[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.
[ And if he does, well - whatever. No big deal. Derek'll fix it. Wandering away, Derek lets Tate take an active role on doing what he's been instructed to do. He doesn't hover over him, worrying about whether or not he's staying perfectly within the lines, he just - trusts Tate to do a good job. He watches him distantly, but he doesn't interfere. Just focuses on his own work.
Tate asks how long he's been at it and Derek doesn't answer, instead just shrugging and wiping some wet hair away from his forehead and getting sawdust in his scalp. He's nailing some shit together, wincing every time he does it. Fucking dog ears. ]
[He'll call you a fucking idiot, that's what he'll call you. Tate looks up from what he's doing, half sawed through a piece of wood before returning his eyes to what his hands are doing. Takes a few more motions before he cuts the rest of the way through, and then he lets the cut off drop to the floor and takes a break.]
Yeah. I had to uh, unwind a bit but... yeah.
[He won't hide what it means, but he's not about to outright say it without needing to.]
Was kind of excited though. Felt kinda like... when you're a kid and you're gonna go somewhere cool the next day? Just laid there kinda thinking about our plans. Kinda excited for this stupid thing.
[ Unwind. Derek frowns, saying nothing for a few seconds. ]
Just... weed?
[ Because he meant it, when he said he wanted to be around if Tate did anything harder. Wanted to be there to keep him safe. Derek tries to sound casual, but he just sounds like a fucking narc. He pushes ahead.
Tate sure is done with his wood real fuckin' fast. Derek looks at the wood that drops to the ground and arches his eyebrows, looking back up to Tate. He doesn't comment, but. He's obviously wondering why Tate thinks he's earned a break already. ]
[Tate matches that look, canting his head to the side before making a gesture at the wood. Then taps silently on his tiny human bicep before rolling his eyes and picking the saw up again. He moves the wood over, adjusting it so another lines ready to be cut at the edge; aggravatedly starts sawing again in slow but steady strokes.]
Yeah, just weed. Right stuff makes me sleepy.
[Which is a feat for Tate, whose issues with sleeping aren't heavily documented to Derek but maybe one day Tate'll elaborate on it. Saw saw saw. He sighs, slowing down. His arm hurts? Fuck you, Derek, why aren't you sawing this shit.]
And I don't know. I'm excited. I just... dunno, waiting for it all to feel real.
[ Pfft. Derek pulls a face, nodding obligingly. He does have a pretty fucking tiny bicep. He's gonna let Tate have another go getting through literally the most basic bitch of chores, but he won't force him to keep at it. Second he takes another attempt at snagging a break, Derek'll take over. ]
Okay. [ about the weed. and - ] I'm excited too. I'm really looking forward to spending more time with you.
[ Which is, again, a pretty fucking far departure to how he was a couple days back, but. Tate's gonna Tate. Derek looks him over, checks how he's doing. ]
We should make your first night here special. I'll get you those books, order you some takeout, maybe bring Stiles' laptop out here so we can watch a shitty 80s movie - I still owe you that favor, too.
[They're a good ways away from that being a reality but - Tate smiles softly, like it feels it could happen in the next couple of days and he's excited for it. Lot of work left but whatever, all the more reason to come out here. He'd been feeling like he didn't have anything to focus on here and now he has this as a project. Could be worse.]
That'd be cool. You think...
[Stopping the saw, but not stopping. Just:]
This is gonna be more than a platform six feet in the air, right? Like... do you think it'll turn into a real space? Like, enough room for a bed or - just somewhere to hang out. With a roof and all that shit.
[ For a second, that's all he says, but then he's sighing, putting down his shit and walking over to Tate. He takes the saw from his hand, quietly tells him to sit down, then gets to work cutting through all this himself. Tate... did a pretty decent job, at least before getting lazy, and he makes a quiet, impressed noise to say as much. ]
I want this to be a home for you. I want it to have - everything you could possibly need. Bed, kitchen, library. Been trying to figure out how to hook up a generator so you can have a TV and shit. It might be small and kind of cramped, but...
[ But it'd be his. Tate's alone. ]
I mean - on paper, you'll still live however you're living now, so we don't get you into any trouble, but - I want it to be a sustainable getaway. Come July, we can break it down, move it closer to the den. Expand it.
[Tate steps away and it's hard to tell if he's relieved (he sort of is,) or annoyed at Derek taking over. He wants to contribute here but for a seventeen year old dead kid who grew up with a privileged suburb life? Well, shit. He'll take over more for the painting and simpler tasks. He drags his backpack closer, and fishes out a notebook.]
Speaking of paper, I drew out some ideas. Not sure what you've already got planned but... at least I know I can do math. Maybe make some sort of finalized drawings or something? Based off of what we talked about yesterday.
[He flips through, then shows Derek a few drawn plans; sitting down in the dirt and watching Derek saw away.]
Tv'd be pretty sick but yeah, let's... let's make the rest happen first.
[ Tate fits in with notebooks and paints far more than he does manual labor, anyway. This isn't the first time he's noticed artistry in Tate, but it is the first time he's wondered how deep that river runs. ]
It's your treehouse. If you can come up with something cooler than what I have in mind, we'll go for it.
[ He shrugs, casual, leaving the saw mid-plank as he looks over Tate's plans. They're... good, and they're probably more structurally sound than anything Derek's come up with during his plan-out-as-you-go approach, but. He stands taller, hypocritically ignoring the work he has to do. ]
[Tate shoots him the look you'd expect a poetic soul to show anyone who tries to praise it, but there's just a smidgen more of a relaxed and pleased look on his face when he looks back down at his book. Because, you know, Tate likes praise. He fishes out a pencil and starts adding something to what he's done, crossing his legs and glancing up at Derek periodically.]
It's going to take us a little while to do this. And... it's not going to be cheap. I know you're doing this for me but I'm serious about paying you back. If you... If you vouch for me, I think I could get a job. Or do you - do you have a job? Can I do anything to help you with yours?
[...]
Worst case I can try laundry. But you're putting yourself at risk there.
[ Derek just - smiles, soft and knowing. Cora used to tell him to shut up like that. Hell, Stiles still tells him to shut up like that on a daily basis. He's fond and warm and kind of wants to kiss him, right on the forehead, just to see him squirm and wipe his hand over it to clean it away. While loudly and repetitively saying gross, probably.
Tate surprises him by asking about a job, though. It comes out of left field, so he doesn't have an answer prepared, but - well - considering Derek's out of left field question yesterday was so hey what was it like being dead, it's really not half bad. ]
I mean - I can get you a job where I work, but I don't know if you'll like it. It's a mechanic's, center of the Up. We sell cars, fix 'em up. That kind of thing.
[ You know - guy stuff. Not for soft poets. Derek gets back to sawing while he talks. ]
I could pull a few strings. Get you on the sales team, so you can avoid all the hard labor. A pretty blonde like you selling cars? Teenage Derek's wet dream.
[ Which might be a weird thing to say, actually? Not a lie, but Derek stops sawing for a second like he's just hearing what he said. Weird. Super weird. Saw saw saw. ]
I don't mind vouching for you if you want to look somewhere else, though. We've got some pretty good coffee and we're right across from the museum and the aquarium, but - cars are cars.
[Tate shoots Derek a look, like maybe he can sense the whole guy stuff train of thought, but then he just snickers as Derek continues to elaborate. Sales team sounds like a fucking chore, but Derek - doesn't really know what he's touched on. Tate glances down for a second, almost pensive, before his eyes are back up and mirthful. Wet dream, huh.]
I don't know if I'm cut out for sales - ut my dad used to do that, though. Worst case I could try, even just to appeal to horny teenage werewolves?
[He creases his brow there with amusement, but. Huh.]
Can I come check the place out sometime? To see how it runs.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
[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?
no subject
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.
no subject
[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.
no subject
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?
no subject
[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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[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?
no subject
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.
no subject
It's fine. We're - we should pick some stuff and go.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
[ And if he does, well - whatever. No big deal. Derek'll fix it. Wandering away, Derek lets Tate take an active role on doing what he's been instructed to do. He doesn't hover over him, worrying about whether or not he's staying perfectly within the lines, he just - trusts Tate to do a good job. He watches him distantly, but he doesn't interfere. Just focuses on his own work.
Tate asks how long he's been at it and Derek doesn't answer, instead just shrugging and wiping some wet hair away from his forehead and getting sawdust in his scalp. He's nailing some shit together, wincing every time he does it. Fucking dog ears. ]
Did you sleep okay?
[ smooth dodge. call him neo. ]
no subject
Yeah. I had to uh, unwind a bit but... yeah.
[He won't hide what it means, but he's not about to outright say it without needing to.]
Was kind of excited though. Felt kinda like... when you're a kid and you're gonna go somewhere cool the next day? Just laid there kinda thinking about our plans. Kinda excited for this stupid thing.
no subject
Just... weed?
[ Because he meant it, when he said he wanted to be around if Tate did anything harder. Wanted to be there to keep him safe. Derek tries to sound casual, but he just sounds like a fucking narc. He pushes ahead.
Tate sure is done with his wood real fuckin' fast. Derek looks at the wood that drops to the ground and arches his eyebrows, looking back up to Tate. He doesn't comment, but. He's obviously wondering why Tate thinks he's earned a break already. ]
You don't look excited.
[ because you're not doing the work!!!! ]
no subject
Yeah, just weed. Right stuff makes me sleepy.
[Which is a feat for Tate, whose issues with sleeping aren't heavily documented to Derek but maybe one day Tate'll elaborate on it. Saw saw saw. He sighs, slowing down. His arm hurts? Fuck you, Derek, why aren't you sawing this shit.]
And I don't know. I'm excited. I just... dunno, waiting for it all to feel real.
no subject
Okay. [ about the weed. and - ] I'm excited too. I'm really looking forward to spending more time with you.
[ Which is, again, a pretty fucking far departure to how he was a couple days back, but. Tate's gonna Tate. Derek looks him over, checks how he's doing. ]
We should make your first night here special. I'll get you those books, order you some takeout, maybe bring Stiles' laptop out here so we can watch a shitty 80s movie - I still owe you that favor, too.
no subject
That'd be cool. You think...
[Stopping the saw, but not stopping. Just:]
This is gonna be more than a platform six feet in the air, right? Like... do you think it'll turn into a real space? Like, enough room for a bed or - just somewhere to hang out. With a roof and all that shit.
no subject
Yeah.
[ For a second, that's all he says, but then he's sighing, putting down his shit and walking over to Tate. He takes the saw from his hand, quietly tells him to sit down, then gets to work cutting through all this himself. Tate... did a pretty decent job, at least before getting lazy, and he makes a quiet, impressed noise to say as much. ]
I want this to be a home for you. I want it to have - everything you could possibly need. Bed, kitchen, library. Been trying to figure out how to hook up a generator so you can have a TV and shit. It might be small and kind of cramped, but...
[ But it'd be his. Tate's alone. ]
I mean - on paper, you'll still live however you're living now, so we don't get you into any trouble, but - I want it to be a sustainable getaway. Come July, we can break it down, move it closer to the den. Expand it.
no subject
Speaking of paper, I drew out some ideas. Not sure what you've already got planned but... at least I know I can do math. Maybe make some sort of finalized drawings or something? Based off of what we talked about yesterday.
[He flips through, then shows Derek a few drawn plans; sitting down in the dirt and watching Derek saw away.]
Tv'd be pretty sick but yeah, let's... let's make the rest happen first.
no subject
It's your treehouse. If you can come up with something cooler than what I have in mind, we'll go for it.
[ He shrugs, casual, leaving the saw mid-plank as he looks over Tate's plans. They're... good, and they're probably more structurally sound than anything Derek's come up with during his plan-out-as-you-go approach, but. He stands taller, hypocritically ignoring the work he has to do. ]
You're pretty good at drawing, you know.
no subject
[Tate shoots him the look you'd expect a poetic soul to show anyone who tries to praise it, but there's just a smidgen more of a relaxed and pleased look on his face when he looks back down at his book. Because, you know, Tate likes praise. He fishes out a pencil and starts adding something to what he's done, crossing his legs and glancing up at Derek periodically.]
It's going to take us a little while to do this. And... it's not going to be cheap. I know you're doing this for me but I'm serious about paying you back. If you... If you vouch for me, I think I could get a job. Or do you - do you have a job? Can I do anything to help you with yours?
[...]
Worst case I can try laundry. But you're putting yourself at risk there.
no subject
Tate surprises him by asking about a job, though. It comes out of left field, so he doesn't have an answer prepared, but - well - considering Derek's out of left field question yesterday was so hey what was it like being dead, it's really not half bad. ]
I mean - I can get you a job where I work, but I don't know if you'll like it. It's a mechanic's, center of the Up. We sell cars, fix 'em up. That kind of thing.
[ You know - guy stuff. Not for soft poets. Derek gets back to sawing while he talks. ]
I could pull a few strings. Get you on the sales team, so you can avoid all the hard labor. A pretty blonde like you selling cars? Teenage Derek's wet dream.
[ Which might be a weird thing to say, actually? Not a lie, but Derek stops sawing for a second like he's just hearing what he said. Weird. Super weird. Saw saw saw. ]
I don't mind vouching for you if you want to look somewhere else, though. We've got some pretty good coffee and we're right across from the museum and the aquarium, but - cars are cars.
no subject
I don't know if I'm cut out for sales - ut my dad used to do that, though. Worst case I could try, even just to appeal to horny teenage werewolves?
[He creases his brow there with amusement, but. Huh.]
Can I come check the place out sometime? To see how it runs.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)