[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.
[Tate doesn't see it as a rejection - he doesn't see it as anything but an honest feeling. He wants to be able to say he's someone who belongs, who would be able to live an honest life without someone giving him a side eye. Without feeling like he's going to boil over at the slightest provocation. Without the bloody walls and staggered whispers in his head. He wishes he was what people hoped he'd be - even if he resents the notion of thinking that way solely because of the insurmountable void inside him from knowing he'll never be.
He's breathing hard when Derek speaks, looking down at his hands before quickly glancing back up. Tate's hopeful, for a breath, hinging on what Derek's saying with a furrowed brow and a small lean in his direction. He may not be perfect but Derek claims he's not necessarily broken in contrast.]
I... I know that. I - I just.
[His eyes are wet and he rubs at them with the back of his hand, feeling heat flourish in his cheeks from the embarrassment of crying so easily. Paired with the tiredness that still leeches from his bones, he just wants to curl up and sleep while he still feels protected in some capacity.]
Why's it have to be so hard? It never works out for me.
[ It's hard for Derek to give an honest response to that - like he said before, the world can be cruel. It chews people up, breaks their bones, drinks their blood, spits out the mess that's left behind. If things don't work out for Tate - maybe he's a victim to that. Like Cora, like Paige. Like so many people who deserved better than what life - what Derek - gave them.
Tate cries, and Derek isn't put off by it at all. He makes eye contact, expression a mix of... steady neutrality, with concern bleeding in around the edges. He's trying to be stone, but that's never been who he is. ]
I think... it's hard... because you're spiralling. You're still new here, relatively speaking - you haven't had time to adjust, and you've been alone. Without someone to take care of you, without a pack, it's just been - you. Suffering. That's... why I want to be someone you can lean on. I want to make things work out for you.
[ He rubs his eye with the heel of his palm. He hopes he sounds... reassuring. Kind. He's never been good at that, he thinks, but Tate's the idiot who called him kind in the first place, so. Maybe it's coming across okay. ]
Life'd probably be easier if you didn't get white boy wasted quite so hard, though.
[Tate listens and yearns to believe Derek, wiping at his eyes a time or two more before sniffing and seeming to conquer stemming the flow of tears down his cheeks. Derek's offering to be something for him, someone, and he wants to believe that too. To trust in that, even though he feels shaky about it since the Fort. But he's winning him over. Which honestly isn't difficult when you appeal to the needy, egotistical center of Tate's brain.]
I had to... you - you won't get it. Because it wouldn't work for you.
[Blotting out his problems with unhealthy drug abuse.]
I just wanted to feel okay. That's all. It was worth it, even if it didn't last.
[ Not all the way - of course not all the way - drugs just die in his system, his cells regenerate too quickly to feel the effects of them. He understands the need, though. The yawning, aching void in your stomach and your chest and your head that just gets bigger and darker and sharper. The horrible noise you can't keep quiet, so you drown it out with louder, bigger things. ]
After - the fire, it was just me and my sister. I don't remember the first couple of years very well. I slept a lot, worked out a lot. Got in fights. Fucked. Things I didn't want to do, but did, because they were the only outs I had.
[ He still feels like that, sometimes. A need to run through the woods until his legs give out and he collapses, near-dead, maybe for good. He's felt it less, since Stiles. Tate's too young to grapple with something like that. He's too young to need an out. ]
I know - the draw. I just... don't... think it'll help you.
[Tate doesn't know what to say, so he stays quiet for little bit; he tugs down the sleeves of his shirt, and rubs his thumb over his nail beds one by one as if to inspect them. It gives him something to look at that isn't Derek, while he tries to think of what to reply with. Defending his habits won't fly well. Explaining the need for them? Probably not, either.]
I just want to feel balanced. I don't think I ever have.
[He always expected to, or hinged his belief he could be on someone. But was he ever?]
Maybe with my girlfriend. But I only have so many options here, y'know.
[ And he could repeat himself - make it clear, again, that he wants to be a balancing force for Tate - but he's done it enough, and anymore will feel empty and cheap. He needs to show Tate that he wants to balance him, that he wants to be there for him. Tate doesn't carve power and hope, the way that Boyd, Erica and Isaac did. He just wants to be normal.
He needs to figure out how to sway him to the bite. It would fix all his problems. Save him. Derek wants to save him.
Derek takes a breath, looks up at the ceiling, shifting his weight. Everything feels distant, suddenly. Beacon Hills, his family. He's realizing with this fine, precise awareness that everything he's ever known is - kind of in the past. This isn't the first time he's realized he's the only Hale left alive, but it might hit him harder now than it has before. There's a long stretch of silence before he finds his voice again. ]
I wish I could do more than just promise to be here.
[Tate's voice is soft and low, and he's chewing on his nails again. He's used to promises. Kept or otherwise, the majority of them let him down. People let him down. But if Derek wants to actually make vows and promises? Keeping them is going to be what has Tate trust him indefinitely. The way he wants to.]
I'm trusting you so... that's all you need to do for now.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
He's breathing hard when Derek speaks, looking down at his hands before quickly glancing back up. Tate's hopeful, for a breath, hinging on what Derek's saying with a furrowed brow and a small lean in his direction. He may not be perfect but Derek claims he's not necessarily broken in contrast.]
I... I know that. I - I just.
[His eyes are wet and he rubs at them with the back of his hand, feeling heat flourish in his cheeks from the embarrassment of crying so easily. Paired with the tiredness that still leeches from his bones, he just wants to curl up and sleep while he still feels protected in some capacity.]
Why's it have to be so hard? It never works out for me.
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Tate cries, and Derek isn't put off by it at all. He makes eye contact, expression a mix of... steady neutrality, with concern bleeding in around the edges. He's trying to be stone, but that's never been who he is. ]
I think... it's hard... because you're spiralling. You're still new here, relatively speaking - you haven't had time to adjust, and you've been alone. Without someone to take care of you, without a pack, it's just been - you. Suffering. That's... why I want to be someone you can lean on. I want to make things work out for you.
[ He rubs his eye with the heel of his palm. He hopes he sounds... reassuring. Kind. He's never been good at that, he thinks, but Tate's the idiot who called him kind in the first place, so. Maybe it's coming across okay. ]
Life'd probably be easier if you didn't get white boy wasted quite so hard, though.
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I had to... you - you won't get it. Because it wouldn't work for you.
[Blotting out his problems with unhealthy drug abuse.]
I just wanted to feel okay. That's all. It was worth it, even if it didn't last.
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[ Not all the way - of course not all the way - drugs just die in his system, his cells regenerate too quickly to feel the effects of them. He understands the need, though. The yawning, aching void in your stomach and your chest and your head that just gets bigger and darker and sharper. The horrible noise you can't keep quiet, so you drown it out with louder, bigger things. ]
After - the fire, it was just me and my sister. I don't remember the first couple of years very well. I slept a lot, worked out a lot. Got in fights. Fucked. Things I didn't want to do, but did, because they were the only outs I had.
[ He still feels like that, sometimes. A need to run through the woods until his legs give out and he collapses, near-dead, maybe for good. He's felt it less, since Stiles. Tate's too young to grapple with something like that. He's too young to need an out. ]
I know - the draw. I just... don't... think it'll help you.
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I just want to feel balanced. I don't think I ever have.
[He always expected to, or hinged his belief he could be on someone. But was he ever?]
Maybe with my girlfriend. But I only have so many options here, y'know.
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[ And he could repeat himself - make it clear, again, that he wants to be a balancing force for Tate - but he's done it enough, and anymore will feel empty and cheap. He needs to show Tate that he wants to balance him, that he wants to be there for him. Tate doesn't carve power and hope, the way that Boyd, Erica and Isaac did. He just wants to be normal.
He needs to figure out how to sway him to the bite. It would fix all his problems. Save him. Derek wants to save him.
Derek takes a breath, looks up at the ceiling, shifting his weight. Everything feels distant, suddenly. Beacon Hills, his family. He's realizing with this fine, precise awareness that everything he's ever known is - kind of in the past. This isn't the first time he's realized he's the only Hale left alive, but it might hit him harder now than it has before. There's a long stretch of silence before he finds his voice again. ]
I wish I could do more than just promise to be here.
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[Tate's voice is soft and low, and he's chewing on his nails again. He's used to promises. Kept or otherwise, the majority of them let him down. People let him down. But if Derek wants to actually make vows and promises? Keeping them is going to be what has Tate trust him indefinitely. The way he wants to.]
I'm trusting you so... that's all you need to do for now.