuinely believes he can help him, he genuinely believes he can make things better - but he shouldn't be lying to make it happen. dishonesty has only screwed him over, since his arrival in duplicity. he can't start a second pack based on a lie.
derek breathes out, feels the mattress sink beneath him. he knew tate was going through a lot, but - it's heartbreaking, to connect the dots and realize that part of why tate was so angry in the fort was because derek and stiles knew each other, and they had each other, and tate's just - alone. away from home. away from his family who loves him, his friends who he must miss. if he were pack, he'd - have that again. he'd have that connection. derek runs his fingers through his hair, scratching his nails against his skull. fuck. ]
Crash here for the night. Sleep this off. Tomorrow, I'm going to start fixing this.
[ derek looks over his shoulder, watching tate breathe. he's always had a problem with projecting. he sees himself in other people, time and time again. here and now, with tate - it's no different. tate's angry and he's scared and he's alone, just like derek after... so many deaths. his father's, his mother's. laura's. peter's. derek listens to tate's heart, and his own feels like it could break.
he lowers his voice, keeps it soft. he moves up the bed a little and sits on it more evenly, cross-legged on the sheets. he's in socks, and he picks at a loose thread, looking down. he makes a promise, and it's a promise he's going to keep. ]
I'm gonna take care of you from here on out. You won't be lonely, and you won't be sad. Not while you're with me.
[After everything that happened, taking to Derek didn't feel accessible. Tate's pride was still wounded from blowing up, and although they haven't - and hopefully won't - address it, he doesn't know if he burnt those bridges he was building with the two of them. Derek and he were supposed to be able to talk, but Tate no longer felt confident what he said was truly between them. Not when he could see Stiles and Derek were close, with that hint of jealous suspicion.
He moves his arm and looks at Derek with one uncovered eye, low lidded and still glazed by the shit in his system. It's a blank stare because he's not sure how to open up to the notion of being taken care of when the last slap to the face still stings his cheek. Another night and he might've sat up to walk away to dispel this anxiety, but he can't even lift his head. He just grunts, shutting his eyes.]
I don't trust you yet. And you don't trust me. So I don't know if I believe you, but I want to. That'd be nice, for a change.
[ this isn't something he can force. if tate doesn't trust him, he can't just - say something to make it happen. just like he couldn't with stiles, just like he hasn't been able to with scott. with erica and boyd and isaac, they were all desperate for an escape, and derek could offer it to them knowing they'd be willing to take that risk. tate... ]
I'm going to tell you something.
[ tate doesn't seem so willing to let go. he wants an escape, but he doesn't want to be hurt. isaac had been hurt enough to be willing to risk getting hurt again, because what would one more scar matter - and boyd wouldn't have minded getting hurt, if it meant he was getting someone's attention. erica had hurt herself enough that there was nothing derek could do to her that she wouldn't have already felt.
but tate seems to just... tate needs things to go right. he's clumsy, in his search for it, but he wants to be okay, and derek can't just jump to the end of this where he's promising a receptive tate the bite. maybe he needs to take this slow. ]
Back home - my family was murdered. A woman I knew... trapped them in the basement of our home, set a chemical fire and burned them to death.
[ but at the same time -
but at the same time, he sees himself in tate. so fucking angry, his back so tight to the wall. derek can't let that lay. the only reason derek ever started opening himself to people again was because stiles pretty much forced him to trust him, through life and death situations he kept pulling him from. tate's only going to spiral, if he's left alone. derek has to do something. ]
I don't trust anyone. But I want to trust you. Do you want to trust me?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Don't worry. We can go back to the party later.
[ to get tate's shirt, he means. that's a lie, and the guilt that hits him is small and sharp, like a spider bite. tate stops and lets go of his sleeve and derek wants to shake him, because they're so close to the elevator, and if he just gets tate into the up things should start getting better. they'd be in the home stretch.
but tate scratches his arms, and derek winces, nausea rising to his throat again. he needs to help tate. he needs to help tate, he needs to lie, he needs to give him the bite so getting high won't work anymore, he needs - a pack. they both do. ]
You forgot your shirt. Remember? You just told me.
[ he reaches out, sets his hand on tate's shoulder, and he thinks of erica, and isaac, and boyd. he thinks of how he looked them in the eye and spoke to them like they were the only people in the world that mattered, and he thinks of how the bite saved each of them. he'd be saving tate. he just needs to keep telling himself that to smother the guilt.
derek bends down a little, gets to tate's level. he makes eye contact, and he holds it, staring at tate with intensity and lowering his voice to a quiet, smooth rumble. ]
You're just cold. That's all. Do you want to wear my jacket?
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He shies away from the intensity first, staring down at Derek's lips or at his cheek, but like a scolded dog, he eventually caves and looks into the hazel of his eyes directly. And feels like he's suddenly exposed, swallowing hard and feeling his stomach tense. If he wasn't already flushed with color he might've blushed at that moment, the swooping feeling in his gut not unfamiliar.]
No. Yeah? Maybe, okay.
[That wasn't just an answer, it was every answer - but he's pulling away from Derek to keep moving. Just slow drags of his heels, sneakers shuffling on the pavement as he glances at Derek before watching where he's walking instead. His arms sting and he just rubs his fingertips over the welts absently, looking up at every street light as they pass it.]
I lost my beer too. Do you have beer at your place? I'm thirsty.
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Stop worrying so much.
[ he paces after tate, manages his speed so they're shoulder to shoulder. he keeps his hands in his pockets until they get to the elevator, and he heads inside, the heavy metal doors shutting solemnly behind them. derek shrugs off his jacket once they're inside and alone, a draft coming through from somewhere above them and making his skin prickle from the coolness of the air, and he makes a motion like he's going to hand the jacket to tate so he can put it on himself, but. then he thinks better of it. there's no way tate's that coordinated right now.
so he heads behind him, slips the jacket over tate's shoulders, the inner lining warming and comforting in a way you might not expect. he casts a cursory glance at tate's arm, notices the welts and the red and the old scars. he doesn't say anything, only... steps away, heads back to the elevator's control panel. they're moving so slowly. ]
Better?
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Thanks. It's... warmer.
[Something about feeling Derek's body heat spikes his heart beat, a jumble of memories in his head from the orientation room. From experiences between then and now with other people, and the curbed inhibitions he's been having today his excuse - he looks up at Derek's face while holding his breath for a beat.]
You know.
[He doesn't know if this is right, if he's going to be shut down again - to feel that prickling sensation of being played the fool, but. He's not really thinking with much more than the throb of arousal that lives in his pants. Why else would Derek take him home if not to...
Yeah - He can think of other reasons. But they bother him. They don't fit the slots the way he wants them to, so he pushes them away. He reaches out to drag his fingertips along the waistband of Derek's jeans, fingers navigating the strip of denim from belt hoop to the button. Slow, steady, deliberately pressing in against his abdomen when he reaches the closure.]
We're alone now.
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and then tate's touching him and the nausea that's been trapped in derek's chest only starts to feel worse. he winces a little, turning to look at tate, the light, intrusive touch of slender fingertips catching him off-guard. this doesn't... turn him on, this doesn't do anything. this just makes him feel sad. terrified, again, about what could have happened to tate if he'd left him at that party alone. ]
We are.
[ but if he rejects tate now - really, solidly rejects him - then tate will bail as soon as those doors open. the kid's zoned out of his fucking gourd, and if he does manage to stumble away from derek long enough to get lost among the buildings and the crowds, he could be in real, genuine danger. if he's still too weak to walk, let alone run, then he'll just... panic, when derek so easily manhandles him back to his apartment, and that might be even worse. tate already said derek fits the role of a dom, and that's stuck with him, made him feel horrible. he doesn't want to make tate feel weak. derek doesn't want to act or feel like a scumbag, he just wants to help.
so he feels trapped. he feels like his priority has to be getting tate home. he has no intention of sleeping with him - but once they're locked in his apartment, he can distract tate, he can sober him up. he can do something. he just... he just needs to get tate home. no matter how he does it. ]
But - we won't be for long. So...
[ derek swallows, looks to the doors, the little panel telling them how long left they have to the surface of the city. still a few minutes to go. ]
Just... let's get back to my place, and then - we can do anything you want. Okay?
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Derek's right in that the wrong word just now could've set Tate off like a match to dry bush, but Derek has a way to him that's - just scraping by that entirely. He curbs the situation in a net that catches Tate, pulling him along with a thoughtful screwing of his nose before he seems satisfied.]
Okay.
[And the wick is extinguished just like that, with Tate pulling back his hand and looking at his palm before closing his eyes. He stays where he is, tucked close to the front of Derek, but he just - rides the feeling of ascension in the elevator with his eyes shut. Pretends for a few seconds that he's flying before groggily blinking himself back into the elevator itself.]
Would've pegged you more of an exhibitionist though.
[A snort and a sudden smile, Tate's a little too amused but it's at least an expression that lights up his face in comparison to the bleak blankness he was just wearing only moments ago.]
Weak.
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now, though? in this long stretch of silence where tate's just staring at him, innocent and soft, fingertips so close to the base of derek's cock, derek feels snared. he's a rabbit in a trap, waiting to see if the bear in front of him is going to do more, do less, leave, stay. he watches with his heart stuck in his throat, staring at tate with that same carefully manufactured neutrality. he just... waits.
and then tate backs off, makes a joke about him being an exhibitionist. he's right, but derek's sure as shit not going to say that. he just shrugs, with one shoulder, adjusting the hem of his henley, smoothing the edge over his belt with his thumb. tate's happy. good enough.
he doesn't say anything until the elevator reaches the up, the doors softly sliding open, smooth and polished and taken care of. derek's tongue darts between his lips as he breathes in the air, so much less muggy and stagnant than the hellhole of the down. he needs to get tate out of there for good, somehow. needs to find him a dom. ].
Come on. [ he starts walking, hands in his pockets. ] It's not far.
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And when he manages that? Well, shit. The Up has a glamour to it that he gets stunned by every time. This beautiful green oasis that's better than the dirt heap he lives in, but never somewhere he's sought to stay. He doesn't belong here, doesn't want to be here. Even if the few people he knows and likes all tend to live here now. He's only slightly jealous.]
You... There's a book store here. Stiles told me about it.
[Stiles: The Forbidden Topic doesn't get focused on, instead Tate's more interested in the scenery and catching up to Derek in stride. His own are still somewhat unbalanced, slow and uncoordinated. But he's still got an electricity in him from when he laughed, a spark of light that infuses his attitude. Thankfully, it doesn't change when talking about Stiles.]
I want to go there but I can't buy anything. Even if I had the money, they don't... subs don't get shit.
[Hm.]
If I find the money - could you maybe... ?
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stiles gets namedropped and derek feels cold, but tate moves past it without acting jealous or talking about the fort. derek picks up the pace a little, scratching his thumbnail against the inner lining of his pocket. he's focused on getting home without being seen, so he's only half-listening to tate, but - ]
You don't have to find the money. I'll take you there and buy you anything you want.
[ - he means that all the same. derek looks over his shoulder, sees tate ambling behind him, a little further away than derek thought he'd be. he winces and stands still, waiting for tate to catch up. he can't rush this. ]
Tomorrow, though. You've had a big night.
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[Tate's trying not to think of the sinkhole in his chest that erupts any time he remembers the shed at Fort Harmony. But like a piece of gum stuck to his shoe, it stretches out and he can either pretend it's not there or forcibly detach it. It's the latter he tries to do with a calm head, perhaps only as steadily balanced as it is on account of the euphoric baseline he's still living in.
He blinks a few times, considering Derek's offer before continuing. He's got both arms through the sleeves now and the jacket looks a little too large for him, like the borrowed thing it is. But it has a certain smell to it, a familiar feeling that makes it feel right. He tugs it closer to his neck, arm folding across his chest to keep it closed.]
I don't want to be... exploiting you. I'm...
[A tired, weary sigh. He rubs at his eye until he sees stars through it.]
If you're gonna act like a sugardaddy you might as well get something for it.
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Don't be stupid. We're friends.
[ he thinks. he's not sure. it's hard to say they're friends, after everything, but the word still fits right, especially after he's practiced using it so often with stiles. derek shakes his head a little, and he walks closer to tate, bridging distance. derek reaches out, and he lightly taps his knuckles against tate's shoulder, pumping his eyebrows up. his voice is quiet, almost monotone. still carefully neutral. ]
If I can make you happy, then - that's enough for me.
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[To please Derek. Although despite the intention Derek happens to have in mind, Tate's still thinking in more selective terms. He's still fooled by the false atmosphere of the elevator, the shrouded mess in his head that thinks there's still something here that's innately sexual. He's attracted to Derek and still grappling with that fact, but after a few exchanges he's had here with other people... tentatively toeing the line of what he's comfortable with and what he wants... this could be something.
And, of course, in the same way Derek actually is thinking this, Tate wants to please him too. He's got that deep seated fear of rejection, the desire of measuring up and yet simultaneously not having to be held to any ideals or any molding. He blinks when he's touched, swatting again at Derek with the splayed fingers of his hand. It's light, playful, edges on a shove.]
I'm happy right now. Are you?
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tate asks if he's happy. of course he's not happy. how the fuck could he be happy? tate's this destructive, unhinged force in desperate, crushing need of guidance and structure, he needs someone who can teach him to express that anger and that hate and that toxic build up of pus and misery and resentment in a way that makes him stronger, rather than weaker. he's adrift and fucked up and derek has to lie to his fucking face just for the chance to sink his teeth into his hip and make him bleed.
the bite not might even work. tate's a fucking flight risk - derek can't control a beta with anger issues, only a stupid, stupid alpha would even try. he might not measure up, he might not be the guidance tate needs. the bite not even take. if it doesn't - it'll be paige, all over again. black ichor, liquid rot. bubbling, sour ink that boils from the inside of someone and shuts them down in excruciating pain. he could be killing tate. tate could be killing himself. there's nothing about this that could possibly make him happy.
but he smiles, anyway, turning around so he can walk backwards, holding eye contact with tate. again, he smiles. quiet, exhausted. forced. ]
Yeah.
[ ... but. ]
I'll be happier when we're off the streets, though.
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Again he laughs, putting his hands into Derek's jacket pockets, feeling for what's inside while walking along. He closes his eyes and tips back his head, enjoying the night air. The beach felt so freeing and this is like that, doubly so. When he bats open pale lashes to flick his gaze to Derek once more, his voice is soft and low.]
Me too.
[He's still contently smiling when he pulls Derek's phone out of his pocket, looking it over curiously.]
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but they're at the apartment building before too long, and derek doesn't have to think about it. he ushers tate into the elevator and hits the button for the eighty-first floor, leaning back against the wall and watching the floors light up and change as they ascend. he's quiet, and he stays quiet through the ride, only looking at tate when he needs to offer a reassuring smile or when tate looks like he might to faint. even derek's starting to feel a little woozy when they finally get to the higher floors of the highrise. derek wets his lips, nods at tate again, and guides him down the hall to his apartment.
tate's still got his phone, but derek doesn't mind. he can fidget with it as much as he wants, if it keeps him occupied. derek needs the keys to his apartment from the jacket pocket, but rather than ask, he just - fishes in and takes them, mumbling something that could almost sound apologetic as he pulls them away from tate and slips them into the door.
derek's apartment is pristine. it's barely been used, outside of a night with stiles. there's a chessboard on the coffee table and an empty pizza box on the kitchen counter he hasn't taken out yet, but other than that, it looks barely lived in. just - big. spacious. carpeted and soft and clean and white. derek ushers tate in and closes the door behind him, locking it.
he motions for tate to sit down wherever he wants, then heads to the kitchen. he doesn't have any beer, but he's hoping tate's out of it enough at this point not to care - he just needs something to drink, and derek could give him soda, but he opts for pouring him a glass of water, instead, filling it with ice nearly to the top. tate needs to stay hydrated. he calls out from the kitchen as he gets it ready. ]
Just - get comfortable.
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His heart hammers against his ribs and he's a bit woozy, but he heads toward the living area. Derek's phone really isn't that fascinating, but Tate keeps holding on to it simply because he doesn't think to put it down. He skims his fingers over the surfaces of the room, looking over the chess board before heading toward the couch. He spends a long minute looking down at it, wanting nothing more than to crash face first into the cushions.
Instead, Tate peels off the jacket and feels cool air touch the sweat soaked into the back of his shirt and he shivers. He drops everything on to the cushions and almost sinks into them, before something snags his eye. He wanders off, toward the bedrooms - investigating the other nooks and crannies of Derek's apartment with conflicting senses of wonder.]
It's so empty.
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derek follows after him with the glass of water in hand, stepping towards the bedroom after tate, narrowing his eyes. if tate thinks this is empty, well - ]
You should see where I live back home.
[ at least this place has a roof. no open, burned holes that give way to open skies, stars drifting overhead and illuminating the ruins derek himself razed. no long stretches of concrete and dust, peppered only with rusty traincars and stacks of tarps and tires. derek nudges tate, gets his attention, then holds out the water. ]
Drink.
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[You can't, when you're dead. You can stash a few things away in cubby holes and under floorboards, but you can't have possessions the way you used to in life. He watched his room get torn apart but unlike Nora, he didn't really feel anything toward it. It was repurposed and rearranged to suit someone else. And then someone after that, rinse repeat. It actually looked good for Violet, better than it ever did for him.
Tate takes the water, looking at it before narrowing his eyes. He sips, lip brushing the ice before he's already looking for somewhere to set it down. He backs toward the bed, still in his sneakers and jeans when he perches against it and puts the glass on the night stand. He didn't come here on purpose, but he's not going to shy away from the solitude and the tension in his heart. He leans back, arms behind him on the bed. But then his stomach flips and he sits forward suddenly, a bit paler.]
I don't like ice in my water.
[He murmurs, like talking is going to take him out of his own head where memories of a seedy motel and Kavinsky between his knees aren't at the forefront of his thoughts. He scratches at his knee and looks up through the veil of blond hair that sticks to his face in parts, feeling like he's hollowing out. Crashing. Soon to burn out.]
So what are we doing?
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Too bad. Drink. You're dehydrated.
[ he's avoiding the last question, at least for a secnd. he's had time to think through how he wants to handle this, and he thinks he can... grease the wheels here without making tate feel like he's been trapped, or like he's been lied to. he'll have to lie to keep it going - feign responsibility and regret for what happened in the storage building, which he feels, but not nearly to the degree he's about to pretend he does. derek scrubs his hand over his beard, and then slowly paces over to the bed.
he kneels. it's not sexual. he just - kneels in front of tate. a form of submission, to some degree. putting himself lower than tate, giving tate the higher ground. derek cautiously pinches the cuff of tate's jeans, just by the ankle. he frowns, and - he tries. ]
I just... miss you. We were doing okay, until I fucked up at the fort. I haven't apologized to you, and I'm... sorry.
[ for throwing an arm over stiles when tate was freaking out, for lying about how they knew each other, for pushing. he's not a liar. he's been lying to tate a lot, recently, but he's not a liar. he's lying to tate right now, but it's... a means to an end. he's going somewhere with this. ]
I thought we could talk, before - anything else. I want to know what's going on in your life, and... and I want to tell you some things about myself, too. If that's okay.
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[He murmurs softly, more to himself than in protest. The water's cold and the ice gets in the way, but his fingers graze over the side of the glass and send beads of condensation racing down the side. His heart jumps when Derek kneels and his eyes widen slightly, this panicked switch in his head flicked. It's like somehow what he was just thinking about has leaked into reality again, and he's not sure he likes it. He does like it, really, but not like this. Not when he feels dry mouthed and edging on frantic. If he had another hit of coke, maybe...
Tate absently worms his fingers into the pocket of his jeans, looking for what he swiped at the party. He's distracted enough by the flare of anxiety in his head that it doesn't register immediately that his pocket is empty. He just frowns at Derek, feeling an itch in his skull he tries to ignore. But past a point, he can't, and he pulls up his legs onto the bed. Puts a sliver of space between them that feels like a mile, and he wonders if he's ruining it. Ruining this.]
Don't apologize.
[He grunts, digging the heels of his sneakers into the bed to push himself back a little more. To then flop backwards and spread out across the bed the wrong way, arms stretched out at his sides. It feels vulnerable, belly up like this, but his stomach feels too hot from looking down at Derek from an angle that reeks of motel and back alley blowjobs. He breathes in slowly, trying to will away any hint of arousal.]
Most people want to talk after they fuck. You don't want to fuck, do you.
[Not accusatory.]
Me either. I mean, I could. But I'm tired of... I'm just tired.
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"don't apologize". that's not what he expected. "you don't want to fuck" - quiet and open, not at all angry. that's another response he hadn't expected. tate slips back against the bed, inches away from him, and derek's relieved, albeit concerned. he's... happy tate's just going to lay down, instead of storm back to the party when he realizes derek doesn't want him like that. he's worried, then. he doesn't know why tate came back with him. why he even invited him out. ]
No.
[ a pause - ]
But I could. If you were sober, and if it's what you wanted.
[ which isn't to say that he wants tate, just - that he'd be willing, if he had to be. if it was another means to an end, even if the thought makes his stomach twist and his hands sweat.
derek stands. he stands, and he waits at the end of the bed, like someone will tell him where to sit. it doesn't come, so he wanders to the window, pulling back the black-out blinds and peering out over the city. it's such a long drop, from here. the lights are distant, the people are barely there. nobody cares that their half of the city is built on the backs of subs. derek hates how the down is treated. unclean water, dirty food. filth in every corner, while people in the up are so fucking excessively comfortable.
he turns, and he leans his ass against the windowsill, heels of his palms resting on the ledge. tate's aroused, derek can smell it on him, but it doesn't do anything. doesn't mean anything. tate's so fucking high. he lowers his eyes, takes in the curve of his stomach and the long, slender stretch of his arms. if derek hadn't taken tate home tonight, would he have just - given himself to someone else? even if he were... tired?
derek takes a breath. ]
I just... I want to be so much more to you than just a quick fuck.
[ he crosses one foot over the other, ankle against ankle. he's not going to bite tate tonight - he needs to tell stiles that he's intending to do it, and he needs to know that tate wants it first - but he needs to bring it up. needs to find a way to bring it up. derek chews his bottom lip, then presses on. ]
Why did you go to that party tonight?
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He hears Derek speak and blinks open his eyes, looking at him by the window with vague interest. His figure looms there, looking so put together and certain in a world Tate feels so lost in. His eyes narrow when Derek tells him things that he feels conflict with reality. Derek wants to be something to him and yet he chose Stiles first and foremost - was he that... screwed up at the time? Why's Derek still trying.
Tate drapes his arm over his eyes, shielding his expression from view. His heart still hammers in his chest, breathing deep and even.]
I wanted to just... feel okay. Feel good. Not lonely, or sad. I thought it might be nice to be around people but I just felt farther away from everyone the closer I got. I want to go home.
[A bold finish to that statement, which Tate doesn't really mean. He likes Duplicity more than the house but - just for this instant he feels like at least those halls were familiar. Some other souls were familiar. He was hated, loathed and trapped but it was all in a way he knew how to cope with. He doesn't know how to be alive again. How to make friends. How to keep friends.]
I'm just so fucking tired.
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You should've just... talked to me.
[ he drops his arms back to his side and heads over to the bed, sitting down on the edge of it. there's guilt in him, again. he doesn't feel guilty about wanting to give tate the bite - he genuinely believes he can help him, he genuinely believes he can make things better - but he shouldn't be lying to make it happen. dishonesty has only screwed him over, since his arrival in duplicity. he can't start a second pack based on a lie.
derek breathes out, feels the mattress sink beneath him. he knew tate was going through a lot, but - it's heartbreaking, to connect the dots and realize that part of why tate was so angry in the fort was because derek and stiles knew each other, and they had each other, and tate's just - alone. away from home. away from his family who loves him, his friends who he must miss. if he were pack, he'd - have that again. he'd have that connection. derek runs his fingers through his hair, scratching his nails against his skull. fuck. ]
Crash here for the night. Sleep this off. Tomorrow, I'm going to start fixing this.
[ derek looks over his shoulder, watching tate breathe. he's always had a problem with projecting. he sees himself in other people, time and time again. here and now, with tate - it's no different. tate's angry and he's scared and he's alone, just like derek after... so many deaths. his father's, his mother's. laura's. peter's. derek listens to tate's heart, and his own feels like it could break.
he lowers his voice, keeps it soft. he moves up the bed a little and sits on it more evenly, cross-legged on the sheets. he's in socks, and he picks at a loose thread, looking down. he makes a promise, and it's a promise he's going to keep. ]
I'm gonna take care of you from here on out. You won't be lonely, and you won't be sad. Not while you're with me.
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[After everything that happened, taking to Derek didn't feel accessible. Tate's pride was still wounded from blowing up, and although they haven't - and hopefully won't - address it, he doesn't know if he burnt those bridges he was building with the two of them. Derek and he were supposed to be able to talk, but Tate no longer felt confident what he said was truly between them. Not when he could see Stiles and Derek were close, with that hint of jealous suspicion.
He moves his arm and looks at Derek with one uncovered eye, low lidded and still glazed by the shit in his system. It's a blank stare because he's not sure how to open up to the notion of being taken care of when the last slap to the face still stings his cheek. Another night and he might've sat up to walk away to dispel this anxiety, but he can't even lift his head. He just grunts, shutting his eyes.]
I don't trust you yet. And you don't trust me. So I don't know if I believe you, but I want to. That'd be nice, for a change.
[He laughs weakly, without any humor.]
But I did warn you I'm a little fucked up.
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I'm going to tell you something.
[ tate doesn't seem so willing to let go. he wants an escape, but he doesn't want to be hurt. isaac had been hurt enough to be willing to risk getting hurt again, because what would one more scar matter - and boyd wouldn't have minded getting hurt, if it meant he was getting someone's attention. erica had hurt herself enough that there was nothing derek could do to her that she wouldn't have already felt.
but tate seems to just... tate needs things to go right. he's clumsy, in his search for it, but he wants to be okay, and derek can't just jump to the end of this where he's promising a receptive tate the bite. maybe he needs to take this slow. ]
Back home - my family was murdered. A woman I knew... trapped them in the basement of our home, set a chemical fire and burned them to death.
[ but at the same time -
but at the same time, he sees himself in tate. so fucking angry, his back so tight to the wall. derek can't let that lay. the only reason derek ever started opening himself to people again was because stiles pretty much forced him to trust him, through life and death situations he kept pulling him from. tate's only going to spiral, if he's left alone. derek has to do something. ]
I don't trust anyone. But I want to trust you. Do you want to trust me?
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