[ 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.
[ An uneasy smile is better than nothing. The moon joke annoys him, but other than a frustrated twinge in his expression, he doesn't answer. Tate wants to pull his hand away, but Derek doesn't take the hint to let go first. ]
I don't want you to be scared. I just... don't want you to...
[ Hate him? Be disgusted by him. Think he's a monster. Hurt him. There are so many ways for Derek to finish that sentence, but they're all pathetic and weak and that's not who he is, not anymore. He flexes his arms, straightens out his shoulders, and if his hand grips Tate's wrist any tighter, he doesn't seem to notice.
Derek frowns, trying to decide, and then he just - closes his eyes. He thinks of anger, but that doesn't work anymore, so he works through muscle memory alone. He opens his eyes again, and the human, mossy hazel has faded, bled away and replaced by an illuminated, scarlet red. He starts to open his mouth, and this part is - difficult, but he wants Tate to see his fangs, if he's going to bite him one day. He looks younger, despite his lack of humanity, and when he parts his lips, his teeth are sharper, longer. Viscious. Made for tearing.
He looks at Tate, and he says nothing. Just - looks like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop. To be hit, or insulted, or feared, or - something. Anything. ]
[Derek's treating him like he's fragile, something that can be scared away and he wants to scoff at that. But he's too distracted in watching Derek's face, too caught up in the soft inhale that happens when red eyes glow his way. Like a flood of blood down a flight of stairs or dotting a porcelain sink, the red strikes a chord in the center of Tate's chest. Familiar, inviting, enchanting. He stares, open mouthed, and gravitates a little bit closer. He stops when he sees the teeth.
Gnashing teeth, sharp and villainous. But he's grown up around Thaddeus, learned not to be afraid of things that can't - or shouldn't - hurt him. He closes his mouth, swallowing hard, before he's lifting his other hand. It doesn't touch Derek's face, it falls short, but he stares into the red like its the sun and he wants to blind himself.]
[ He laughs, before he says that, humorless and dry. He shakes his head, and he slackens his grip on Tate's hand, making it easier for him to pull away, if he needs to. Derek looks down, sets his fangs together, feels the sharp points dig into his gums when he angles his jaw to make them do it. Tate moves closer, but for all of Derek's surveillance, he doesn't notice. ]
I've lived a life hiding from humans who wanted me dead. I've seen... every manner of murder. Men and women cut in half. Decapitated. Shot, burned, drowned, hung. It was just... easier to assume you would be like any other human.
[ Even the good ones - like Chris, who had a code - would kill a werewolf, if it threatened their family. Stiles and Paige are the only exceptions, but one of them became a killer and one of them died. You can't be close to a werewolf and come out unscathed. Derek thinks that, sometimes.
He's sorry. For not trusting Tate. For still not trusting Tate. Not completely. ]
It was never - personal. Hiding this. Keeping you out of the loop. It's just... hard, like I said. When people think you're a monster - it's hard to shake that reputation, no matter how good of a person you might really be.
[What it's like to be considered a monster - so his situation is a bit different, it reads the same in the isolation and the factors that lead up to it. The pressure cooker that was his life before it... ended. Trying to convince people who have already made their minds up? That's too hard to do, sometimes. And at some point you do end up giving in, you end up stop trying.
But Tate's enamored by Derek's story, by the fact he's - unique. He almost blurts out a fact about himself to relate, but he swallows it back down. Nothing good can come from admitting you're dead. It opens up pandora's box in terms of a slew of other questions he'd rather not answer. Namely 'how did you die'?]
I'm not like other people. You can trust me. I promise.
[He's antsy, like he wants to prove that. He clasps his fingers around Derek's wrist in turn, holding tight. Squeezing like he wants to punctuate the sentence and let it sit there.]
You're not a monster, though. You're kind. And you care.
[ Accepting acceptance is never easy, for Derek. Tate's - understanding. He's making an effort, and he's making promises, and he's being kind, and Derek doesn't really know how to deal with it. If it wasn't for Talia, drumming the fact that he's a predator, but not a killer, into his head, over and over - he probably would have argued. Called himself a monster, listed out the reasons why. Treated this like a curse, the way Scott does. But.
But he's proud of being a werewolf. Of being an Alpha. He's never not been proud, even after Paige. He doesn't want to make that point. Not when he can make another, more familiar point, instead. ]
I'm not kind. I care about Stiles, and I care about you. I don't care about anyone else.
[ That's not true - there's Scott, there's Erica, there's Isaac, there's Boyd. There's even Jackson, to an extent, if only because Derek feels a sense of responsibility over him. But none of them are here, and Derek doesn't think of them; he just finds something to target to prove Tate doesn't know what he's talking about. He argues that he's, personally, a bad person, because that's something he knows how to do, and it's something he believes, even if Stiles keeps telling him not to.
There's self-loathing in Derek's voice, hidden beneath the jagged anger, the defensive posture. He's not kind. Still - he looks at Tate, long and hard, and the lines around his eyes soften, just a little. He's ruining this. He doesn't want to ruin this. Carefully, he measures out the words he wants to say before he says them. ]
I just want us to be important to each other. I know you're hurting, and I know I can help you, so it doesn't... make sense, to keep each other at a distance.
[ Tate's hand is warm on his wrist, and Derek sighs through his nose, looking down at them. People don't touch him like this. Kindly. Emotionally. He's still not used to it. Still feels like it's been a long, long time since he hasn't felt starved of this. ]
I want to be more to you than just some guy you know. I want us to be closer than that.
[He just gently corrects, stroking this thumb over Derek's wrist as if to coax him toward the idea. To use touch the way it was always used toward him, to appease, to comfort. The ways he too was deprived of it, for so long. Truth be told, he doesn't care if Derek only cares about him and Stiles - he actually prefers that. But it'd be a lie to say he isn't projecting onto Derek his own troubles.
He's not a monster either, right? He cares about people too.]
[ Tate doesn't know what he's talking about, but Derek doesn't argue. He's lulled, by the touch, even if he still prickles with his primal, well-worn fight or flight instinct. He feels a little unstable, with Tate trying to take the lead. He needs firm ground here. He wants to comfort Tate, not the other way around.
He wants to be pack. He wants to just say it - that he could chase all of Tate's problems away, if he sunk his teeth into his hip and drained him of his humanity. Replacing the drugs in his veins with something better, something stronger. The only reason he doesn't is because it's - too soon. ]
Just... important.
[ Which sounds like a weak answer, so he tries again, eyebrows furrowed. ]
Here I thought you were finally gonna admit you wanted to fuck.
[He's - playful with that, lip quirked up in the corner as his fingers still from their idle touches of Derek's wrist. Friends. He can work with that, he thinks, because he too wants something more here. He wants to be important to Derek, the first person he's really come to know that's... special. Who might, in time, understand how special he is too. He has so many other questions to ask, but the only reason he doesn't is because it's - too soon.]
Friends is fine. Even if we're weirdos holding hands right now.
[ Derek gets annoyed, but again, not enough to comment. There's just this twinge in his eyebrows as he looks up at Tate, more sullen, than anything else. Tate probably knows him well enough by now to know that he's just - like this, though. Neutral anger, all the time.
Tate draws attention to their hands, though, and Derek doesn't let go, even if that's what Tate's prompting him to do. His eyes are still red, which spikes up the rest of his senses, making the faded drugs and the death and the surprising steadiness of Tate's blood all feel so much clearer. Derek drops his eyes, focuses on Tate's hand, then sighs through his nose. ]
My... senses are all heightened. I can hear things - like heartbeats. I just wanted to hear yours. Makes me feel better.
[ He shrugs, a little, almost apologetic. Didn't mean to be a weirdo. ]
[That's fascinating to him, but it makes sense. It clues him into the fact that Derek will know all the little details about him other people might not notice, but he doesn't yet put it together that he might have to hide traces of himself sometime to avoid him. Heartbeat, his breathing or his scent. He's just focused on the oddly romantic notion of having someone want to hear his heart.]
I like that. That's cool. Tell me... Tell me more about you. If you want to.
[He licks his lips, trying not to seem too invasive.]
What can you tell from a heartbeat? That I'm scared, or something?
[ There's a lot to unpack, with a question like that. "Tell me more about you". His thoughts drift back to Stiles, again, who would answer a question like that by making jokes, being stupid, highlighting the better parts of Derek's lycanthropy instead of what Derek instinctively wants to say - that he's designed to kill, to hunt, and that he's supposed to be primal and fierce and cruel. That he could be monstrous, like Peter, if given the right stimulus and circumstance.
Derek just - focuses on answering the direct question. What can he tell from a heartbeat. ]
A lot of things. I'll know if you're lying to me. I'll know if you're sick. Scared. Aroused. Anything that gets your heartbeat up.
[ It feels, again, like he's showing Tate the cards he could play, which, again, makes him feel wired off and defensive and worried about what this could mean for him in the future - but he's really, really hoping Tate's a good guy, and he's not mentioning the chemosignals, he's not mentioning all the other signs he can see in a person. Derek takes another long, low breath. ]
I thought... you would panic, once I started telling you about what I am. I wanted to know when it started, so I could stop, and maybe prevent some of that.
[ But it never started. Unless the drugs were slowing him down, Tate wasn't scared. ]
[Tate's response is muted, but - ironically, his heart jumps. He raises his brows as if to process that, letting them disappear behind his blond curls as his gaze skirts away. He's thinking of their encounters, trying to pick apart not the times he was lying but all the little slips of arousal Derek must've been painfully aware of. Yesterday, for example, rings clear and true.
He laughs lightly, just a soft shake of his shoulders as he looks back at Derek's hand. Wonders what he's picking up now, now that Tate's keenly aware maybe he should've acted surprised? But wouldn't he have been able to tell? He might as well try to explain himself.]
I'm not... like most people. I know what it's like to be different, to... be seen as different. Not a lot of stuff scares me, or bothers me. But I haven't ever really had anyone who's... who understands that, and doesn't think it's weird.
[He frowns.]
It feels like you and Stiles thought I was weird. Do you think... that?
[ Derek - isn't really afforded the time to tear that open and figure out what Tate means. "Not like most people" could be harmless, or it could be heavy, but it doesn't matter how sharply or attentively Derek listens; Tate asks a question that takes all of Derek's focus, and he needs to be... he needs to be honest, but he needs to be kind. Derek doesn't take too long to answer. ]
No. I think... you're angry. Anger can be good, if it's polished. You... haven't polished your anger.
[ He's been aimlessly angry before. Quick to lash out, quick to hurt, either himself or others. He's been more refined, too - cold and calculating, using his anger as an anchor, something to bind him to what he wants and how to execute those wants. The murder of his uncle. Jackson's bite. He's been cruel.
He's somewhere in the middle, now. Has been ever since coming to Duplicity. He doesn't know if he's mellowed out since signing a contract, but having someone to protect in Stiles has made him less willing to dive headfirst into stupid decisions based solely off of wounded pride and baseless fury. Maybe that's part of why he wants Tate as pack, too. Another reason to stay focused.
He lets go of Tate's wrist. ]
Which makes you dangerous. Dangerous is also good. The world is a horrible place to people who aren't a little dangerous.
[ He just doesn't know who Tate is a danger to. Stiles. Derek. Himself. ]
[Derek releases Tate's wrist and he tentatively takes it back, curling his fingers around it as if to rub it although it wasn't squeezed. Then he just rests it in his lap, sitting cross legged with a soft, quiet shift. His eyes fall downcast as the words ring in his head, like the hit of a gong each time. He doesn't like being told he's not polished, even if it's in regards to his anger. He feels defensive, especially when he's called dangerous. It's then he looks back up, quick and sharp.]
I don't want to be dangerous.
[His voice stings and the honesty is there, even if it comes with a dull realization that some things about him may never change. He's not going to be the sweet, kind and friendly kid his mother wanted him to be. He's always going to have this leeching darkness in him and the sooner he embraces that fact, the sooner he can at least work on dealing with it. But he doesn't want to. He wants to be better.]
I don't want to hurt people. I'm not - don't call me that, okay? I just...
[ Tate shuts him down. Tate shuts him down, and Derek doesn't think he even realizes he's doing it. He's responding to Derek's quiet offer of acceptance in danger by being disgusted and pulling away, openly declaring that he doesn't want that. That he doesn't want to be like Derek. Tate wants to stay with his own kind. He wants the universal potential and understated complacency of humanity, not the coarse and predatory life of a wolf.
Derek needs a second to process Tate's repulsion and filter it through layer after layer of reasoning, just so he doesn't dwell on this as a personal rejection. It takes him a few false starts before he can figure out what he wants to say, and he keeps his voice quiet and measured and simple to avoid breaking the ice he feels he's standing on. ]
You can be dangerous and still belong. There isn't anything wrong with being able to protect yourself or the people you love. Sometimes you have to hurt other people, or - or do bad things, if it means keeping the people you love happy and safe.
[ Derek's eyebrows pinch together, and his hands feel vacant, now that he's not holding Tate's wrist. He rubs his biceps like he's cold, folds his arms over his chest, stares down at Tate's feet. ]
Good people can be dangerous. Good people can do bad things. You can still fit in, even if you haven't... mastered self-control. That's what I think.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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I don't want you to be scared. I just... don't want you to...
[ Hate him? Be disgusted by him. Think he's a monster. Hurt him. There are so many ways for Derek to finish that sentence, but they're all pathetic and weak and that's not who he is, not anymore. He flexes his arms, straightens out his shoulders, and if his hand grips Tate's wrist any tighter, he doesn't seem to notice.
Derek frowns, trying to decide, and then he just - closes his eyes. He thinks of anger, but that doesn't work anymore, so he works through muscle memory alone. He opens his eyes again, and the human, mossy hazel has faded, bled away and replaced by an illuminated, scarlet red. He starts to open his mouth, and this part is - difficult, but he wants Tate to see his fangs, if he's going to bite him one day. He looks younger, despite his lack of humanity, and when he parts his lips, his teeth are sharper, longer. Viscious. Made for tearing.
He looks at Tate, and he says nothing. Just - looks like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop. To be hit, or insulted, or feared, or - something. Anything. ]
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Gnashing teeth, sharp and villainous. But he's grown up around Thaddeus, learned not to be afraid of things that can't - or shouldn't - hurt him. He closes his mouth, swallowing hard, before he's lifting his other hand. It doesn't touch Derek's face, it falls short, but he stares into the red like its the sun and he wants to blind himself.]
You don't scare me.
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[ He laughs, before he says that, humorless and dry. He shakes his head, and he slackens his grip on Tate's hand, making it easier for him to pull away, if he needs to. Derek looks down, sets his fangs together, feels the sharp points dig into his gums when he angles his jaw to make them do it. Tate moves closer, but for all of Derek's surveillance, he doesn't notice. ]
I've lived a life hiding from humans who wanted me dead. I've seen... every manner of murder. Men and women cut in half. Decapitated. Shot, burned, drowned, hung. It was just... easier to assume you would be like any other human.
[ Even the good ones - like Chris, who had a code - would kill a werewolf, if it threatened their family. Stiles and Paige are the only exceptions, but one of them became a killer and one of them died. You can't be close to a werewolf and come out unscathed. Derek thinks that, sometimes.
He's sorry. For not trusting Tate. For still not trusting Tate. Not completely. ]
It was never - personal. Hiding this. Keeping you out of the loop. It's just... hard, like I said. When people think you're a monster - it's hard to shake that reputation, no matter how good of a person you might really be.
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[What it's like to be considered a monster - so his situation is a bit different, it reads the same in the isolation and the factors that lead up to it. The pressure cooker that was his life before it... ended. Trying to convince people who have already made their minds up? That's too hard to do, sometimes. And at some point you do end up giving in, you end up stop trying.
But Tate's enamored by Derek's story, by the fact he's - unique. He almost blurts out a fact about himself to relate, but he swallows it back down. Nothing good can come from admitting you're dead. It opens up pandora's box in terms of a slew of other questions he'd rather not answer. Namely 'how did you die'?]
I'm not like other people. You can trust me. I promise.
[He's antsy, like he wants to prove that. He clasps his fingers around Derek's wrist in turn, holding tight. Squeezing like he wants to punctuate the sentence and let it sit there.]
You're not a monster, though. You're kind. And you care.
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But he's proud of being a werewolf. Of being an Alpha. He's never not been proud, even after Paige. He doesn't want to make that point. Not when he can make another, more familiar point, instead. ]
I'm not kind. I care about Stiles, and I care about you. I don't care about anyone else.
[ That's not true - there's Scott, there's Erica, there's Isaac, there's Boyd. There's even Jackson, to an extent, if only because Derek feels a sense of responsibility over him. But none of them are here, and Derek doesn't think of them; he just finds something to target to prove Tate doesn't know what he's talking about. He argues that he's, personally, a bad person, because that's something he knows how to do, and it's something he believes, even if Stiles keeps telling him not to.
There's self-loathing in Derek's voice, hidden beneath the jagged anger, the defensive posture. He's not kind. Still - he looks at Tate, long and hard, and the lines around his eyes soften, just a little. He's ruining this. He doesn't want to ruin this. Carefully, he measures out the words he wants to say before he says them. ]
I just want us to be important to each other. I know you're hurting, and I know I can help you, so it doesn't... make sense, to keep each other at a distance.
[ Tate's hand is warm on his wrist, and Derek sighs through his nose, looking down at them. People don't touch him like this. Kindly. Emotionally. He's still not used to it. Still feels like it's been a long, long time since he hasn't felt starved of this. ]
I want to be more to you than just some guy you know. I want us to be closer than that.
[ He wants to be pack. ]
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[He just gently corrects, stroking this thumb over Derek's wrist as if to coax him toward the idea. To use touch the way it was always used toward him, to appease, to comfort. The ways he too was deprived of it, for so long. Truth be told, he doesn't care if Derek only cares about him and Stiles - he actually prefers that. But it'd be a lie to say he isn't projecting onto Derek his own troubles.
He's not a monster either, right? He cares about people too.]
But... what do you want to be?
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He wants to be pack. He wants to just say it - that he could chase all of Tate's problems away, if he sunk his teeth into his hip and drained him of his humanity. Replacing the drugs in his veins with something better, something stronger. The only reason he doesn't is because it's - too soon. ]
Just... important.
[ Which sounds like a weak answer, so he tries again, eyebrows furrowed. ]
Friends. Maybe.
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[He's - playful with that, lip quirked up in the corner as his fingers still from their idle touches of Derek's wrist. Friends. He can work with that, he thinks, because he too wants something more here. He wants to be important to Derek, the first person he's really come to know that's... special. Who might, in time, understand how special he is too. He has so many other questions to ask, but the only reason he doesn't is because it's - too soon.]
Friends is fine. Even if we're weirdos holding hands right now.
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Tate draws attention to their hands, though, and Derek doesn't let go, even if that's what Tate's prompting him to do. His eyes are still red, which spikes up the rest of his senses, making the faded drugs and the death and the surprising steadiness of Tate's blood all feel so much clearer. Derek drops his eyes, focuses on Tate's hand, then sighs through his nose. ]
My... senses are all heightened. I can hear things - like heartbeats. I just wanted to hear yours. Makes me feel better.
[ He shrugs, a little, almost apologetic. Didn't mean to be a weirdo. ]
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[That's fascinating to him, but it makes sense. It clues him into the fact that Derek will know all the little details about him other people might not notice, but he doesn't yet put it together that he might have to hide traces of himself sometime to avoid him. Heartbeat, his breathing or his scent. He's just focused on the oddly romantic notion of having someone want to hear his heart.]
I like that. That's cool. Tell me... Tell me more about you. If you want to.
[He licks his lips, trying not to seem too invasive.]
What can you tell from a heartbeat? That I'm scared, or something?
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Derek just - focuses on answering the direct question. What can he tell from a heartbeat. ]
A lot of things. I'll know if you're lying to me. I'll know if you're sick. Scared. Aroused. Anything that gets your heartbeat up.
[ It feels, again, like he's showing Tate the cards he could play, which, again, makes him feel wired off and defensive and worried about what this could mean for him in the future - but he's really, really hoping Tate's a good guy, and he's not mentioning the chemosignals, he's not mentioning all the other signs he can see in a person. Derek takes another long, low breath. ]
I thought... you would panic, once I started telling you about what I am. I wanted to know when it started, so I could stop, and maybe prevent some of that.
[ But it never started. Unless the drugs were slowing him down, Tate wasn't scared. ]
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[Tate's response is muted, but - ironically, his heart jumps. He raises his brows as if to process that, letting them disappear behind his blond curls as his gaze skirts away. He's thinking of their encounters, trying to pick apart not the times he was lying but all the little slips of arousal Derek must've been painfully aware of. Yesterday, for example, rings clear and true.
He laughs lightly, just a soft shake of his shoulders as he looks back at Derek's hand. Wonders what he's picking up now, now that Tate's keenly aware maybe he should've acted surprised? But wouldn't he have been able to tell? He might as well try to explain himself.]
I'm not... like most people. I know what it's like to be different, to... be seen as different. Not a lot of stuff scares me, or bothers me. But I haven't ever really had anyone who's... who understands that, and doesn't think it's weird.
[He frowns.]
It feels like you and Stiles thought I was weird. Do you think... that?
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No. I think... you're angry. Anger can be good, if it's polished. You... haven't polished your anger.
[ He's been aimlessly angry before. Quick to lash out, quick to hurt, either himself or others. He's been more refined, too - cold and calculating, using his anger as an anchor, something to bind him to what he wants and how to execute those wants. The murder of his uncle. Jackson's bite. He's been cruel.
He's somewhere in the middle, now. Has been ever since coming to Duplicity. He doesn't know if he's mellowed out since signing a contract, but having someone to protect in Stiles has made him less willing to dive headfirst into stupid decisions based solely off of wounded pride and baseless fury. Maybe that's part of why he wants Tate as pack, too. Another reason to stay focused.
He lets go of Tate's wrist. ]
Which makes you dangerous. Dangerous is also good. The world is a horrible place to people who aren't a little dangerous.
[ He just doesn't know who Tate is a danger to. Stiles. Derek. Himself. ]
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I don't want to be dangerous.
[His voice stings and the honesty is there, even if it comes with a dull realization that some things about him may never change. He's not going to be the sweet, kind and friendly kid his mother wanted him to be. He's always going to have this leeching darkness in him and the sooner he embraces that fact, the sooner he can at least work on dealing with it. But he doesn't want to. He wants to be better.]
I don't want to hurt people. I'm not - don't call me that, okay? I just...
[His voice hitches.]
I just want to belong.
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Derek needs a second to process Tate's repulsion and filter it through layer after layer of reasoning, just so he doesn't dwell on this as a personal rejection. It takes him a few false starts before he can figure out what he wants to say, and he keeps his voice quiet and measured and simple to avoid breaking the ice he feels he's standing on. ]
You can be dangerous and still belong. There isn't anything wrong with being able to protect yourself or the people you love. Sometimes you have to hurt other people, or - or do bad things, if it means keeping the people you love happy and safe.
[ Derek's eyebrows pinch together, and his hands feel vacant, now that he's not holding Tate's wrist. He rubs his biceps like he's cold, folds his arms over his chest, stares down at Tate's feet. ]
Good people can be dangerous. Good people can do bad things. You can still fit in, even if you haven't... mastered self-control. That's what I think.
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