[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?
[Tate's staring up at the ceiling when Derek talks and his expressions are muted; faint prickling of his brow, a twitch of his lip. Hearing about his family is something sad, mostly because it's meant to be. Like watching the couples be shot on stage at the Fort, Tate knows how he's supposed to feel about this. He's supposed to be empathetic, even if he doesn't know Derek's family. He's supposed to identify that as something horrible instead of intriguing - he knows better than to ask intrusive questions that'll only sate his own curiosity.
His eyes flick to the side, watching Derek from the corners as he sucks in a slow breath and squirms against the bed. He lifts his head and drops it again, before rolling onto his side facing Derek, legs tucking up as he curls inward to himself. He watches Derek with distance, only wetting his lips after a moderate bout of silence.]
How could... why would she do that?
[He thinks of Lawrence and how much hate Tate had inside him that poured out when the gasoline did. When that match was lit, Tate didn't really feel anything past that point. Did this woman hate Derek's family that much? Larry's punishment was suiting to his crimes, however, and Tate doesn't know how to ask what would've brought Kate to their house in the first place.]
[ if derek were a little smarter, he'd use his nose. he'd search out chemosignals, he'd listen for the quickening rush of tate's pulse. he'd do more than just sit, and listen, and talk. but he doesn't - partly because tate's still rolling and derek doesn't think he'd be able to read anything legible from him if he tried, and partly because this is an exercise of trust. he needs to believe that tate cares. that he won't use this against him, one day. he needs to believe that he's right to choose this path, instead of just leaving tate at that party to suffer in silence.
this, too, feels like a life or death moment. derek isn't going to answer tate's question. he just shakes his head, and he keeps trying to make him understand his point. ]
Look - I thought you were going to hurt Stiles. You were angry, you had the razor, and back during orientation, you were willing to hurt me. I thought you were like her. I think everyone is like her.
[ derek shifts on the bed. he doesn't want to lay down, but sitting like this, legs crossed and back hunched, it's not doing anything for his spine. he straightens out and leans back as best as he can, hands sinking further into the sheets. he looks down at tate, wondering, in disconnected, wordless thoughts, if he's going to need to stay up all night helping tate vomit and sweat and work out whatever it is that's in his system. ]
But - that was wrong of me. I know you're just scared. Alone. You're like me - sometimes things get too much, and you just... have to get it out. I shouldn't have pushed you away, and I shouldn't have lied to you about how I knew Stiles. I was trying to protect myself from you, and that's...
[ a pause. derek shakes his head. he's in the wrong, to feel guilty. he's in the wrong, explaining himself to tate. he's in the wrong, bringing up kate, sharing another secret. it's so fucking hard to... pull himself out of this shell. he's trying so hard to be more than just angry and reticent and walled off, but he's clumsy, and he doesn't know how. but he has to learn. an alpha has to be able to do shit like this. talk. inspire. he needs to know how to control the tides of any situation. getting tate to trust him is just - a part of that. ]
I haven't been fair to you. I want to be fair to you. I want to trust you. You have to let me in, so I can.
[Derek doesn't answer Tate's question and Tate spends a little too long after the fact wondering why. He's not fully paying attention for a few seconds, swept into his own head - wondering why this woman would've done this to Derek, and how she did it. But then he blinks a few times, stirring back to the conversation and honing in on the rest of what Derek's saying.
He could defend himself - state he wasn't ever going to hurt them despite the evidence. He could rile himself up and get mad, try to pull Derek to his side here but. That's tiring. He's tired. He's tired and he won't be able to sleep for a while, uppers still in his system despite the exhaustion that's sloped back into his bones. He just rests his head a bit more soundly on the bed, dark eyes shifting to look at the bedding with a distant, unblinking stare.]
I'll trust you if you'll trust me.
[He wants that. He wants someone to care for him after so long without. He's tired of these uphill runs, these moments of failure. He's still not sure that Derek will ever want him as much as he must want people he knows and likes more. He must trust Stiles, therefore saying 'I don't trust anyone' has to be a lie. But he's not going to call that out. He'll just remember it later, when he justifies to himself that hiding things is fine.
Tate keeps staring, unfocused, at the bed his head is resting on - barely moving except for the rise and fall of his breath. He has no plans to move, either, to just absorb these blank seconds and let them linger on. It feels like being alone with this conversation, their voices the only things in an otherwise empty room. He no longer even notices Derek's there physically.]
[ derek just... watches tate. the way his eyes drift in his skull like jelly sliding down a pane of glass. he stares at the pillow instead of derek, he speaks quietly, fuzzily, barely there. there's a promise tentatively built between them, a vow to do better by each other, and derek's still not entirely sure if this is the right thing to do, but it all feels better than letting tate rot and suffer alone. carefully, derek stands, gets off the bed. he'll spend the night in the chair facing the bed, watching tate. he won't sleep. ]
Okay. Deal.
[ he would have tate shake on it, but he figures he's so out of his fucking head that he won't even remember this promise, come morning. he's not going to drag him upright when he'll probably just throw up all over the edge of his mattress. derek wonders - not for the first time - if he needs to take tate to the hospital, but.
he doesn't. he won't. subconsciously, a part of him wonders if he could be blamed for biting tate, if he was sick enough to need it. if saving his life would be a good enough reason to forego all the explanations, forego the difficult conversations. if he knew that's how he felt, he would be disgusted in himself for being such a coward.
derek takes his seat, leaning back in the armchair, letting one arm dangle over the side, propping the other up by his elbow. he shuts his eyes, leans against his knuckles. "it'll be better", tate says. asks. derek can't tell which. ]
Yeah. I promise. All I want is to be someone who makes your life better.
[ which isn't a lie. he hopes it's obvious that that isn't a lie. derek yawns, mouth closed, inhaling deep and letting go. he watches tate for another few seconds, listening to his heartbeat. irregular, faster than it should be, given that he's laying there, relaxed. the drugs have done a number on him, even after they've started to wear off. just another thing to be worried about. ]
You should get some sleep. I know this has been... a lot, to throw on you. Especially now, when you're so...
[Tate barely murmurs his response, and it's heavily inattentive. He's pressing his face into the bed like a dog, brushing his face against the bedding with his eyes low lidded. He's not tired and yet he's exhausted; the stimulant siphoned out of his system bit by bit, leaving him to lay over the rocks of fatigue. He won't fall asleep for a while yet, but he'll lay there quietly drifting. Just the soft rise and fall of his chest to indicate he's still breathing when the rest of him lays in place like a statue.
He's drowsy when he murmurs one last thing, pale lashes fluttering as his dark brown eyes peek out the corner of his eyelids. They look at Derek but they also look at something else. The cobwebs of blood he sees, like a calming spiral of ink in a glass of water. The room doesn't frighten him. He's used to the blood. The desire to be drenched in it, to write in it, to die in it. But...]
Tell th - just keep it down. I don't want to hear it.
[He's not talking about Derek when he lifts his hand, grazing nails down his cheek to leave a white line before he rolls over to lay face down and curled into himself. He breathes a little bit heavier, but relaxes again, and will stay like this until he falls into a treacherously restless sleep. He wakes up a few times with a jolt or a shudder, but bows back out into unsettled dreaming in a cold sweat. Plagued by red floods any time he opens his eyes, he keeps screwing them shut and refusing to face reality for just a little bit longer over and over again.
It's mid morning by the time he groans, miserable in bed and feeling ill.]
[ "I don't want to hear it," Tate says, and of course Derek misinterprets, of course he thinks Tate's talking about him. He's not upset, exactly, but the flutter of his eyes looks slightly hurt, and any attempt at a reassuring smile just comes out wry and distant. Still - he doesn't say anything. He just nods, leans back in his chair, and lets Tate sleep.
Morning comes, and Derek hasn't moved. His back's sore and his neck feels pulled and strained, but he's awake, if only barely. He'd slept on and off through the night, but he never left the chair facing the bed. Without a blanket, he was cold during the night, but he's had far worse nights than this.
Derek never really had the chance to nail down what happened at the party last night. Never really managed to fully express why he wanted to take care of Tate, or at least establish some kind of mutual trust with him. He brought up the fire, and he's been tossing and turning over whether or not that was something he's going to regret doing, but it doesn't matter. He doesn't think Tate's even going to remember.
Tate blearily starts to move, and Derek expects the worst. He lifts his head from his shoulder and watches Tate look sick, and he slowly drifts his eyes down, looking beneath the bedside table. He did get up just once, during the night - ]
Bucket's beside the bed.
[ - to get something for the vomit. you know, just in case. ]
[Tate says with a voice that feels like it was put through a steel grinder, arms pulled under his face so he can rub it up against them before shakily pushing up onto his elbows. He just stays there for a moment, uncertain like a newborn deer that's only just gotten its legs under it. He doesn't know what to do next but he's still refusing to acknowledge the bucket, even if he does feel like hurling would be nice to do.
He should be dead three times over by how much shit he did last night, so when he looks up to Derek he blinks at him with tired eyes and then gives up. He collapses back onto the bed, but rolls over onto his side, facing him. Head lolled sideways on the bed, so he doesn't have to hold it up. The room's no longer spinning or oozing blood, so that's nice.]
How long have I been here?
[He can't tell. He doesn't even know what time it is now, or really remember how he got to this place. Is it Derek's? He knows that he knows the answer to that, but his brain's struggling to come up with it. All he can think of is the pulsing music from the party. Insistent. Continuous. And infiltrating his every thought. He groans and rubs at his eyes, complaining quietly about his head hurting under his breath.]
[ Tate smells like death. Not physically, maybe - but with some of the drugs dulled in his system and his regenerative powers overworking the parts of him so brutally damaged from night, Derek can smell it in his blood. Sickly and rotten and sweet. It's-- alarming, but Tate's moving, he's breathing, and all Derek can do is watch him. Dragging him to a hospital neither of them trusts wouldn't do shit for their relationship. Offering him the bite might, but there's no room here to deploy the finesse an offer like that might need.
He sits in his seat, cold, dried sweat sticking his shirt to the back. He doesn't answer Tate right away - just gives him a few seconds to wake up and orientate himself the right way, then speaks soft and quiet to save aggravating whatever migraine might be slamming itself against the inside of his skull. ]
Since last night.
[ Derek watches Tate, concerned, then looks away, as if he needs to - give him some privacy, or something, like he's worried he might feel humiliated or ashamed by the state he's in. He picks at his bottom lip with his thumbnail, feeling cracked and dry skin that he quickly wets with the tip of his tongue. ]
[Blurs of color and highs and lows; so much of the night blended together that it's hard to decipher the start from the finish. He remembers seeing Derek, but parts of what came before and after that are harder to distinguish. He feels drenched in dried, cold sweat, and it's disgusting but it takes a good long moment before it's enough to make him want to sit up. Which he does, seeing the room swim with a woozy, humorless laugh.]
I remember parts of - I don't know. I just wanted to know how long I was out for.
[He could honestly roll back over and sleep, but feels like he needs to shred some layers first. Get a drink of water and maybe wash his face. He looks at Derek with distance behind his eyes, more open and docile than usual. The defenses are still down, namely because he's still kind of dopey.]
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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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His eyes flick to the side, watching Derek from the corners as he sucks in a slow breath and squirms against the bed. He lifts his head and drops it again, before rolling onto his side facing Derek, legs tucking up as he curls inward to himself. He watches Derek with distance, only wetting his lips after a moderate bout of silence.]
How could... why would she do that?
[He thinks of Lawrence and how much hate Tate had inside him that poured out when the gasoline did. When that match was lit, Tate didn't really feel anything past that point. Did this woman hate Derek's family that much? Larry's punishment was suiting to his crimes, however, and Tate doesn't know how to ask what would've brought Kate to their house in the first place.]
Why'd she do it?
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this, too, feels like a life or death moment. derek isn't going to answer tate's question. he just shakes his head, and he keeps trying to make him understand his point. ]
Look - I thought you were going to hurt Stiles. You were angry, you had the razor, and back during orientation, you were willing to hurt me. I thought you were like her. I think everyone is like her.
[ derek shifts on the bed. he doesn't want to lay down, but sitting like this, legs crossed and back hunched, it's not doing anything for his spine. he straightens out and leans back as best as he can, hands sinking further into the sheets. he looks down at tate, wondering, in disconnected, wordless thoughts, if he's going to need to stay up all night helping tate vomit and sweat and work out whatever it is that's in his system. ]
But - that was wrong of me. I know you're just scared. Alone. You're like me - sometimes things get too much, and you just... have to get it out. I shouldn't have pushed you away, and I shouldn't have lied to you about how I knew Stiles. I was trying to protect myself from you, and that's...
[ a pause. derek shakes his head. he's in the wrong, to feel guilty. he's in the wrong, explaining himself to tate. he's in the wrong, bringing up kate, sharing another secret. it's so fucking hard to... pull himself out of this shell. he's trying so hard to be more than just angry and reticent and walled off, but he's clumsy, and he doesn't know how. but he has to learn. an alpha has to be able to do shit like this. talk. inspire. he needs to know how to control the tides of any situation. getting tate to trust him is just - a part of that. ]
I haven't been fair to you. I want to be fair to you. I want to trust you. You have to let me in, so I can.
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He could defend himself - state he wasn't ever going to hurt them despite the evidence. He could rile himself up and get mad, try to pull Derek to his side here but. That's tiring. He's tired. He's tired and he won't be able to sleep for a while, uppers still in his system despite the exhaustion that's sloped back into his bones. He just rests his head a bit more soundly on the bed, dark eyes shifting to look at the bedding with a distant, unblinking stare.]
I'll trust you if you'll trust me.
[He wants that. He wants someone to care for him after so long without. He's tired of these uphill runs, these moments of failure. He's still not sure that Derek will ever want him as much as he must want people he knows and likes more. He must trust Stiles, therefore saying 'I don't trust anyone' has to be a lie. But he's not going to call that out. He'll just remember it later, when he justifies to himself that hiding things is fine.
Tate keeps staring, unfocused, at the bed his head is resting on - barely moving except for the rise and fall of his breath. He has no plans to move, either, to just absorb these blank seconds and let them linger on. It feels like being alone with this conversation, their voices the only things in an otherwise empty room. He no longer even notices Derek's there physically.]
Moving forward. It'll be better. Right?
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Okay. Deal.
[ he would have tate shake on it, but he figures he's so out of his fucking head that he won't even remember this promise, come morning. he's not going to drag him upright when he'll probably just throw up all over the edge of his mattress. derek wonders - not for the first time - if he needs to take tate to the hospital, but.
he doesn't. he won't. subconsciously, a part of him wonders if he could be blamed for biting tate, if he was sick enough to need it. if saving his life would be a good enough reason to forego all the explanations, forego the difficult conversations. if he knew that's how he felt, he would be disgusted in himself for being such a coward.
derek takes his seat, leaning back in the armchair, letting one arm dangle over the side, propping the other up by his elbow. he shuts his eyes, leans against his knuckles. "it'll be better", tate says. asks. derek can't tell which. ]
Yeah. I promise. All I want is to be someone who makes your life better.
[ which isn't a lie. he hopes it's obvious that that isn't a lie. derek yawns, mouth closed, inhaling deep and letting go. he watches tate for another few seconds, listening to his heartbeat. irregular, faster than it should be, given that he's laying there, relaxed. the drugs have done a number on him, even after they've started to wear off. just another thing to be worried about. ]
You should get some sleep. I know this has been... a lot, to throw on you. Especially now, when you're so...
[ a pause. ]
Tired.
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[Tate barely murmurs his response, and it's heavily inattentive. He's pressing his face into the bed like a dog, brushing his face against the bedding with his eyes low lidded. He's not tired and yet he's exhausted; the stimulant siphoned out of his system bit by bit, leaving him to lay over the rocks of fatigue. He won't fall asleep for a while yet, but he'll lay there quietly drifting. Just the soft rise and fall of his chest to indicate he's still breathing when the rest of him lays in place like a statue.
He's drowsy when he murmurs one last thing, pale lashes fluttering as his dark brown eyes peek out the corner of his eyelids. They look at Derek but they also look at something else. The cobwebs of blood he sees, like a calming spiral of ink in a glass of water. The room doesn't frighten him. He's used to the blood. The desire to be drenched in it, to write in it, to die in it. But...]
Tell th - just keep it down. I don't want to hear it.
[He's not talking about Derek when he lifts his hand, grazing nails down his cheek to leave a white line before he rolls over to lay face down and curled into himself. He breathes a little bit heavier, but relaxes again, and will stay like this until he falls into a treacherously restless sleep. He wakes up a few times with a jolt or a shudder, but bows back out into unsettled dreaming in a cold sweat. Plagued by red floods any time he opens his eyes, he keeps screwing them shut and refusing to face reality for just a little bit longer over and over again.
It's mid morning by the time he groans, miserable in bed and feeling ill.]
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Morning comes, and Derek hasn't moved. His back's sore and his neck feels pulled and strained, but he's awake, if only barely. He'd slept on and off through the night, but he never left the chair facing the bed. Without a blanket, he was cold during the night, but he's had far worse nights than this.
Derek never really had the chance to nail down what happened at the party last night. Never really managed to fully express why he wanted to take care of Tate, or at least establish some kind of mutual trust with him. He brought up the fire, and he's been tossing and turning over whether or not that was something he's going to regret doing, but it doesn't matter. He doesn't think Tate's even going to remember.
Tate blearily starts to move, and Derek expects the worst. He lifts his head from his shoulder and watches Tate look sick, and he slowly drifts his eyes down, looking beneath the bedside table. He did get up just once, during the night - ]
Bucket's beside the bed.
[ - to get something for the vomit. you know, just in case. ]
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[Tate says with a voice that feels like it was put through a steel grinder, arms pulled under his face so he can rub it up against them before shakily pushing up onto his elbows. He just stays there for a moment, uncertain like a newborn deer that's only just gotten its legs under it. He doesn't know what to do next but he's still refusing to acknowledge the bucket, even if he does feel like hurling would be nice to do.
He should be dead three times over by how much shit he did last night, so when he looks up to Derek he blinks at him with tired eyes and then gives up. He collapses back onto the bed, but rolls over onto his side, facing him. Head lolled sideways on the bed, so he doesn't have to hold it up. The room's no longer spinning or oozing blood, so that's nice.]
How long have I been here?
[He can't tell. He doesn't even know what time it is now, or really remember how he got to this place. Is it Derek's? He knows that he knows the answer to that, but his brain's struggling to come up with it. All he can think of is the pulsing music from the party. Insistent. Continuous. And infiltrating his every thought. He groans and rubs at his eyes, complaining quietly about his head hurting under his breath.]
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He sits in his seat, cold, dried sweat sticking his shirt to the back. He doesn't answer Tate right away - just gives him a few seconds to wake up and orientate himself the right way, then speaks soft and quiet to save aggravating whatever migraine might be slamming itself against the inside of his skull. ]
Since last night.
[ Derek watches Tate, concerned, then looks away, as if he needs to - give him some privacy, or something, like he's worried he might feel humiliated or ashamed by the state he's in. He picks at his bottom lip with his thumbnail, feeling cracked and dry skin that he quickly wets with the tip of his tongue. ]
I picked you up. Brought you back here.
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[Blurs of color and highs and lows; so much of the night blended together that it's hard to decipher the start from the finish. He remembers seeing Derek, but parts of what came before and after that are harder to distinguish. He feels drenched in dried, cold sweat, and it's disgusting but it takes a good long moment before it's enough to make him want to sit up. Which he does, seeing the room swim with a woozy, humorless laugh.]
I remember parts of - I don't know. I just wanted to know how long I was out for.
[He could honestly roll back over and sleep, but feels like he needs to shred some layers first. Get a drink of water and maybe wash his face. He looks at Derek with distance behind his eyes, more open and docile than usual. The defenses are still down, namely because he's still kind of dopey.]
Can I... get some water?
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