[Talk about cutting to topics that suddenly cut through Tate's good mood like a hot knife. He's uncomfortable almost immediately, like someone just disrupted a happy conversation with unsettling news. He keeps walking in line with Derek but again, like sitting up in the tree, he's aware he can't just walk away from this. He's pinned into the situation, the conversation, and he needs to handle it intelligently.
His jaw sets and he's quiet for maybe a beat too long, but they're talking about his death and he thinks he's granted that. He doesn't shut down per se but he gets a bit more reserved, partially because he doesn't know what to share and what not and then also in that he doesn't know how to word this. He never had to with Violet, she just... figured it out.]
No.
[He feels small inside Derek's jacket, tugging the collar further up his neck and settling inside it - he tucks his nose in and breathes in the faint scent of Derek's cologne, his after shave, whatever it is. It's familiar and it calms him, but he refuses to look at Derek. He just stares forward. Stays quiet.]
I died in 1994. Met Violet in 2011. Time in between I - I just existed, sort of. Stuck where I died. It's... complicated. I don't like talking about it. It wasn't fun.
[ The air changes, and on one hand, Derek feels horrible for sucking the good mood from Tate's lungs, but - honestly, when else could they have talked about this, really? Derek wasn't going to fucking text Tate at 2AM and ask invasive questions about his personal life, and he wasn't going to corner him when he was upset about something else to be like, hey, while you're sad, let's talk about your fucking suicide. Leading into this from something light and casual and airy was the only option he had. ]
Sorry. That's - pretty fucking rough.
[ Still feels guilty, though. Derek listens to Tate, nodding low, and-- fuck, there's something really, really fucking impactful about the way Tate breathes in his scent to calm him down. Derek feels taller. Bigger. He stops walking, even though they're supposed to be going into town, because-- because watching Tate find something calming and familiar and safe in Derek's fucking scent makes him want to stay in the woods, listening to the distant sounds of the beach. He wants to stay near Tate.
Derek puts a hand on Tate's chest. Stops him from walking, too. He leaves it there, fingertips right over Tate's sternum. ]
It's just...
[ He looks at Tate's nose, hidden away in his jacket. He's-- always wanted to protect Tate, always wanted to be good for him, always wanted him, but never, never, has the instinct been this strong. He breathed in his fucking scent? He found comfort in him. Raw, primal comfort. Derek moves his hand up Tate's chest, gripping his collar, just - holding it, for the sake of holding it. He moves his hand higher up, touching Tate's throat, leaving his palm against his skin. He feels like he needs - just - heavy, platonic, physical contact, the same kind of contact he would have with one of his real betas. He wants to squeeze his shoulder, touch his arm, offer all that silent, physical, reassuring comfort that he's so instinctively drawn to sharing with his pack. He just - leaves his hand on Tate's throat. Wolfishly protective. ]
It's just - now's the time, right? You wanted to know when you could talk to people about your life. If there's anything you're scared of talking to me about - now feels like the time to do it.
[Tate stops dead in his tracks the second Derek reaches out to stop him, a thrum behind his breastbone igniting when his fingers linger there. He looks up, wide eyed and as if he's been caught doing something he shouldn't. He stands a bit taller, straightening out as if that feeling is drawn out - feeling Derek's hand go over his collar, feeling it slide up his throat. His heart hammers away and he stares at Derek almost as if he thinks any second he could do the wrong thing by simply breathing in.
He lifts his chin, stretching his throat taut beneath Derek's hand and his eyes watch Derek's face but his posture softens. He's surrendering to his hand, his lead, trying to show he's no threat - not that he feels threatened, but that he trusts.]
I... I already told you some of - the hard things I went through. Is... Is there anything you want to ask me about? I'll answer.
[ It feels like Tate's - submitting. Like he's already a wolf, bowing his head to his better. His leader. It makes Derek's mouth run dry and his teeth itch with the urge to bite, and he can pull it back easily enough, he always does, but - it's fascinating, feeling Tate's pulse beat through his hand. Tate's this convoluted mix of prey and family and beta and friend, and maybe that's why Derek wants so badly to fit him into one box. Maybe that's why he's been struggling with the idea that he can't.
He leaves his hand there. Not for any particular reason, he just - wants to keep feeling Tate's pulse, wants to keep that physical connection. Derek's thumb smooths down his windpipe, exploratory, and his nails scratch lightly beneath the smaller hairs on the back of his neck. He moves his hand up, runs his thumb under Tate's jawline, and it's just -
It's just so hard not to bite him. ]
I don't... want to compel you to tell me anything. I just want to know about you. Things in your life, leading up to your death. The days you spent waiting for someone like Violet. Little things. Big things.
[ Derek's hand drifts back around, palm over his throat. Tate begged him to choke him, once. His throat felt a lot different back then to how it feels now. ]
You don't have to talk. I just want you to know that I can listen, if you want to. Judgment free. You're my pack, even without the bite. You have all my loyalty.
[Tate breathes in slow, steady and deep. He feels like this is another extension of their pinky-swear but somehow more genuine. More them. He's showing Derek he trusts him and he's opening himself up to his scrutiny. Derek will know in a heartbeat, literally, if he's lying or trying to hide something. He'll know how Tate feels, for better and worse. It's a connection, maybe the closest they can have until he really does take the bite.
He blinks up at Derek, and lifts his hand into the air; resting his fingertips against Derek's hand and holding lightly to it.]
I was lonely. I've always been lonely. More than anything, I just wanted someone to want me. Need me the way I need them.
[ Tate deserved so much better than the life he had. Tate deserved a father who loved him, a mother who loved his siblings. Tate deserved to be saved, rather than bullied and made small until he finally surrendered himself to a listless, death-born existence. There's such a huge stretch of time between 1994 and 2011 - Tate must have been alone for so, so long. Derek's starting to understand what he meant, when he said he needed something. It must be so easy for Tate to feel like he could slip away into faded apathy. Of course he'd become an addict. ]
And that was Violet.
[ Someone to need. Violet, who didn't understand that Tate was just - fragile, and scared, and harmless, under the anger and the fascination with blood. Violet, who left him, when he never did a thing to merit it. Tate only ever needed help. Derek needs Tate. Feels like Tate still doesn't understand the gravity of just how much he needs him, but - they're getting there. Derek sets his fingers closer over Tate's pulse, staring at his lips, waiting for him to talk. Waiting to listen for any wavering in his voice, in case he lies, or tries to hide his anger. Tries to hide from him at all.
Violet left. Violet hurt him, and Derek doesn't understand why, but Tate deserved better. Derek's hand doesn't constrict around Tate's throat, but he holds it tighter. Feels the rush of his blood. ]
[Derek doesn't know what he's doing to Tate. He can't possibly know. Would he do it if he did? Tate doesn't have a defensive response, he doesn't seek to defend Violet because it's not true anymore. He's not the most important thing in her life, she doesn't even want to see him. Derek's not lying when he says he needs him more than her, because she doesn't need him at all. But to say that Derek needs him more than she ever did?
Tate doesn't reply. He's silent, words dried up and his response coming in the form of a few fallen tears that trickle down his cheeks and hit Derek's hand. Tears he can't explain; of relief, of want and of a desire to believe this truth so desperately that it physically hurts him. His eyes are a glossy black and he breathes in shakily, nostrils flared and his silence drawn on.
Please don't be lying. Please. Pleasepleaseplease.]
[ Tate... cries. This isn't the first time Tate's cried in front of Derek. Won't be the last, either, as much as Derek wishes he didn't have to see him like this, but - this is the first time it... actually feels kind of good.
Derek had thought that Tate's obsession with Violet was... well, that it was shallow and pathetic, back when he thought the two of them were normal, innocent kids. He had assumed they were in love the way he had been in love with Paige, the way Scott had been with Allison. Weak, lifeless. "In love" because they didn't know any better. In love because of-- proximity, and nothing else.
But now he knows that Violet was normal, and overwhelmed, and that a dead kid with anger issues and thirty-something years of loneliness and heartache and restricted, violent depression under his belt was probably too much for her to deal with. Derek can't blame Tate for falling in love with the first person he could, after being so alone for so many years. After needing love as badly as he did when he was alive. He can't blame Violet for being a normal teenage girl, either, but - but he was too much for her.
He's not too much for Derek. Derek knows what Tate's like. Derek needs him all the same. It feels like Tate's crying because - because he understands that, maybe. Maybe he feels relieved, that Derek's still saying that he wants him. They've talked a lot today, but-- but Derek came pretty fucking close to cutting him out. It's good, that they're away from that, and understandable, maybe, that Tate's still standing on shaky feet.
He sighs, lets Tate cry it out, and he drops his hand away from Tate's throat, over his chest, his stomach. He lets go, lets his hand hang limp down by his side, and he feels this hollow, lonely sympathy in his throat. ]
[Tate's tears keep coming, drawing warm tracks down his face and falling away after that. When Derek lets go of him he stands still for a moment longer, before bringing up his hands to wipe at his eyes like a kid who just got caught teary eyed. He rubs at his eyelids, his cheeks and even wipes the back of his hand over his upper lip. After sniffing back the salty taste as well, he looks at Derek shakily. Feels embarrassed, warmth in his cheeks and a shyness to his gaze.]
I...
[He's sorry, maybe. He didn't mean to just - do any of this. His emotions are always a roller coaster and he thinks maybe one day Derek will tire of it like everyone else did. But this doesn't feel as bad as it could be, and he steps forward slightly before hesitating. His hand reaches out and he's snagging his fingers into Derek's shirt before he means to, bowing his head as he steps closer after that. He hugs Derek lightly, one hand on his shirt and the other loosely around him, and it's just so he can feel the warmth of someone. Lean on them, make it feel even more real than it does. It's quick and his voice is thick when he starts to let go soon after that.]
[ Derek barely gets the chance to hug Tate back. He tries, but by the time he realizes what's happening, by the time he loops his arm around Tate's waist and pulls him tight to his body, Tate's already overwhelmed, already peeling back. It's like-- it's like he only gets a second, to really squeeze Tate and bring him in and silently give him everything he has, and it's not enough, and Derek hates it, but he hopes Tate knows he'll give him more than that, if he ever needs it.
He says let's go and Derek nods, walking, slower than before, more somber. He doesn't say anything for a long while yet, doesn't push Tate to talk while he's recovering from the new onslaught of tears that Derek put him through. The woods thin out and the smell of the beach gets stronger, but Derek veers away from it, heading into town.
They get a bus, drive in pretty deep, and it's not until they find a hardware store and head inside that Derek feels comfortable enough to lead a real conversation again. Everything's tall and industrial and surprisingly empty, which makes sense, given that it's getting pretty late in the day, and Derek walks through the warehouse feeling sort of overwhelmed. The Up is fucking ridiculous. This is the classiest hardware store he's ever been in. ]
Better start thinking about the fun shit. If you're gonna paint it, what you're gonna stash in it. Things like that.
[Tate's grateful for the silence, even if it feels a bit like a heavy blanket over them as they walk together and board the bus. He sniffs a few more times, more subtle as time goes on. His eyes are dry by the time the bus pulls up to their stop, redness on his face abating and his lungs feeling cleared out after the messy bout of crying. He should've held on tighter, longer, drank up the feeling of being cared for. He'll regret cutting it off so soon, out of fright of looking too needy.
But he's more cheerful when they enter into the store, trailing behind Derek not because of the line down his throat but because he keeps getting distracted by the towering shelves and the scent of wood and paint. He drags his fingers over some of the lumber, and snaps back to attention and walks back up to Derek when he's talking about what he'll get to do in his new little den.]
How much shit will I get in if I have a real stash?
[He asks this full well knowing it's - a touchy subject. Which is why his eyes drop, because he knows maybe it's over the line. But he wants to know that. Wants to be open about this and also about...]
Like, just weed - is that still off the table? No hard stuff, I mean.
[ The question, uh. Throws him. Derek stops walking, stops feeling okay, and he's not really... sure how to answer. He opens his mouth, closes it again, and despite the high, vaulted ceilings, the large, empty hallways and the overall feeling of vast isolation, Derek suddenly feels very cornered. ]
I don't... have an issue with that, I just...
[ ... don't want to watch you die again. Derek's heart hurts, thinking about it. His entire reason for hating Tate being with Kavinsky is because the kid's a fucking addict, and that's not what Tate needs, but-- completely denying him of this shit, denying him of what he needs, that's just-- going to push him back into his arms, right?
Weed's not going to kill him, obviously. Derek just. He has to meet him half way. Has to figure out how to set a limit without... making commands. Scaring Tate away. ]
Weed's okay. Alcohol's okay.
[ Derek - hesitates. ]
Let me be there with you. If you... have to do harder stuff. So I can make sure you won't take too much again.
[ This isn't an order, just - a request. Derek rubs his eyes, turns on his heels, faces Tate head on. ]
[Feels a bit like a trap, all things considered. And Tate's not about to tempt fate but it's nice to see Derek offer up a compromise. And even go a bit past that, for his sake. Tate nods, quiet and agreeable, even though he thinks he'll stick to what he said. Nothing hard up there - coke clears his head and fuck if the hit of heroin didn't really mellow him out like nothing ever had before. But the woods? They do something similar. Derek does.
Tate scratches his cheek and looks at Derek again.]
I'll always let you know what's going on. I promise. No secrets in the treehouse?
[ It goes without saying that Derek really, really doesn't want Tate to do anything hard, but - this isn't a trap. He just... wants to be involved. Wants to take his pain away. He's never absorbed... a high, through someone's skin, like he does with their pain, but he'd rather be there to try than-- than to let Tate get fucked up at another one of those fucking parties.
He's not sure what Tate's thinking. Doesn't know where to go from here. He's quiet and firm and apologetic when he finds his voice, like he's worried that this might be the wrong thing to say, but. Still feels like he needs to say it. ]
[Tate nods his head again even though that promise will be harder to keep. But simply avoiding talking about the truth isn't lying, isn't keeping secrets per se. If he tells himself he'll intend to tell Derek things later on and just never gets to it? It's fine. This is fine.]
[ Derek looks up, giving Tate a long, quiet stare. There's no - jump in his heartbeat, no real emotional response. Tate just agrees, says he likes it, and ushers him along, and Derek just - trusts him. Tate wouldn't lie to him. Not after everything they've been through, these past few weeks they've known each other. Derek believes that. After being such a bad friend to Tate - he doesn't give himself the chance to not believe him.
He just. Trusts him implicitly. Tate asks about wood and Derek nods, moving ahead, letting the sound of footsteps and the smell of metal and varnish and paint bring him back to reality. The big sheets and planks of lumber aren't too far away, and Derek walks down the warehouse to find them, the selection to choose from all bound together in twine and zipties. Derek briefly thinks of the hotel and clears his throat. ]
Gonna want something sturdy. [ He kneels before a bottom shelf, finding some pine in a stack of two by fours and sliding them out. ] Look around. See what you can find.
[And Tate wanders off like you would imagine a teen might, mildly distracted by looking overhead and tracing his fingers over the stacks as he goes. He disappears out of sight, and stays that way for a long moment. He's looking at a collection of wood on a shelf that's about shoulder height - pulling out pieces of trim to look at them while other pieces are held up above them. It's an unnecessary detail when they're still in the planning and constructing phase but he sees a design carved into a plate of wood that reminds him of home so he reaches for it only to feel as if repulsed by it.
The feeling's so violent that he loses his grip on the other pieces of wood and they slip from the shelf, clattering loudly to the ground as he curses; rubbing his hand, half shocked by the feeling of being stung as he is fucking up and dropping everything to the floor. The piece of wood stretches across the aisle, blocking it off while Tate looks down at his other hand and sees a small scratch bead a few dots of blood from when he tried to catch the falling pieces.]
[ Derek feels mildly anxious about Tate going off on his own, which is - stupid, because it's a fucking hardware store. The kid's not going to get in trouble for being away from a Dom when a Dom is three feet away. Once Tate turns his back on Derek, Derek watches him go, seeing him turn a corner and then just - focusing on the pine he's screwing with, keeping an ear out for Tate's heartbeat, just in case.
His ears are pricked up and focused on every tiny, miniature sound, so the clatter of wood to the floor is loud and violent and sounds far more explosive than it really is. Derek smells blood and panics, bolting to his feet and running to the end of the hallway, nearly tripping over himself in his haste to find Tate.
He's blocked off by a heavy-looking panel of wood, tall enough and thick enough that Derek can't see much more than a couple of golden curls while Tate's collapsed on the ground. He panics, yells - ]
Tate!
[ - and then rushes over, heart jackhammering in his chest. He realizes with a start that this is-- that this is mountain ash, and that Tate might be seriously, seriously hurt, and that he won't be able to help him without going the long way around. He swears, turns on his heel, fucking runs, and by the time he's heading up the hallway from the opposite end of it, he's sweaty and pale and clearly been spiralling. Derek looks fucking scared. He zeroes in on the blood, grabbing Tate's wrist, holding him with almost violently trembling hands. ]
Fuck. Fuck, jesus, what--
[ He takes Tate's pain. It's instant and pointless because Tate's not all that hurt, but Derek grips onto him and siphons the sting of his scratches into his own body through sharp, black ropes twirling through his veins. He looks up, meets Tate's eyes, jaw set tight. ]
[Tate's still a bit shaken up when Derek gets to him, staring up at him when he takes his hand and he's looking back to the pile of wood again when he realizes his pain is slipping away. His eyes drop to his hand again and he sees the cut start to fade, but doesn't even feel the dull sting of it. But he does feel the subtle shake of Derek's hands clasping on to his, and he nudges his knuckles against Derek's hand to push it away.]
I'm okay. I just - I tried to... and I couldn't.
[He sits forward, reaching out toward the panel of wood again and jolting back when he feels the strange push prevent him from laying a finger on it. Go figure, Tate's feelings toward rejection do extend to seeming hurt by a piece of wood not allowing him to touch it.]
[ Tate pushes Derek away and there's this-- flash of anger, in him. He wants to fight, and he wants to keep helping - the only reason he doesn't is because he's afraid of being overbearing. He pulls his hands back, leaves them hanging in the air like he's ready to reach out to Tate and grab him again at a moment's notice. He forces himself to listen.
Tate touches the wood. Tries to, at least, and Derek swallows, pressing his lips together. Explaining this is - giving Tate a weapon to use against him. He realizes that. But - but he trusts him. Swore he'd trust him. His gut jolts, tells him to shut up, but he's been getting better and better at ignoring that. ]
This... this is mountain ash. Wood from a rowan tree. It's an old, druidic method of warding away the supernatural. A big keep out sign for people like us.
[ He didn't think. Didn't even realize something like this could happen. Didn't even assume that mountain ash would work on someone like Tate. Derek cautiously looks Tate over, reaching his hand forward again. Tate seems like he needs comfort, Derek isn't sure, but - he hovers his hand above his wrist again, and still wants to touch him, even if he doesn't know if he should. ]
[Tate's never had to deal with things like this before, he realizes. But then he wonders in the same breath if he has? What if, he wonders, the house itself was constructed with this to some degree? Keeping all the souls trapped inside because they couldn't leave due to some druidic barrier. Tate feels a bit cold at the suggestion, but he warms when Derek touches him again. Let's him, this time, albeit still with the appearance of seeming somewhat shaken.]
[ Tate looks like he's struggling to deal with this, and Derek feels a bit like he's been doused in cold water. It's a cruel joke, for the universe to bring Tate back to some degree while finding ways to remind him that he's still very much dead. Derek hates this. ]
It's... not fun, no.
[ And if he knew a way around it, he'd say so, but. As far as he knows, there isn't one. Derek cautiously sets both hands on Tate's wrist, slipping his fingers beneath his jacket sleeves as best as he can, not -- trying to take his pain, just... wanting that contact. ]
[Tate breathes in deep, chews on his lip and then drops his gaze back down to Derek's hands before gesturing to the wood pile. Which he can't pick up now, neither can Derek. He will have to think about how he feels in regard to having some sort of weakness here he hadn't accounted for, and maybe needs to warn Violet about.]
It's fine. We're - we should pick some stuff and go.
[ Derek follows Tate's gaze, staring at the wood. He doesn't really give a shit about picking it up. Not his job. Not Tate's, either. ]
Okay.
[ If Tate doesn't care what they get, then - he'll just grab something cheap, a cut from his pay that he probably would have just stashed away in the futile hope he might one day earn enough to buy a Camaro. Derek helps Tate up, wanders away just long enough to get a shopping cart, and then just... starts stacking in wood, nails, tools and supplies where he can. They'll come back for the paint and the fun shit another time. Doesn't feel like Tate's in the mood anymore.
He heads out, Tate in tow, pays for everything, and asks for it to be delivered... not quite at the den, not quite at the woods, but decently adjacent, at least, so it won't be such a long walk to get where it needs to go. By the time he gets everything to the woods, it's getting kind of late, so Derek ends up wasting away the last few hours before Tate goes home just... talking with him. They split up, eventually.
The following morning, Derek calls Tate out, back to the woods. He's right on the edge of them, facing a bit of a hill and overlooking the beach on the other side. He's been working on the treehouse since before dawn, and it has what he hopes looks like a decent foundation built into one of the sturdier trees around here. He's just in a tank and whatever comfortable running pants he's been able to find around this city that cling tight to his body without being weirdly fucking slutty about it. He looks exhausted and kind of miserable, but he feels better when Tate shows up. ]
Finally. Jesus. Here.
[ He's had a set of planks on his shoulder that he just - drops at Tate's feet, sort of careful, sort of not. He asked Tate to bring him some water, and he pretty much snatches the bottle out of his hand when he takes it, tearing open the cap and pretty much draining the bottle dry. There's a little left, and he just - splashes it on his face and his chest, shaking his hair like a wet fucking dog when he's done. ]
Cut those. There are lines on 'em - just follow those. Saw's over by the rest of the wood. Manual, obviously.
[Tate was a bit more subdued after the whole first bout with mountain ash thing, but all he needed was some time to sort out his head. He toked a bit when he went home to his hotel room, sitting out on the balcony to stare at the night sky and look at constellations of stars he didn't recognize until he felt mellow enough to sleep. He's better the morning after, coming back out to the woods in a pair of jeans, a t-shirt and hoodie.
He drops his backpack to the dirt after handing over a bottle of water to Derek, looking from him to the wood he wants sawed off with a typically teenage hesitance. But he wanders over, picking up the saw like he's never seen one before and shooting Derek a glance.]
It's been fucking years since I was in shop class. Just want you to know that.
[But he's more competent than he lets on, because he starts working - clumsy at first but it seems he gets confidence returning to him once he gets in the groove. He ends up taking off his sweater and hanging it off a low branch behind him, focusing on his little pile of wood.]
How long have you been at it today? You should take a break.
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His jaw sets and he's quiet for maybe a beat too long, but they're talking about his death and he thinks he's granted that. He doesn't shut down per se but he gets a bit more reserved, partially because he doesn't know what to share and what not and then also in that he doesn't know how to word this. He never had to with Violet, she just... figured it out.]
No.
[He feels small inside Derek's jacket, tugging the collar further up his neck and settling inside it - he tucks his nose in and breathes in the faint scent of Derek's cologne, his after shave, whatever it is. It's familiar and it calms him, but he refuses to look at Derek. He just stares forward. Stays quiet.]
I died in 1994. Met Violet in 2011. Time in between I - I just existed, sort of. Stuck where I died. It's... complicated. I don't like talking about it. It wasn't fun.
no subject
Sorry. That's - pretty fucking rough.
[ Still feels guilty, though. Derek listens to Tate, nodding low, and-- fuck, there's something really, really fucking impactful about the way Tate breathes in his scent to calm him down. Derek feels taller. Bigger. He stops walking, even though they're supposed to be going into town, because-- because watching Tate find something calming and familiar and safe in Derek's fucking scent makes him want to stay in the woods, listening to the distant sounds of the beach. He wants to stay near Tate.
Derek puts a hand on Tate's chest. Stops him from walking, too. He leaves it there, fingertips right over Tate's sternum. ]
It's just...
[ He looks at Tate's nose, hidden away in his jacket. He's-- always wanted to protect Tate, always wanted to be good for him, always wanted him, but never, never, has the instinct been this strong. He breathed in his fucking scent? He found comfort in him. Raw, primal comfort. Derek moves his hand up Tate's chest, gripping his collar, just - holding it, for the sake of holding it. He moves his hand higher up, touching Tate's throat, leaving his palm against his skin. He feels like he needs - just - heavy, platonic, physical contact, the same kind of contact he would have with one of his real betas. He wants to squeeze his shoulder, touch his arm, offer all that silent, physical, reassuring comfort that he's so instinctively drawn to sharing with his pack. He just - leaves his hand on Tate's throat. Wolfishly protective. ]
It's just - now's the time, right? You wanted to know when you could talk to people about your life. If there's anything you're scared of talking to me about - now feels like the time to do it.
no subject
He lifts his chin, stretching his throat taut beneath Derek's hand and his eyes watch Derek's face but his posture softens. He's surrendering to his hand, his lead, trying to show he's no threat - not that he feels threatened, but that he trusts.]
I... I already told you some of - the hard things I went through. Is... Is there anything you want to ask me about? I'll answer.
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He leaves his hand there. Not for any particular reason, he just - wants to keep feeling Tate's pulse, wants to keep that physical connection. Derek's thumb smooths down his windpipe, exploratory, and his nails scratch lightly beneath the smaller hairs on the back of his neck. He moves his hand up, runs his thumb under Tate's jawline, and it's just -
It's just so hard not to bite him. ]
I don't... want to compel you to tell me anything. I just want to know about you. Things in your life, leading up to your death. The days you spent waiting for someone like Violet. Little things. Big things.
[ Derek's hand drifts back around, palm over his throat. Tate begged him to choke him, once. His throat felt a lot different back then to how it feels now. ]
You don't have to talk. I just want you to know that I can listen, if you want to. Judgment free. You're my pack, even without the bite. You have all my loyalty.
no subject
He blinks up at Derek, and lifts his hand into the air; resting his fingertips against Derek's hand and holding lightly to it.]
I was lonely. I've always been lonely. More than anything, I just wanted someone to want me. Need me the way I need them.
no subject
And that was Violet.
[ Someone to need. Violet, who didn't understand that Tate was just - fragile, and scared, and harmless, under the anger and the fascination with blood. Violet, who left him, when he never did a thing to merit it. Tate only ever needed help. Derek needs Tate. Feels like Tate still doesn't understand the gravity of just how much he needs him, but - they're getting there. Derek sets his fingers closer over Tate's pulse, staring at his lips, waiting for him to talk. Waiting to listen for any wavering in his voice, in case he lies, or tries to hide his anger. Tries to hide from him at all.
Violet left. Violet hurt him, and Derek doesn't understand why, but Tate deserved better. Derek's hand doesn't constrict around Tate's throat, but he holds it tighter. Feels the rush of his blood. ]
I need you more than she ever did.
no subject
Tate doesn't reply. He's silent, words dried up and his response coming in the form of a few fallen tears that trickle down his cheeks and hit Derek's hand. Tears he can't explain; of relief, of want and of a desire to believe this truth so desperately that it physically hurts him. His eyes are a glossy black and he breathes in shakily, nostrils flared and his silence drawn on.
Please don't be lying. Please. Pleasepleaseplease.]
no subject
Derek had thought that Tate's obsession with Violet was... well, that it was shallow and pathetic, back when he thought the two of them were normal, innocent kids. He had assumed they were in love the way he had been in love with Paige, the way Scott had been with Allison. Weak, lifeless. "In love" because they didn't know any better. In love because of-- proximity, and nothing else.
But now he knows that Violet was normal, and overwhelmed, and that a dead kid with anger issues and thirty-something years of loneliness and heartache and restricted, violent depression under his belt was probably too much for her to deal with. Derek can't blame Tate for falling in love with the first person he could, after being so alone for so many years. After needing love as badly as he did when he was alive. He can't blame Violet for being a normal teenage girl, either, but - but he was too much for her.
He's not too much for Derek. Derek knows what Tate's like. Derek needs him all the same. It feels like Tate's crying because - because he understands that, maybe. Maybe he feels relieved, that Derek's still saying that he wants him. They've talked a lot today, but-- but Derek came pretty fucking close to cutting him out. It's good, that they're away from that, and understandable, maybe, that Tate's still standing on shaky feet.
He sighs, lets Tate cry it out, and he drops his hand away from Tate's throat, over his chest, his stomach. He lets go, lets his hand hang limp down by his side, and he feels this hollow, lonely sympathy in his throat. ]
C'mon. We should go.
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I...
[He's sorry, maybe. He didn't mean to just - do any of this. His emotions are always a roller coaster and he thinks maybe one day Derek will tire of it like everyone else did. But this doesn't feel as bad as it could be, and he steps forward slightly before hesitating. His hand reaches out and he's snagging his fingers into Derek's shirt before he means to, bowing his head as he steps closer after that. He hugs Derek lightly, one hand on his shirt and the other loosely around him, and it's just so he can feel the warmth of someone. Lean on them, make it feel even more real than it does. It's quick and his voice is thick when he starts to let go soon after that.]
Y-Yeah, let's go.
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He says let's go and Derek nods, walking, slower than before, more somber. He doesn't say anything for a long while yet, doesn't push Tate to talk while he's recovering from the new onslaught of tears that Derek put him through. The woods thin out and the smell of the beach gets stronger, but Derek veers away from it, heading into town.
They get a bus, drive in pretty deep, and it's not until they find a hardware store and head inside that Derek feels comfortable enough to lead a real conversation again. Everything's tall and industrial and surprisingly empty, which makes sense, given that it's getting pretty late in the day, and Derek walks through the warehouse feeling sort of overwhelmed. The Up is fucking ridiculous. This is the classiest hardware store he's ever been in. ]
Better start thinking about the fun shit. If you're gonna paint it, what you're gonna stash in it. Things like that.
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But he's more cheerful when they enter into the store, trailing behind Derek not because of the line down his throat but because he keeps getting distracted by the towering shelves and the scent of wood and paint. He drags his fingers over some of the lumber, and snaps back to attention and walks back up to Derek when he's talking about what he'll get to do in his new little den.]
How much shit will I get in if I have a real stash?
[He asks this full well knowing it's - a touchy subject. Which is why his eyes drop, because he knows maybe it's over the line. But he wants to know that. Wants to be open about this and also about...]
Like, just weed - is that still off the table? No hard stuff, I mean.
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I don't... have an issue with that, I just...
[ ... don't want to watch you die again. Derek's heart hurts, thinking about it. His entire reason for hating Tate being with Kavinsky is because the kid's a fucking addict, and that's not what Tate needs, but-- completely denying him of this shit, denying him of what he needs, that's just-- going to push him back into his arms, right?
Weed's not going to kill him, obviously. Derek just. He has to meet him half way. Has to figure out how to set a limit without... making commands. Scaring Tate away. ]
Weed's okay. Alcohol's okay.
[ Derek - hesitates. ]
Let me be there with you. If you... have to do harder stuff. So I can make sure you won't take too much again.
[ This isn't an order, just - a request. Derek rubs his eyes, turns on his heels, faces Tate head on. ]
Please.
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Tate scratches his cheek and looks at Derek again.]
I'll always let you know what's going on. I promise. No secrets in the treehouse?
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He's not sure what Tate's thinking. Doesn't know where to go from here. He's quiet and firm and apologetic when he finds his voice, like he's worried that this might be the wrong thing to say, but. Still feels like he needs to say it. ]
No secrets anywhere.
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[Tate nods his head again even though that promise will be harder to keep. But simply avoiding talking about the truth isn't lying, isn't keeping secrets per se. If he tells himself he'll intend to tell Derek things later on and just never gets to it? It's fine. This is fine.]
I like that. Should we pick out some wood now?
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He just. Trusts him implicitly. Tate asks about wood and Derek nods, moving ahead, letting the sound of footsteps and the smell of metal and varnish and paint bring him back to reality. The big sheets and planks of lumber aren't too far away, and Derek walks down the warehouse to find them, the selection to choose from all bound together in twine and zipties. Derek briefly thinks of the hotel and clears his throat. ]
Gonna want something sturdy. [ He kneels before a bottom shelf, finding some pine in a stack of two by fours and sliding them out. ] Look around. See what you can find.
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[And Tate wanders off like you would imagine a teen might, mildly distracted by looking overhead and tracing his fingers over the stacks as he goes. He disappears out of sight, and stays that way for a long moment. He's looking at a collection of wood on a shelf that's about shoulder height - pulling out pieces of trim to look at them while other pieces are held up above them. It's an unnecessary detail when they're still in the planning and constructing phase but he sees a design carved into a plate of wood that reminds him of home so he reaches for it only to feel as if repulsed by it.
The feeling's so violent that he loses his grip on the other pieces of wood and they slip from the shelf, clattering loudly to the ground as he curses; rubbing his hand, half shocked by the feeling of being stung as he is fucking up and dropping everything to the floor. The piece of wood stretches across the aisle, blocking it off while Tate looks down at his other hand and sees a small scratch bead a few dots of blood from when he tried to catch the falling pieces.]
Fuck me, man.
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His ears are pricked up and focused on every tiny, miniature sound, so the clatter of wood to the floor is loud and violent and sounds far more explosive than it really is. Derek smells blood and panics, bolting to his feet and running to the end of the hallway, nearly tripping over himself in his haste to find Tate.
He's blocked off by a heavy-looking panel of wood, tall enough and thick enough that Derek can't see much more than a couple of golden curls while Tate's collapsed on the ground. He panics, yells - ]
Tate!
[ - and then rushes over, heart jackhammering in his chest. He realizes with a start that this is-- that this is mountain ash, and that Tate might be seriously, seriously hurt, and that he won't be able to help him without going the long way around. He swears, turns on his heel, fucking runs, and by the time he's heading up the hallway from the opposite end of it, he's sweaty and pale and clearly been spiralling. Derek looks fucking scared. He zeroes in on the blood, grabbing Tate's wrist, holding him with almost violently trembling hands. ]
Fuck. Fuck, jesus, what--
[ He takes Tate's pain. It's instant and pointless because Tate's not all that hurt, but Derek grips onto him and siphons the sting of his scratches into his own body through sharp, black ropes twirling through his veins. He looks up, meets Tate's eyes, jaw set tight. ]
What happened?
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[Tate's still a bit shaken up when Derek gets to him, staring up at him when he takes his hand and he's looking back to the pile of wood again when he realizes his pain is slipping away. His eyes drop to his hand again and he sees the cut start to fade, but doesn't even feel the dull sting of it. But he does feel the subtle shake of Derek's hands clasping on to his, and he nudges his knuckles against Derek's hand to push it away.]
I'm okay. I just - I tried to... and I couldn't.
[He sits forward, reaching out toward the panel of wood again and jolting back when he feels the strange push prevent him from laying a finger on it. Go figure, Tate's feelings toward rejection do extend to seeming hurt by a piece of wood not allowing him to touch it.]
I don't understand.
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Tate touches the wood. Tries to, at least, and Derek swallows, pressing his lips together. Explaining this is - giving Tate a weapon to use against him. He realizes that. But - but he trusts him. Swore he'd trust him. His gut jolts, tells him to shut up, but he's been getting better and better at ignoring that. ]
This... this is mountain ash. Wood from a rowan tree. It's an old, druidic method of warding away the supernatural. A big keep out sign for people like us.
[ He didn't think. Didn't even realize something like this could happen. Didn't even assume that mountain ash would work on someone like Tate. Derek cautiously looks Tate over, reaching his hand forward again. Tate seems like he needs comfort, Derek isn't sure, but - he hovers his hand above his wrist again, and still wants to touch him, even if he doesn't know if he should. ]
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[Tate's never had to deal with things like this before, he realizes. But then he wonders in the same breath if he has? What if, he wonders, the house itself was constructed with this to some degree? Keeping all the souls trapped inside because they couldn't leave due to some druidic barrier. Tate feels a bit cold at the suggestion, but he warms when Derek touches him again. Let's him, this time, albeit still with the appearance of seeming somewhat shaken.]
I don't like it. I don't like that?
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It's... not fun, no.
[ And if he knew a way around it, he'd say so, but. As far as he knows, there isn't one. Derek cautiously sets both hands on Tate's wrist, slipping his fingers beneath his jacket sleeves as best as he can, not -- trying to take his pain, just... wanting that contact. ]
I'm sorry. You don't deserve this.
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It's fine. We're - we should pick some stuff and go.
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Okay.
[ If Tate doesn't care what they get, then - he'll just grab something cheap, a cut from his pay that he probably would have just stashed away in the futile hope he might one day earn enough to buy a Camaro. Derek helps Tate up, wanders away just long enough to get a shopping cart, and then just... starts stacking in wood, nails, tools and supplies where he can. They'll come back for the paint and the fun shit another time. Doesn't feel like Tate's in the mood anymore.
He heads out, Tate in tow, pays for everything, and asks for it to be delivered... not quite at the den, not quite at the woods, but decently adjacent, at least, so it won't be such a long walk to get where it needs to go. By the time he gets everything to the woods, it's getting kind of late, so Derek ends up wasting away the last few hours before Tate goes home just... talking with him. They split up, eventually.
The following morning, Derek calls Tate out, back to the woods. He's right on the edge of them, facing a bit of a hill and overlooking the beach on the other side. He's been working on the treehouse since before dawn, and it has what he hopes looks like a decent foundation built into one of the sturdier trees around here. He's just in a tank and whatever comfortable running pants he's been able to find around this city that cling tight to his body without being weirdly fucking slutty about it. He looks exhausted and kind of miserable, but he feels better when Tate shows up. ]
Finally. Jesus. Here.
[ He's had a set of planks on his shoulder that he just - drops at Tate's feet, sort of careful, sort of not. He asked Tate to bring him some water, and he pretty much snatches the bottle out of his hand when he takes it, tearing open the cap and pretty much draining the bottle dry. There's a little left, and he just - splashes it on his face and his chest, shaking his hair like a wet fucking dog when he's done. ]
Cut those. There are lines on 'em - just follow those. Saw's over by the rest of the wood. Manual, obviously.
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He drops his backpack to the dirt after handing over a bottle of water to Derek, looking from him to the wood he wants sawed off with a typically teenage hesitance. But he wanders over, picking up the saw like he's never seen one before and shooting Derek a glance.]
It's been fucking years since I was in shop class. Just want you to know that.
[But he's more competent than he lets on, because he starts working - clumsy at first but it seems he gets confidence returning to him once he gets in the groove. He ends up taking off his sweater and hanging it off a low branch behind him, focusing on his little pile of wood.]
How long have you been at it today? You should take a break.
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