[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.]
[ Derek can't keep looking away from Tate, regardless of whether or not it feels like an invasion of privacy. He's fucking struggling, and Derek hates it. He tilts his head, looks at Tate out of the corner of his eye, then just - stares, straight on, piercing and unwavering. Tate asks for some water, and Derek worries, because it feels like a way to keep him distracted so he can sneak out. ]
Yeah.
[ But Tate's not going to go anywhere. Even if he could move, where would he go? Back home to the down, to sleep among the filth and the roaches? Maybe he'd go straight to-- to whoever hosted the party, to get more drugs and fuck himself up even more so he wouldn't feel sober, but. He'd have to get past Derek to get out, and Derek wouldn't let that happen.
So he nods. Gets up, heads to the kitchen, grabs a glass, fills it with water, doesn't add ice this time, just takes it from the fridge instead of the faucet so it's cold. He heads back and sets it on the bedside table, giving Tate the chance to wake up and have a drink on his own speed instead of rushing to grab it from Derek out of some unneeded sense of politeness.
Derek doesn't sit down, though, not now that his up. His bones are aching and he's not blinking as much as he should, but he just - stands, close to the bed, trying to give Tate a minimal amount of distance and maybe not giving him enough. ]
You're not feeling well.
[ most obvious statement of the century, he figures, but "how are you feeling?" sounds so fucking shallow and cheap. ]
[Tate watches Derek set down the glass and stares at it for a long moment, enamored by a streak of dampness along the outer side of the glass before he sort of blinks out of his reverie. He reaches to take it, scooting closer to the table so he can put it down if it feels too heavy to keep holding. He sips and swallows, sighing as he wets his lips.
He could just sit here all zoned out for a while. But Derek's like a mosquito bite that keeps itching, reminding him he's there. So he looks up at him, eyelids still heavy. Shit, what was he even on last night? He thinks he lost track.]
May have... gone too hard. No lecture required. I'll be out of your hair in five.
[ It's not until Tate moves that Derek backs off a bit, taking a few paces backwards. He folds his arms over his chest, tilts his head down. Tate still reeks of death. It's not that he's rotten, exactly - it's like he's been rotten, and now he's not. It's residual, the smell that sticks to his blood. Like something prevented the rot from really lasting. ]
That's not what I want.
[ For Tate to leave. To lecture him. Derek shakes his head. He knows Tate doesn't respond to that kind of support, and even if he did, Derek's too fucking sad for his temper to run short. ]
I'm not going to lecture you. You don't have to leave. You'll feel better faster if you sleep it off here.
[Be the burden Derek puts up with. But he doesn't finish that sentence, instead taking a few more sips of water and runs his tongue over the front line of his teeth. His mouth's got a shitty taste to it and he still feels exhausted and sore, hair stuck together with sweat when he rakes his fingers back through it. He yawns against his wrist.
He breathes in deep and looks back up at Derek, trying to remember what would possess him to - care about Tate. Did they screw? No, he doesn't think so. But his stomach flops and he does remember someone's tongue down his throat, so a bit of color floods his face as his gaze quickly drops back down. Snaps to the floor, even.]
Did - Was I hitting on you or something, last night?
[ It would be easy to take "I don't want to" at face value. It'd make sense for Tate to not want to be around him, and Derek would let him go, if he did, but after spending as much time as he has trying to get Tate to come around and be his friend and trust him, it would still sting.
But Derek hears the way he trails off and doesn't make any rash interpretations, choosing instead to stay quiet and wait for Tate to talk again. He watches him, sees the way he struggles to adjust to the waking world, and he drifts his eyes back to the glass of water, silently telling Tate to take another drink, if he needs it. When he looks back, Tate is red, and Derek... knew this question was coming, or at least some variation of it. He stays stoic. Unemotional. ]
You just wanted me to stay at the party and hang out with you. I brought you here, instead. Made you get some sleep.
[ Not entirely the truth, but. They can get to that, if they have to. ]
[Tate's voice seems small and he feels - weird still, but doesn't know how to explain it all away. He'll think back to this later on when more pieces sort themselves out in his skull and when he remembers the elevator? He won't get mad at Derek for 'lying'. He'll see it as what it seems to be - a cover for his sake, to spare him the embarrassment of being a sloppy whore.
The rest? Well, uh. That'll be harder to decipher. Tate's brows knit and he rubs at his face.]
I get horny when I'm - it's the coke. And... whatever else.
[It had to have been the lingering effects of some serious shit, as the rest of his high faded away with leaving the premises. Tate remembers this slowly, looking down as he fumbles through his pockets again, looking for what he had on him. He stops after one empty pocket, shortly sighing.]
I swear I remember... If it wasn't you, I don't know who the fuck it was.
[ Derek's just trying to protect Tate, but that's - a hard button to press, for some people. If Tate got defensive over that, if Tate hated Derek for lying for that, it wouldn't matter how decent Derek's intentions might be. He wouldn't have a way to make it better. ]
I know. It's okay.
[ Derek's not judging Tate, he doesn't think any less of him. The kid's lonely and starved of affection, he doesn't like himself, he doesn't understand himself - it's not a surprise that he turned to drugs, it's just... it's hard to see how deeply he fell into it.
Tate continues. Says there was a someone else, implies that something happened. Derek winces, and he tries to cover it, but it's obviously something that gets to him pretty hard. He could smell it on Tate, last night. Can still smell it now, to an extent. He just hoped... it was the atmosphere of the party, it was the proximity to other people. Thought the sweaty scent of sex could've just rubbed off on him. It was always an unlikely thing to think.
Still. ]
It's none of my business, what you do. I just... want to make sure you're safe.
[ And the last thing Tate's been is safe. Derek pauses, takes another few steps back, then leans against the arm of the chair. He sighs. ]
[Tate can't shake this waterlogged feeling when it comes to how Derek's reactions affect him. He looks up at him with dark eyes, as expressive as a guilty dog - confused about what he's done, even if he's not in trouble for it. Screwing around, in whatever capacity he did, is none of Derek's business. And yet he feels like he needs to explain away the shit he can't even remember.
His nose is running, so he sniffs a few times before rubbing it with the back of his hand. He was hoping that in losing the lecture, he lost this whole touchy feely guilt thing. But here they are.]
Sorry. It's not like... [Hm.] It's fine. I kinda learned my lesson, okay?
[Did he, though.]
Haven't you ever just... wanted to get high or something? Don't tell me you're some straight edge freak.
I'm not-- sorry. I don't want you to apologize. That's not what this is about.
[ He's starting to sound frustrated, but it's - obviously aimed inwards. Not getting his point across, not saying the right thing. He's just trying to tell Tate that he wants to be here for him, and he's fucking that up. Making him feel guilty.
This would be so much easier if he just... only cared about power. It was so much easier to lie to Erica and Boyd and Isaac when he had tunnel vision. Can't have that, for Tate, now that he's actually gotten to know him. Should've given him the bite after orientation.
He bites his tongue, waits a few beats, figures out what he wants to say before he says it. Figures now's a good a time as any. He looks at Tate, leaning back on the chair a little more concretely. ]
[His answer is direct, quick to question right after Derek speaks. He hasn't had any reason to suspect anything different about Derek, but the mere hint of something supernatural has his rapt attention. Is he like him? Dead, but... the way Tate used to be, where highs weren't worth chasing when your world kept sticking back to the moment you died? Or is he something... else?]
[ He answers quickly, but not harshly. He just - says it, fast and simple, another brisk shake of his head. At this point, it's only a matter of time until Tate knows this about him, but Derek doesn't even know if Tate remembers the conversation they had last night. Derek's pledge to trust him, if Tate trusted him back. He doesn't know if Tate understands the gravity of the secret, so it's... not a secret he can completely share when the poor kid's dealing with a migraine that won't fade for a week. ]
I didn't... bring that up so we could focus on me. I'm just saying. I don't get high. Not through normal drugs.
[ Wolfsbane, maybe. He's seen what it can do. The hallucinations, the hysteria. Wouldn't be surprised, if there was a strain that could fuck him up without killing him. He's not going to go looking for it, but he's sure it's out there. ]
[Tate's expression changes, deja vu filtering through his skull and is apparent in his eyes. He scowls, brows knitting together as he jabs at the air with his finger. Right in Derek's direction. He's not going to let this get glossed over, not so easily.]
You can't keep doing that. Saying something and then moving on. Is this... is what you are related to that woman? And what she did to you.
[ Tate brings up Kate. Tate brings up Kate, and Derek visibly winces, looking pained. That's a kick to the stomach, and it caught him off guard. He feels winded, suddenly, and when this vicious, spiteful anger directed at Tate flares up inside him, it only takes a second for it to die down and fade away. ]
I'm not trying to... hide anything from you. It's just...
[ Derek's voice is a little strained, and he stands up, wandering a little. He walks to the foot of the bed, arms over his chest, like always, and he stares at his feet, brows pinched together. Fuck. Didn't think Tate would remember that. ]
It's hard to talk about. If I tell you, you have to keep it to yourself. I don't... want to give you that kind of responsibility, least of all when you're recovering.
[ And it's unspoken, but still obviously there - he doesn't know if he can trust Tate. ]
If you don't want to tell me, that's fine. But you need to not bait people and then shut them out.
[He's on the cusp of closing off again and darkening behind the eyes, feeling that itch down his back that reminds him of the shed. Of not being privy to something - of... the fact Stiles probably knows what Derek is. Could he? Why would they be so secretive if not to protect one another. He wonders if Stiles is whatever Derek is, too. Something that could be killed with fire? Why can he only think of goddamn witches.]
I'm not going to go telling people. I'm not stupid.
[ Derek listens. He listens, and he's suckered in. After spending all night with Tate, watching him writhe in his sleep, listening to his breathing go shallow and almost stop, watching him sweat and shiver and drift close to this-- fucked up, half-dead state that Derek can't describe, it's hard not to be swayed by him now that he's finally awake. ]
I didn't know I was doing that.
[ Finally awake and - upset, again. What the fuck is Derek supposed to do? Let him stay angry and isolated, when being angry and isolated is what lead him to getting high and hooking up with strangers somewhere hidden away in the down? He said he could have called Derek, but didn't. There's a distance here. Derek is sick of it.
He moves again, climbs onto the bed. He folds his legs under himself and moves as close to Tate as he can without invading too much of his space, and he holds his hand out, silently prompting Tate to hold out his own. He frowns, and he waits, and he drops his voice, keeping it monotone and flat. Like that'll make it easier to ask what he needs to ask. ]
[Tate warily follows Derek's approach, skeptical of him when he settles in and holds out his palm. He's expecting something of Tate, who stares at his hand and then looks up to his face with a pinched expression. But his fingers twitch, a give away that he's considering it. But before he fully lifts his hand away from his knee, he turns toward Derek and murmurs something softly:]
Thought we already agreed to try.
[Bits and pieces of the night flicker in and out of his head and truth be told, he might not be bringing up every detail he remembers. It's easier to pretend some things didn't happen, or to avoid mentioning them all together. But he lets this out, while touching his palm to Derek's. Wondering if they're going to do some weird game of pinky swearing.]
[ Given that he had to insinuate he was going to fuck Tate just to bring him home. Derek takes Tate's hand, holds it for a second, staying silent. He feels the rush of blood beneath his skin, moves his fingertips down to rest against the base of Tate's wrist. He feels faded scars, smooth but somehow textured over the rest of his skin. He just - listens. Tries to smell fear. Lies. Anything.
He looks up, slowly lowers his eyebrows. This isn't enough for Derek to trust him. "We already agreed to try" - that's not a yes, and every animal, primal instinct in Derek is telling him that this is a bad decision, and that trusting Tate is a mistake, and that this isn't going to work. A softer, stupider side of him just... wants to win him over, already. Wants to fix him with the bite. ]
Werewolf. By birth. The woman who killed my family was a hunter - part of a network of people who put my kind down like animals.
[ He swallows, tenses his jaw. Looks at Tate, unblinking, and waits for a reaction. Disbelief. Disgust. A spike of something, hitting the air through chemosignals or bolting through his fingers, still held over Tate's pulse. Anything. ]
[Tate lets Derek hold his hand even if it's a bit weird, but that's... how Derek is. He's silent and watchful, always flexed biceps and expressive brows. Eyes that can see almost too far into a situation, and a calming presence even when Tate's feeling anxious about this moment. He's aware he's being watched, and stares right back at Derek until he speaks.
He doesn't frown or laugh, even if he contemplates whether or not Derek's fucking with him. He barely responds at all, save for a subtle tilt of his head to one side. His eyes are expressively fixated on Derek's face, boring into his eyes like he expects to see something different now that he's looking at him. Rather than recoil, he leans forward.]
[ There's no hard bolt through Tate's veins, no disgust rolling off of him like waves. A lot of Derek's apprehension fades, at first, but then he assumes the worst - assumes that Tate's still out of his head, or... assumes that Tate knows how to mask his heartbeat, like a hunter does. Derek wets his lips, looks at Tate. Holds eye contact. Piercing, hard. Demanding, almost. ]
What - you need proof? You wanna cry like a bitch about how I never tell you anything, then push for more when I do?
[ He's just - teasing. Trying to, at least, but he's still nervous, and his voice is too harsh, and maybe it's not coming across the right way. Maybe it's just coming off as awkward and as forced as it really is. ]
[That makes Tate snort a bit, an uneasy smile on his lips. He still can't quite tell if he's being fucked with but Derek doesn't seem the type to try and pull something like this - but what does it mean? Being a werewolf. He anticipates full moons and transformations, maybe, but his Teen Wolf references are weak.]
I just... what does it mean? You run around howling on full moons or something?
[His fingers curl, like he wants to pull his hand away. But he keeps it there.]
Am I supposed to be scared? I believe in ghosts, so why not werewolves.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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Yeah.
[ But Tate's not going to go anywhere. Even if he could move, where would he go? Back home to the down, to sleep among the filth and the roaches? Maybe he'd go straight to-- to whoever hosted the party, to get more drugs and fuck himself up even more so he wouldn't feel sober, but. He'd have to get past Derek to get out, and Derek wouldn't let that happen.
So he nods. Gets up, heads to the kitchen, grabs a glass, fills it with water, doesn't add ice this time, just takes it from the fridge instead of the faucet so it's cold. He heads back and sets it on the bedside table, giving Tate the chance to wake up and have a drink on his own speed instead of rushing to grab it from Derek out of some unneeded sense of politeness.
Derek doesn't sit down, though, not now that his up. His bones are aching and he's not blinking as much as he should, but he just - stands, close to the bed, trying to give Tate a minimal amount of distance and maybe not giving him enough. ]
You're not feeling well.
[ most obvious statement of the century, he figures, but "how are you feeling?" sounds so fucking shallow and cheap. ]
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[Tate watches Derek set down the glass and stares at it for a long moment, enamored by a streak of dampness along the outer side of the glass before he sort of blinks out of his reverie. He reaches to take it, scooting closer to the table so he can put it down if it feels too heavy to keep holding. He sips and swallows, sighing as he wets his lips.
He could just sit here all zoned out for a while. But Derek's like a mosquito bite that keeps itching, reminding him he's there. So he looks up at him, eyelids still heavy. Shit, what was he even on last night? He thinks he lost track.]
May have... gone too hard. No lecture required. I'll be out of your hair in five.
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That's not what I want.
[ For Tate to leave. To lecture him. Derek shakes his head. He knows Tate doesn't respond to that kind of support, and even if he did, Derek's too fucking sad for his temper to run short. ]
I'm not going to lecture you. You don't have to leave. You'll feel better faster if you sleep it off here.
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[Be the burden Derek puts up with. But he doesn't finish that sentence, instead taking a few more sips of water and runs his tongue over the front line of his teeth. His mouth's got a shitty taste to it and he still feels exhausted and sore, hair stuck together with sweat when he rakes his fingers back through it. He yawns against his wrist.
He breathes in deep and looks back up at Derek, trying to remember what would possess him to - care about Tate. Did they screw? No, he doesn't think so. But his stomach flops and he does remember someone's tongue down his throat, so a bit of color floods his face as his gaze quickly drops back down. Snaps to the floor, even.]
Did - Was I hitting on you or something, last night?
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But Derek hears the way he trails off and doesn't make any rash interpretations, choosing instead to stay quiet and wait for Tate to talk again. He watches him, sees the way he struggles to adjust to the waking world, and he drifts his eyes back to the glass of water, silently telling Tate to take another drink, if he needs it. When he looks back, Tate is red, and Derek... knew this question was coming, or at least some variation of it. He stays stoic. Unemotional. ]
You just wanted me to stay at the party and hang out with you. I brought you here, instead. Made you get some sleep.
[ Not entirely the truth, but. They can get to that, if they have to. ]
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[Tate's voice seems small and he feels - weird still, but doesn't know how to explain it all away. He'll think back to this later on when more pieces sort themselves out in his skull and when he remembers the elevator? He won't get mad at Derek for 'lying'. He'll see it as what it seems to be - a cover for his sake, to spare him the embarrassment of being a sloppy whore.
The rest? Well, uh. That'll be harder to decipher. Tate's brows knit and he rubs at his face.]
I get horny when I'm - it's the coke. And... whatever else.
[It had to have been the lingering effects of some serious shit, as the rest of his high faded away with leaving the premises. Tate remembers this slowly, looking down as he fumbles through his pockets again, looking for what he had on him. He stops after one empty pocket, shortly sighing.]
I swear I remember... If it wasn't you, I don't know who the fuck it was.
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I know. It's okay.
[ Derek's not judging Tate, he doesn't think any less of him. The kid's lonely and starved of affection, he doesn't like himself, he doesn't understand himself - it's not a surprise that he turned to drugs, it's just... it's hard to see how deeply he fell into it.
Tate continues. Says there was a someone else, implies that something happened. Derek winces, and he tries to cover it, but it's obviously something that gets to him pretty hard. He could smell it on Tate, last night. Can still smell it now, to an extent. He just hoped... it was the atmosphere of the party, it was the proximity to other people. Thought the sweaty scent of sex could've just rubbed off on him. It was always an unlikely thing to think.
Still. ]
It's none of my business, what you do. I just... want to make sure you're safe.
[ And the last thing Tate's been is safe. Derek pauses, takes another few steps back, then leans against the arm of the chair. He sighs. ]
Scared me. Seeing you so far gone last night.
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His nose is running, so he sniffs a few times before rubbing it with the back of his hand. He was hoping that in losing the lecture, he lost this whole touchy feely guilt thing. But here they are.]
Sorry. It's not like... [Hm.] It's fine. I kinda learned my lesson, okay?
[Did he, though.]
Haven't you ever just... wanted to get high or something? Don't tell me you're some straight edge freak.
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[ He's starting to sound frustrated, but it's - obviously aimed inwards. Not getting his point across, not saying the right thing. He's just trying to tell Tate that he wants to be here for him, and he's fucking that up. Making him feel guilty.
This would be so much easier if he just... only cared about power. It was so much easier to lie to Erica and Boyd and Isaac when he had tunnel vision. Can't have that, for Tate, now that he's actually gotten to know him. Should've given him the bite after orientation.
He bites his tongue, waits a few beats, figures out what he wants to say before he says it. Figures now's a good a time as any. He looks at Tate, leaning back on the chair a little more concretely. ]
Can't get high. Not human.
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[His answer is direct, quick to question right after Derek speaks. He hasn't had any reason to suspect anything different about Derek, but the mere hint of something supernatural has his rapt attention. Is he like him? Dead, but... the way Tate used to be, where highs weren't worth chasing when your world kept sticking back to the moment you died? Or is he something... else?]
What are you?
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[ He answers quickly, but not harshly. He just - says it, fast and simple, another brisk shake of his head. At this point, it's only a matter of time until Tate knows this about him, but Derek doesn't even know if Tate remembers the conversation they had last night. Derek's pledge to trust him, if Tate trusted him back. He doesn't know if Tate understands the gravity of the secret, so it's... not a secret he can completely share when the poor kid's dealing with a migraine that won't fade for a week. ]
I didn't... bring that up so we could focus on me. I'm just saying. I don't get high. Not through normal drugs.
[ Wolfsbane, maybe. He's seen what it can do. The hallucinations, the hysteria. Wouldn't be surprised, if there was a strain that could fuck him up without killing him. He's not going to go looking for it, but he's sure it's out there. ]
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[Tate's expression changes, deja vu filtering through his skull and is apparent in his eyes. He scowls, brows knitting together as he jabs at the air with his finger. Right in Derek's direction. He's not going to let this get glossed over, not so easily.]
You can't keep doing that. Saying something and then moving on. Is this... is what you are related to that woman? And what she did to you.
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I'm not trying to... hide anything from you. It's just...
[ Derek's voice is a little strained, and he stands up, wandering a little. He walks to the foot of the bed, arms over his chest, like always, and he stares at his feet, brows pinched together. Fuck. Didn't think Tate would remember that. ]
It's hard to talk about. If I tell you, you have to keep it to yourself. I don't... want to give you that kind of responsibility, least of all when you're recovering.
[ And it's unspoken, but still obviously there - he doesn't know if he can trust Tate. ]
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[He's on the cusp of closing off again and darkening behind the eyes, feeling that itch down his back that reminds him of the shed. Of not being privy to something - of... the fact Stiles probably knows what Derek is. Could he? Why would they be so secretive if not to protect one another. He wonders if Stiles is whatever Derek is, too. Something that could be killed with fire? Why can he only think of goddamn witches.]
I'm not going to go telling people. I'm not stupid.
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I didn't know I was doing that.
[ Finally awake and - upset, again. What the fuck is Derek supposed to do? Let him stay angry and isolated, when being angry and isolated is what lead him to getting high and hooking up with strangers somewhere hidden away in the down? He said he could have called Derek, but didn't. There's a distance here. Derek is sick of it.
He moves again, climbs onto the bed. He folds his legs under himself and moves as close to Tate as he can without invading too much of his space, and he holds his hand out, silently prompting Tate to hold out his own. He frowns, and he waits, and he drops his voice, keeping it monotone and flat. Like that'll make it easier to ask what he needs to ask. ]
Tate - can we trust each other? I need an answer.
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Thought we already agreed to try.
[Bits and pieces of the night flicker in and out of his head and truth be told, he might not be bringing up every detail he remembers. It's easier to pretend some things didn't happen, or to avoid mentioning them all together. But he lets this out, while touching his palm to Derek's. Wondering if they're going to do some weird game of pinky swearing.]
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[ Given that he had to insinuate he was going to fuck Tate just to bring him home. Derek takes Tate's hand, holds it for a second, staying silent. He feels the rush of blood beneath his skin, moves his fingertips down to rest against the base of Tate's wrist. He feels faded scars, smooth but somehow textured over the rest of his skin. He just - listens. Tries to smell fear. Lies. Anything.
He looks up, slowly lowers his eyebrows. This isn't enough for Derek to trust him. "We already agreed to try" - that's not a yes, and every animal, primal instinct in Derek is telling him that this is a bad decision, and that trusting Tate is a mistake, and that this isn't going to work. A softer, stupider side of him just... wants to win him over, already. Wants to fix him with the bite. ]
Werewolf. By birth. The woman who killed my family was a hunter - part of a network of people who put my kind down like animals.
[ He swallows, tenses his jaw. Looks at Tate, unblinking, and waits for a reaction. Disbelief. Disgust. A spike of something, hitting the air through chemosignals or bolting through his fingers, still held over Tate's pulse. Anything. ]
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He doesn't frown or laugh, even if he contemplates whether or not Derek's fucking with him. He barely responds at all, save for a subtle tilt of his head to one side. His eyes are expressively fixated on Derek's face, boring into his eyes like he expects to see something different now that he's looking at him. Rather than recoil, he leans forward.]
A werewolf. No bullshit?
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What - you need proof? You wanna cry like a bitch about how I never tell you anything, then push for more when I do?
[ He's just - teasing. Trying to, at least, but he's still nervous, and his voice is too harsh, and maybe it's not coming across the right way. Maybe it's just coming off as awkward and as forced as it really is. ]
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I just... what does it mean? You run around howling on full moons or something?
[His fingers curl, like he wants to pull his hand away. But he keeps it there.]
Am I supposed to be scared? I believe in ghosts, so why not werewolves.
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