[ 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.
[ Derek likes to think of himself as attentive, but he misses that first look. He's - mostly just focused on the horny teenage werewolf thing, which makes him laugh. Half-flustered. Half-nervous. Doesn't really suit his normal level of composure. ]
Would've, uh. Would've warmed up a lot of cold nights. That's all I'm saying.
[ Anyway. Wow. Okay. My dad used to do that. Derek realizes he's stepped in something and chews his bottom lip. ]
But yeah. If you don't like it, I can help you find somewhere better. Put in a good word for you. Somewhere nearby, so we can hang out, maybe.
[ Do his job as Tate's dom, even though they're not there yet. ]
That'd be cool. The job ideas, not the you jizzing your jockstrap over four wheel drive.
[He smiles though, snorting softly as he flips a page and starts sketching out more abstract designs based on those on the previous page. He looks up at the trees, as if trying to gauge which ones to base his - well, base off of. While also trying to swallow this sort of... happy feeling in his chest, at the concept of being taken care of. Shit. He says the first thing that comes to mind, simply to spit something out.]
I think my dad sold Camaros. Red ones, I think.
[He pauses, blinking. It was a long way back.]
I can't really remember. Maybe I get it from him. The liking red thing.
[ Derek focuses on his work, sorta listening, sorta not. He feels shitty for tripping up the dad thing, but at the same time, sort of moved that Tate's willing to talk about him with him. Just... throws him, and he dwells on maybe I get it from him a little too long. He pretends like he was just-- zoning out, and fakes snapping to attention after getting distracted by his work. ]
Wait - seriously? I fucking love Camaros. I-- the one I had back home, she-- she was brand new. I miss her so much.
[ Seriously, she was his baby girl. It's been a while, but he's still pissed the fuck off at Chris Argent breaking his window. He got it fixed, but... c'mon, man. ]
[Derek talks about cars in a way Tate doesn't mesh with, but all the same - he smiles when he hears that sort of affection in his voice about it. He talks about his car like Tate would his favorite book or musician; it's an influence on him, and just as well is a part of who he is. He stops dragging his pencil over the page, starts drawing little spirals instead of thought out designs. The type of little doodles you do on the phone, when you're only half paying attention.]
No, not really. I was - little. I was six when he left.
[/was murdered, thanks Mom.]
He'd always be going away for business. Always working. But whenever I saw him it was - great? He'd bring home toys, gifts, all the kind of stuff you'd get your kid to make up for ignoring them for your job. Loved this stupid dump truck the most. Think it's probably still in the basement.
[ Derek's - done with working, just for a sec. Tate told him to take a break and he's going to actually listen. He sets the saw down and heads on over, feeling slightly self-conscious about being sweaty in case he, like, reeks, or something, but settles down next to Tate all the same. ]
Sounds like he loved you a lot.
[ And he doesn't understand why that... would have changed, or why he would have left, but he's cynical enough to believe it could happen. Tate's dad wouldn't be the first dad to cut out all contact with his children. Derek sighs, leaning back in the grass, looking over Tate's shoulder. ]
[Tate's quiet but it's obvious the clouds come in overhead. He looks down at the paper, pencil halting in the next curling line. You think that by this point it wouldn't feel so - hollow to think back about it. He already went over all this with Ben, and then some. He knows why his father left, he knows why all people leave. Driven away by something.]
If he really did though, he would've taken me with him.
[He shrugs.]
Comes naturally, I guess. You know your design you like? Triskelions. They're a real common symbol in BDSM. That's not why you picked it, right? You just liked threes?
Maybe he thought... your mom would be better for you than he would be. He couldn't have known what kind of person she was.
[ But Derek's not really capable of helping Tate through something like this - and he's pretty sure talking about it too much will only send him into a spiral, appropriately enough - so he switches gears. Focuses on Tate being fucking blasphemous. ]
Anyway. Who knows. Not exactly a stranger to getting tied up.
[ he says. self-deprecating and kind of bitter. thanks kate. also, ]
I didn't just pick it because I have a fondness for threes. Means something to me.
[Tate's straight up ignoring the dynamite that could've been lit seconds before by talking about his mother - and he's grateful to jump away from it. His knuckles are just faintly white from gripping his book but they adjust, just like he does by softening the square of his shoulders and flipping Derek a look.]
Alpha, beta, omegggga. Dom, sub, power and control. I'm not calling you out here just saying it's interesting. Also kinda calling you out, just 'cause all the leather. But I read about it in the library - the triskele. As you can imagine, though, that's all I found out. They might be bias.
[ Hmm. Derek's lightly annoyed, leaning back in the grass until he drops flat on his back, and for a second, it looks like he's just not going to say shit out of spite. Until - ]
Wait, hold on.
[ And then Derek's - smiling, a little self-satisfied, a little smug. Mostly just really fucking happy. He looks up at Tate. Pretends he's not half as entertained as he is. ]
You were looking the triskele up? Like - researching it? Because of me? Why?
[Tate's holding the pencil again, flicking it back and forth between his fingers when he just about tenses up again. Feels like a kid being asked something by an authority figure, his eyes skirt over Derek and he doesn't know if he wants to give the smug bastard any satisfaction. So he goes with nonchalance.]
[ Derek struggles to find the word. The smile becomes a little less smug and a little more... genuine. Touched, maybe. The betas he had back home never wanted to know more about him like that. Boyd, maybe, but mostly everyone was just happy revelling in their powers and finding security in themselves. ]
Great? I don't know. I love that you did that. [ He sounds stupid, now. He scratches the tip of his nose, tries to stop smiling. ] You could've just come to me with any questions you had, though.
Yeah, but then I wouldn't have concrete proof you're into kinky bullshit.
[Except, you know, the blaringly obvious other factors. Tate tries to shake off the moment here like a dog getting annoyed by a fly - he's okay with it except when it gets too close. Stop making him feel things. Idiot? Fuck. Did he do right here? Why's it feel so fucking embarrassing then.]
I like the sign, though. Wish something stuck with me the same way. Don't make it weird. I'll kick you.
[ If Tate's going to think he's a pervert, at least he's going to think he's dedicated to being a pervert. He still feels pretty fucking happy about this, and - only part of that is out of relief, to know that there isn't some book hidden away in Duplicity's library talking up the Hale pack. ]
I'm just happy you think about me when I'm not around.
[ Again - pretty sure his pack back home were just happy to be rid of him, after all the fucking training and yelling he put them through. Erica and Boyd must have fucking hated him, by the end. He - won't think about that. ]
Anyway. [ He rubs his neck. ] You've got the ocean. You've got birds. There are a ton of things in your life with an assigned meaning. I could give you a tat, if you drew out a design.
[ He's pretty good at that. Won't even have to use a blowtorch. ]
Wait, you actually know how to give tattoos are you like... winging it like the treehouse?
[Tate's intrigued, maybe more than he should be. He's never really been that into tattoos but it has been something he's thought about time to time. His mother would've never let him get one, or berated him until he died if he had. He's not interested in sleeves or ink for the sake of ink. But something with meaning? Yeah, he could get behind that. He leans forward a bit, obvious sign of his rapt attention.]
Because no offense, if that thing falls out of the tree? Okay. But shit fucking up when it's on my skin? No so okay.
[ It's - nice. Having Tate's attention. Especially when he knows this is something he can actually do. ]
First - fuck you. Second...
[ Derek sits up a little, drawing his knee up to his chest. ]
I spent years feeling trapped, after my family died. When you're that stuck in your head, you turn to art and writing and music to try and find an escape. I liked to read, but - I think I was always better at art than writing.
[ There's just - something satisfying, about being able to create something so visible and so tangible out of nothing. He was drawn to that after the fire, and he worked pretty fucking hard on cultivating an artistic skillset over those six years in new york. Too bad he'll only ever really use it to torch off Scott's skin and re-draw his tattoo in a year or so, back home. ]
[Doesn't need to say the obvious 'didn't peg you for an artist' thing, but he lifts his brows in what you could almost consider an impressed way. He'll have to stew on this a bit longer but he kind of likes the weird flutter in his chest at the idea of making choices here that matter. Changing things - himself - for real.]
[ Derek didn't peg Tate for a dead ghost, so. Derek doesn't peg Tate for a serial killer. We're all working outside our boxes today. ]
Yeah? Okay. We could, like.
[ Derek's-- getting a little excited, and it's there in his voice, but. Last thing he wants to do is pressure Tate into getting a tat just because his artist wants to fucking put one on him. Derek chills himself out a little, though - he's fucking Derek, so maybe the excitement in his voice wasn't all that obvious. Maybe Tate doesn't know him well enough to pick it up yet. Who knows. ]
We could... get it done in the treehouse, if you wanted it. Make it special.
Implies we'll finish the tree house. I like that kind of optimism.
[But he cocks his head to the side, both confirming and non-confirming all at once. It would be nice to mark the occasion but like Tate's already said - it's hard to see this as anything more than a pile of lumber and two jackasses with a saw between them. But he licks at his lip and then finally nods, toward the end of a pause.]
I'll think on it. If I'm getting something, I want it to really mean something - so. Really wanna think of the right thing. And then after that, I guess, where I want to put it. Got suggestions?
[ They're gonna get this done. Derek looks at Tate for a while, scrutinizing all this sarcasm, then sighs and gets to his feet. Back to work, apparently. He picks up some of the sawed-to-length planks he's prepared and starts lining them up, ready to nail this shit together. ]
I don't know. Mine's on my back, right between my shoulderblades. I don't know if you've ever seen it.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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.
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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.
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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.
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[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.
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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.
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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.
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Would've, uh. Would've warmed up a lot of cold nights. That's all I'm saying.
[ Anyway. Wow. Okay. My dad used to do that. Derek realizes he's stepped in something and chews his bottom lip. ]
But yeah. If you don't like it, I can help you find somewhere better. Put in a good word for you. Somewhere nearby, so we can hang out, maybe.
[ Do his job as Tate's dom, even though they're not there yet. ]
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[He smiles though, snorting softly as he flips a page and starts sketching out more abstract designs based on those on the previous page. He looks up at the trees, as if trying to gauge which ones to base his - well, base off of. While also trying to swallow this sort of... happy feeling in his chest, at the concept of being taken care of. Shit. He says the first thing that comes to mind, simply to spit something out.]
I think my dad sold Camaros. Red ones, I think.
[He pauses, blinking. It was a long way back.]
I can't really remember. Maybe I get it from him. The liking red thing.
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Wait - seriously? I fucking love Camaros. I-- the one I had back home, she-- she was brand new. I miss her so much.
[ Seriously, she was his baby girl. It's been a while, but he's still pissed the fuck off at Chris Argent breaking his window. He got it fixed, but... c'mon, man. ]
Do you... remember much more about your dad?
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No, not really. I was - little. I was six when he left.
[/was murdered, thanks Mom.]
He'd always be going away for business. Always working. But whenever I saw him it was - great? He'd bring home toys, gifts, all the kind of stuff you'd get your kid to make up for ignoring them for your job. Loved this stupid dump truck the most. Think it's probably still in the basement.
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Sounds like he loved you a lot.
[ And he doesn't understand why that... would have changed, or why he would have left, but he's cynical enough to believe it could happen. Tate's dad wouldn't be the first dad to cut out all contact with his children. Derek sighs, leaning back in the grass, looking over Tate's shoulder. ]
Spirals, huh.
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[Tate's quiet but it's obvious the clouds come in overhead. He looks down at the paper, pencil halting in the next curling line. You think that by this point it wouldn't feel so - hollow to think back about it. He already went over all this with Ben, and then some. He knows why his father left, he knows why all people leave. Driven away by something.]
If he really did though, he would've taken me with him.
[He shrugs.]
Comes naturally, I guess. You know your design you like? Triskelions. They're a real common symbol in BDSM. That's not why you picked it, right? You just liked threes?
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[ But Derek's not really capable of helping Tate through something like this - and he's pretty sure talking about it too much will only send him into a spiral, appropriately enough - so he switches gears. Focuses on Tate being fucking blasphemous. ]
Anyway. Who knows. Not exactly a stranger to getting tied up.
[ he says. self-deprecating and kind of bitter. thanks kate. also, ]
I didn't just pick it because I have a fondness for threes. Means something to me.
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[Tate's straight up ignoring the dynamite that could've been lit seconds before by talking about his mother - and he's grateful to jump away from it. His knuckles are just faintly white from gripping his book but they adjust, just like he does by softening the square of his shoulders and flipping Derek a look.]
Alpha, beta, omegggga. Dom, sub, power and control. I'm not calling you out here just saying it's interesting. Also kinda calling you out, just 'cause all the leather. But I read about it in the library - the triskele. As you can imagine, though, that's all I found out. They might be bias.
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Wait, hold on.
[ And then Derek's - smiling, a little self-satisfied, a little smug. Mostly just really fucking happy. He looks up at Tate. Pretends he's not half as entertained as he is. ]
You were looking the triskele up? Like - researching it? Because of me? Why?
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Yeah. So?
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[ Derek struggles to find the word. The smile becomes a little less smug and a little more... genuine. Touched, maybe. The betas he had back home never wanted to know more about him like that. Boyd, maybe, but mostly everyone was just happy revelling in their powers and finding security in themselves. ]
Great? I don't know. I love that you did that. [ He sounds stupid, now. He scratches the tip of his nose, tries to stop smiling. ] You could've just come to me with any questions you had, though.
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[Except, you know, the blaringly obvious other factors. Tate tries to shake off the moment here like a dog getting annoyed by a fly - he's okay with it except when it gets too close. Stop making him feel things. Idiot? Fuck. Did he do right here? Why's it feel so fucking embarrassing then.]
I like the sign, though. Wish something stuck with me the same way. Don't make it weird. I'll kick you.
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[ If Tate's going to think he's a pervert, at least he's going to think he's dedicated to being a pervert. He still feels pretty fucking happy about this, and - only part of that is out of relief, to know that there isn't some book hidden away in Duplicity's library talking up the Hale pack. ]
I'm just happy you think about me when I'm not around.
[ Again - pretty sure his pack back home were just happy to be rid of him, after all the fucking training and yelling he put them through. Erica and Boyd must have fucking hated him, by the end. He - won't think about that. ]
Anyway. [ He rubs his neck. ] You've got the ocean. You've got birds. There are a ton of things in your life with an assigned meaning. I could give you a tat, if you drew out a design.
[ He's pretty good at that. Won't even have to use a blowtorch. ]
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[Tate's intrigued, maybe more than he should be. He's never really been that into tattoos but it has been something he's thought about time to time. His mother would've never let him get one, or berated him until he died if he had. He's not interested in sleeves or ink for the sake of ink. But something with meaning? Yeah, he could get behind that. He leans forward a bit, obvious sign of his rapt attention.]
Because no offense, if that thing falls out of the tree? Okay. But shit fucking up when it's on my skin? No so okay.
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First - fuck you. Second...
[ Derek sits up a little, drawing his knee up to his chest. ]
I spent years feeling trapped, after my family died. When you're that stuck in your head, you turn to art and writing and music to try and find an escape. I liked to read, but - I think I was always better at art than writing.
[ There's just - something satisfying, about being able to create something so visible and so tangible out of nothing. He was drawn to that after the fire, and he worked pretty fucking hard on cultivating an artistic skillset over those six years in new york. Too bad he'll only ever really use it to torch off Scott's skin and re-draw his tattoo in a year or so, back home. ]
So. Yeah. Could be doable. If you want it.
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[Doesn't need to say the obvious 'didn't peg you for an artist' thing, but he lifts his brows in what you could almost consider an impressed way. He'll have to stew on this a bit longer but he kind of likes the weird flutter in his chest at the idea of making choices here that matter. Changing things - himself - for real.]
I'll think on it. See if anything sticks out.
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Yeah? Okay. We could, like.
[ Derek's-- getting a little excited, and it's there in his voice, but. Last thing he wants to do is pressure Tate into getting a tat just because his artist wants to fucking put one on him. Derek chills himself out a little, though - he's fucking Derek, so maybe the excitement in his voice wasn't all that obvious. Maybe Tate doesn't know him well enough to pick it up yet. Who knows. ]
We could... get it done in the treehouse, if you wanted it. Make it special.
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[But he cocks his head to the side, both confirming and non-confirming all at once. It would be nice to mark the occasion but like Tate's already said - it's hard to see this as anything more than a pile of lumber and two jackasses with a saw between them. But he licks at his lip and then finally nods, toward the end of a pause.]
I'll think on it. If I'm getting something, I want it to really mean something - so. Really wanna think of the right thing. And then after that, I guess, where I want to put it. Got suggestions?
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[ They're gonna get this done. Derek looks at Tate for a while, scrutinizing all this sarcasm, then sighs and gets to his feet. Back to work, apparently. He picks up some of the sawed-to-length planks he's prepared and starts lining them up, ready to nail this shit together. ]
I don't know. Mine's on my back, right between my shoulderblades. I don't know if you've ever seen it.
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