[Tate feels like if he asks about any shred of proof of that, Derek's certainty will dissolve. Does he know anyone that has come back? Has anyone ever come back? Tate doesn't know, doesn't know how to begin to look into it and he's. Tired. He's stressed. And the second he's started to deflate from the teary eyed panic, that tiredness has washed in over him and made him feel as cold as his skin really is. His teeth chatter and he keeps his face planted against Derek's chest, trying to fight off having to pull away. The tactile run of Derek's hand over him is everything - he wishes he could just curl up and fall asleep to it, were he not drenched and shivering.]
I... I don't want to.
[Okay, that's just his last little petulant whine, his voice thick as he murmurs the words against Derek's chest. Then, finally, he presses his hand to Derek's shoulder and leans back to break away. He's not crying anymore, but his face is splotchy and his eyes red. He's still soaked through and retched looking, hair mussed and a dullness to his eyes. Distance sits in the way he looks off to the side, lost in his own head.]
She has nothing to go back to. She should've stayed. She deserved to stay.
[ Derek resists, when it's time to let go. Tate puts his hand on his chest and leverages himself away, and Derek's arms tense like he's not ready to stop holding him, but - he does, all the same. He's cold - he feels like he's been in the rain, too, for how wet his shirt is now. That's fine. He's not important right now.
The last thing Derek wants to do is force Tate to... get through anything, or - let go, move on. Petulant whining has its place, and Derek's not going to jump down his throat for being sad. All he can do is nod, slowly, soft and understanding, as he folds his arms over his chest and presses the heel of his palm against his bicep, fidgeting while he tries to warm up. Tate looks lost. Derek thinks of the party, feels his stomach twist and hurt. ]
Look - why don't you go take a shower? You'll feel better when you're warm. I'll get you some spare clothes, maybe make you something to eat. We can just... hang out for a while.
[ a pause - ]
Talk about Violet, maybe. Or about - you. Anything.
[Tate just makes a noise, disgruntled but lightly acquiescing to the idea. Hard to tell from his sulking body language, but he will drift along if guided toward the shower. He's still clammy and cold and it hasn't sunk in to him how much so, until he looks at his hand and sees it shake. But that could just be the vibrating emotion in him, so Tate flexes his fingers and rubs at his face again. Shower. Hot shower. He can do that, at least.
He looks at Derek, still sort of lost:]
If she's still here, you can find her, right? You'd find her?
I promise. I'll look for her, even if you think she's gone. I'll be able to track her scent, I'll be able to see things you can't - there's every possibility she's still here.
[ If Tate needs to be guided to the bathroom, then - Derek will know. He cautiously puts his hand on Tate's lower back, not trying to be pushy, just - trying to help, and he steadily starts walking him a little ways down the hall. The bathroom connects to his and Stiles' bedroom, which is - good, because it means Derek can linger and pretend he's just getting warm clothes instead of staying close and listening to Tate to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid.
Derek opens the bathroom door, slowly ushering Tate in. ]
Nothing more we can do in this rain, okay? Just - focus on yourself, for a little while. You don't do that enough.
[Tate wants to believe that, so he does, hoping with a waning wish that Derek will find her and prove Tate wrong. That he'll tell him Violet's fine, she just... had to do something sudden or serious. He'd rather know that she's seeing his texts and ignoring them than not even seeing them at all. Anything. Fucking anything.
He steps into the bathroom, wet shoelaces dragging over the ground and looks back to Derek from where he stops at the sink. He's being told to relax, to ground himself, and nods his head vaguely before emptying his pockets. He puts his phone and wallet on the ledge, a set of keys next to that and then pauses while tugging the wet sleeve down his arm in preparation to take it off.]
Okay.
[Quietly he just agrees - blinking absently before turning his back to Derek, pulling his shirt up overhead and letting it fall to the floor. His skin's pale, more so from the cold and somber mood than anything. He runs his fingers through his hair, and looks at the shower before moving over to it - hand lightly on his belt.]
[ Derek's... relieved, honestly. He's seen too much of Tate at his worst to not feel relieved, hearing the quiet gratitude in his voice and the solemn willingness to be helped. Derek nods, jaw clenched tight, and he's spent too many years hiding from people to know how to react to being thanked like that. His voice comes out strangled, though he attempts to sound sturdy. ]
It's. It's okay.
[ He lingers at the doorway for a little too long, staring at Tate's back. The curve of his shoulderblades, the dip of his spine. Maybe it's the rain, maybe it's losing Violet, but he just looks - fragile. It's not until Tate's fully threaded his belt from his pants that Derek realizes he's too close. He doesn't close the door behind him when he leaves, not all the way. He leaves it ajar. Just in case.
Derek hovers in the bedroom, running his hand down his chin and staring at the light coming from beneath the bathroom door. He just - feels like shit. Feels like he has to keep one eye on Tate to make sure he doesn't hurt himself. He focuses on getting some clean clothes and leaving them on the bed for Tate when he comes out; most of Stiles' are in the wash and even though they're closer to Tate's in size, he's not sure how Stiles would feel if Derek lent somebody his shit, so.
He chooses some of his own clothes, instead. Layers, because he knows Tate likes that. A henley, one of the looser ones with longer sleeves, and a plain black tee to pair it with, if he wants it. Sweats, too, a dark wine red. He takes his time, getting it all ready, laid out flat on the sheets of his bed. He needs to leave; he's hovered and wasted enough time for Tate to be nearly done, but he just... doesn't feel right, leaving Tate alone.
Derek sits on the corner of the bed, running his thumb over the side of his phone, feeling sick. He'll go, once Tate's out, obviously not intending to fucking watch him while he gets changed. He just wants to make sure he's gonna come out of that bathroom in one piece. ]
[Tate takes his time stripping down, putting his belt next to his belongings and then loosening his jeans. He lets them fall to the floor even before he notices the door nearly closed, issuing him privacy, just not completely. It doesn't bother him but it does remind him of what Derek might think of him, what Stiles might - that he's the kid who carried razors, a plausible danger to himself. Who's to say now, at his low point, he might not do something stupid?
He wishes. He feels almost too apathetic for that, stripping naked before getting in under the hot spray of the shower after turning it on. It's too hot, but that's how he likes it, stinging his skin and turning it pink. The water plasters back his hair and the heat spreads through him, fighting away the chill like a flame lighting up the dark. He doesn't scratch at himself, even if seeing some red might make him feel anchored - instead he just tips back his head. Takes his time under the spray. Derek can tell, he knows he can, that Tate cries just a little more - letting his tears wash away with a soft, anguished sigh before he carries on with washing up.
Takes longer than it should for him to pull out of the shower, skin pink from the heat and his hair slicked back over his head. His eyes are hollowed, a little red around the edges and he looks much more reserved as he stares at his own reflection through a foggy mirror and wraps a towel around his waist after drying off his arms. Water trickles down lines on his back as he walks, dripping off from the tips of his hair and beading against his shoulder when he leaves the room to walk back into the adjoining one, seeing Derek waiting for him.
He's better now, he'd like to think, less panicked. Less brimming with tears. He's got his belongings in one hand, and walks over to set them on the bed next to the clothes lined out for him. He shoots a glance to Derek soon after, before picking up the henley and starting to put it on after making sure with a cautious tuck that his towel's secure around his waist.
He doesn't know what to say. So he doesn't say anything.]
[ Tate joins him, despite the long stretch of impatient silence lingering in the air after he shuts off the faucet. Derek knows he should move, get out of here before Tate thinks he's being a fucking creep, but - he sits, and he stays, concern mountain in his stomach the longer it takes for him to hear Tate's soft, wet footsteps padding over porcelain.
There's no smell of blood. No taste of iron in the air, no scratches on Tate's wrist. He knows, now, that Tate can alter his appearance, to some degree - that he's capable of branding himself with a triskele, fixing his skin to hide imperfections or add things that were never there - but Derek looks anyway, cautious, so as not to be seen. He doesn't... feel comforted, knowing that Tate didn't hurt himself. Doesn't feel proud, like he thought he might. Just... sad, still. Sad for him.
Tate starts fidgeting with his henley and Derek-- Derek really should leave. He stays, and he watches Tate, like he's waiting for something to change. A sign that Tate's okay, as if he'll suddenly be alright just because he burned his skin a little red. The bedroom is quiet and still and unevolving, and Derek needs to move before he stagnates with it. ]
I'll... get you something to eat.
[ He doesn't expect Tate to eat, but - he at least wants to make an effort. Make an excuse to leave. He stands. Doesn't leave. Like he's still fucking expecting Tate to kick open the bedroom window and run down the beach and into the ocean, never to be seen again. Derek doesn't even take one step towards the door before he starts buying time with questions, hovering by the edge of the bed, eyes on Tate's profile. ]
Or... drink. Hot chocolate, maybe. I think we still have some pizza, but - I can do something homemade.
[About what there is to eat, or whether Derek's going to get him something to drink with it or not. His voice is still quiet and calm, reeking of exhaustion that wasn't there before. The panic subsided and it rolled in to fill its place as Tate pulls on the shirt overhead. It's a bit oversized in a way that Tate likes and prefers, so he adjusts the collar and then blinks before looking at Derek - he didn't mean to be dismissive.]
If - As long as it's warm, I don't care.
[He felt compelled to add that on, to not seem ungrateful as he scratches an itch on his collarbone and looks back down to the clothing laid out. Sweatpants are far from his favorite thing but hey, not a lot of options here. He picks them up, before finding himself in an odd position. On one hand, he doesn't really feel like he cares if Derek sees him change. On the other, he feels he should. So he hesitates, waiting to be alone to finish changing.]
I shouldn't stay too long so. Whatever you have that's easy.
[ Warm. Warm, okay, he can do warm. Derek nods, watching Tate slip his shirt on over his head, and - that's enough. He's overstepping his bounds, making Tate uncomfortable, and that's not what he wanted, he's just... scared. He nods again, and then again, and he's nodding too much for it to be natural. He turns, starts to leave, and then - Tate says he's not going to stay. ]
Wait - you don't want to stay? I could take the couch. I wouldn't mind. Stiles wouldn't, either. You're not going to get in trouble for sleeping one night where you're not supposed to.
[ And - this is going to be Tate's home in a few months, anyway, he wants to add, but he feels like talking that far into the future right now is only going to push Tate away. Derek doesn't want him to fucking be alone, though, or -- or go back with his dom, who he still doesn't trust. He looks at Tate, quietly, just - wracking his brain, going through excuse after excuse after excuse, trying to think of a way to keep him here. Just for tonight. ]
It's raining. You should at least stay until it stops.
[Tate frowns, just faintly, because he doesn't like the concept of invading on - Stiles and Derek's life. Which is what this feels like still, even if he's been welcomed repeatedly and directly. He doesn't reply because he doesn't know how to, at first. He just makes a gesture, half-shrug and half something else, that gives a bit of hope to the idea of lingering around. He'd like nothing more than to curl up right now and sleep, in all honesty.
He looks up at Derek and his eyes might say it all - how he's on the cusp of agreeing, how he would if he's been told to do something, how the hesitance and fog is just there out of a general slathering of apathy that's eating him from the inside out to cover out the burned out holes in his chest from feeling too much.]
[ Okay. Pizza - he can do pizza. He can work with half-shrugs, he can work with-- with all of this. Tate is forlorn and distant and Derek's heart hurts the longer he looks at him, but he thinks, or maybe just hopes, that Tate wants to stay. He wants to stay, and he just - doesn't know how to ask.
So. Derek doesn't make it an option. He puts aside the fear of looking controlling, he puts aside the doubt that makes him wonder again and again and again if he's been nothing but bad for Tate, and he takes a stab in the dark and prays that he's doing the right thing. For once. ]
You're gonna stay the night. We're gonna get something warm in you, and then... relax, until you feel like going to sleep. Anything else can wait until tomorrow.
[ All this heartache can wait its turn. Tonight, Tate needs to rest. Derek lingers just another few seconds, feeling more and more like he's turning his back on Tate by leaving. He steels himself, hurts his teeth from biting down on them so hard, and in slow, unwilling steps, he leaves the room.
There's pizza in the fridge, like he thought there would be, and Derek doesn't have to do much other than pop it in the microwave and wait. He rests his ass against the kitchen counter, arms over his chest, as he stares at the sterile, yellow light behind the microwave door, the spinning pizza that smells like too much grease. It pings, and Derek takes it straight to the living room, leaving plates and a few drinks on the table in front of leather couches.
And then he just - waits, with a knot in his stomach, for Tate to join him. ]
[Tate doesn't balk at being told what to do, and he feels a bit like he wants to resist but he doesn't voice it. Not yet, anyway. He can walk out of here later if he feels like it, once the rain's lightened up and maybe after his head stops feeling like it's been dipped underwater. He finishes dressing once Derek's gone, slipping on the sweatpants after dropping his towel, taking the latter back to the bathroom to put with his other clothes. He then carries his few belongings with him, back out into the main area of the den - feeling a bit lost but gravitating toward the couches because that's where Derek is.
He would've liked to hang out here on better days, and maybe he should visit more. Rather than bide his time away at the beach alone. He sits, dropping his things to the table and looking at the pizza like it's the most unappetizing thing in the world. Still, he reaches for the plate mechanically.]
[ After that - Derek doesn't know what else to say. Last thing he wants to do is push Tate, and he's Derek Fucking Hale - for all the strides he's been trying to make in being a better alpha, learning how to comfort people through his time with Stiles, everything else, he's always going to feel burned out. Talking's still hard.
But he has to do something. Tate sits, eats like he has to just to get through the day, and - Derek's been there. If that's what he has to do, it's what he has to do. Derek just... wants to make it less hard. Cautiously, he tries to be better. ]
C'mere.
[ It's not much, but - Derek raises one arm, stretches it out over the back of the seat, offers Tate a little more closeness. A hug, again, if he wants one. Wants to curl up with someone while he just - forgets the day in shitty, greasy pizza. He's not going to force it if he doesn't. Derek's good at giving hugs, but he's still so fucking rusty. ]
[Tate's not expecting it, which is why he shoots Derek a sudden look when beckoned closer. He's still got the plate in his hand, reheated pizza sticking to it, and his eyes seem uncertain as they flick from his open arm to his face. He's cautious, because as much as he automatically feels the lurch to want to sink into the space and feel comforted, he still feels like there's some invisible hurdle there.
Derek's trying to comfort him and he should accept it - he wants to accept it - but maybe it's ego that puts on a delay. There's no more pretending to be straight or perceiving this as something too gay to indulge in, not after the numerous occasions that Tate's done far gayer things with people.
So he. Sits. He stares. And then he starts to slope backward, not quite curling in against Derek but occupying the space on an angle, where his back is in the junction of Derek's arm and shoulder and he can feel him almost draped around him. If he moved his arm it would be, curled around Tate like a seatbelt. His legs are bent, feet up on the couch as slowly - sloooowly he starts to lean his weight back.]
[ Derek's impassive, as Tate decides. Again, the last thing he wants to do is force him to do anything he wants to do; if Tate slinks away from him and puts as much distance between them on this seat as he can, Derek's not going to chase after him. He's just... trying to make him comfortable.
It's been a long time since Tate was scared to touch another guy. A long time since they've had talks about sexuality, and what it means, and the life Tate's afforded in a world as open and freeing as this one. But - being consoled is still hard, even for the most secure of people. Tate looks like he's going to shoot him down, for a second there, and Derek slowly starts to pull his arm back.
But then Tate surprises him. He takes the invitation, making himself small and thin, like he doesn't want to be a bother, or like he doesn't want to make this real by putting too much of his weight into what they're doing. That changes, bit by bit, and Derek lets it, focusing on nothing but the sound of the rain and the waves it washes down the den's floor to ceiling windows. When Tate settles, tells him he misses Violet -
Derek understands that, too. ]
I know.
[ He pulls Tate a little closer, just to gently, quietly punctuate that he wants this, and moves his arm to rest closer over Tate's shoulder, down his chest. His hand is just by Tate's side, and Derek lightly, lightly strokes the parts of him he can reach, calm and steady and reassuring. He can hear Tate's heartbeat, heavy as it is. Derek's at a loss on how to ease his pain. ]
I'm going to... do what I can. Not just in trying to find her - in everything. You just need to ask me for something, and - you'll get it. Whatever I can do to make your life a little better.
[The longer he holds on to his food the less he wants to eat it, but Tate isn't giving up on hope yet. He feels Derek's arm slope over him and it's heavy in a way that feels comforting, weighted against him and keeping him in place. He stares off into the corner of the room for a few seconds, before he rests his cheek against Derek's arm the way a comfort seeking dog might.
He's still so hung up on the loss of Violet that he doesn't know what to do - he's upset because he'll never see her again, he's lost his chance to win her back. But in there, deep below all that, there's a sense of relief that has yet to blossom. There's nobody here (little does he know,) that can reveal... the truth about him. No way to jeopardize what he was with Derek, what he's being offered. He'll turn to that soon with a sense of acknowledgement. Until then, he's just going to be brattily distressed.]
[ Stupid question. Derek's hand stops smoothing down Tate's arm just for a second, then picks right back up. He's trying pretty fucking hard to stay calm and secure and reliable, but there's a tentative softness in what he says. ]
I want you to stay here every night.
[ And he gets why he can't, just like he gets that there's the comfortable isolation he's found with Stiles that he doesn't want to lose - but he wants everything, he wants it all. He wants everyone important to him locked away under one roof, where it's safe. Where he can keep them safe. ]
Do you... want to tell me about Violet? Maybe talk about the things she likes, or - what you did on dates. We don't have to talk about her, but.
[It's somewhat comforting to be wanted like that, even if they both know it's not possible. Even if he wasn't contracted to Kavinsky, whose possessive feelings are almost as bold as Derek's... he'd still need to be Derek's sub to exist here. And even then, he's still touchy about invading on Derek and Stiles' space. The two of them are in love, so... naturally he wants to respect that. While also invasively placing himself into their lives. It's a matter of striking balances.
Tate tilts his head back a bit, looking up at the ceiling. There's not a lot to say about Violet that doesn't somehow... paint a different picture of him that maybe he's not about to share. But Derek knows enough that he picks at a few pieces in his head, thinking whether or not to share them.]
We only had one real date, but we hung out a lot. She skipped school and I hung around after my sessions, so we would go to the attic and play cards. Or checkers... or just sit together and listen to music. It was just... nice.
[ Not just because of what she was to Tate - a light in the dark after years of isolation - but because of the stability she provided. Checkers with Violet sounds like chess with Stiles. After lacking that level of stable, familiar warmth for as long as he did, Derek needs those little moments of peace to survive. Tate must have felt the same.
A part of him wants to bring up Paige, but - he doesn't. Won't. Of course he won't. ]
You said... it didn't work out because of... the way you are. The way you feel things.
[ And he doesn't quite prompt Tate to tell him what happened, exactly - but he at least... tries to leave the question out there, wordless as it is. Giving Tate the opportunity to talk about what happened towards the end without forcing him to if he doesn't want to. ]
[Sullen, that was the last kick to his appetite and he pulls away from Derek just a bit to reach out and slide the plate onto the coffee table with the untouched slice of pizza sitting on it. He then looks down at Derek's arm like he's thinking about whether or not to push it aside, fingers on his forearm before he settles back. It's easier at this angle, when he's not facing Derek directly. Not staring into his eyes or having them bore into him.]
She... She said that we shared a darkness in us? But at the end, she took back her feelings. She said I was that darkness. I still don't understand. I loved her. And she loved me, I know it.
[ Tate shifts, and Derek lets him go. He raises his arm a little so Tate can wiggle away from it, if he wants to, but he leans back against his chest and Derek feels an honest surge of relief, even if he does regret turning him off of his food. ]
She was just... young.
[ Derek bends his elbow back, brings his arm up, and slowly cards his fingers through Tate's hair. He plays with his curls a little, smoothing his nails gently across his scalp, just... being soothing. ]
From what you've told me about her - she was just a normal, human girl. She was naive. She didn't know how to give you what you needed, and...
[ And that sucks, because Tate deserves someone normal, but Tate deserves someone strong enough and smart enough to see that Tate needed help, not a back turned on him. Violet only left because - what, he yelled, sometimes? Cried? How fucking cruel of her, to see someone with trauma and mental illness and say that they're the darkness. ]
It wasn't your fault. All this shit you have to deal with - the darkness, the anger, the heartache - it's something you've been suffering through. None of it makes you a bad person, and... I'm sorry she didn't know how to be there for you the way you knew how to be there for her.
[Tate doesn't feel guilt toward leading Derek along this path of belief - he doesn't feel anything at all, really. He does feel comforted by his presence while he retells the story in his favor, though, breathing out slowly from a deep breath and letting his eyes close lazily when Derek's fingers slip into his hair. The reaction is subtle but instantaneous; he relaxes, soothed and almost heavy headed by the affectionate touch that his head dips forward somewhat before leaning into Derek's palm like a cat.
He could lay like this indefinitely. He could fall asleep like this.
Tate softly sighs, breath shuddering in a way that betrays those feelings and is hopeful for Derek not to stop. Fingers through his head reminds him of the days Nora would take to him, playing with his curls and treating him like the son she lost and the son she loved. It feels warm and nice in the wake of everything cold and wicked.]
I was there for her... I just? I don't know. I wish a lot of things had gone differently for me. Wish I knew someone like you back home.
[ If Derek could press a reset button on his life... fuck, he'd do it in a heartbeat. Wishes like the ones Tate is making now, they sound all too familiar. All Derek can do is nod, keep his voice at a soft, calming whisper, and stroke his fingers through Tate's hair. His back's starting to hurt, so he shifts, just a little, not enough to disturb Tate, just - aligning himself so he's more slouched, semi-laying down alongside him. ]
You have me here.
[ Which isn't the same, he knows it isn't the same, but - it's all that Derek can offer him. Safe harbor in the middle of all of Tate's storms. Love and acceptance and gravity, for as long as Tate lets Derek want him. For as long as Tate proves himself to be everything Derek believes him to be. ]
[He's quiet for a beat, feeling this wash of - nothing come over him again before he closes his eyes again and answers. He'd like to sleep like this, leaning up against Derek and feeling the warmth radiate off his chest. He'd like to feel his heartbeat like he's wanted to for so long - spending days alone in the house, now here, facing the suffering feeling of being alone reignited by losing Violet. The person who once loved him so much that they could get lost in one another's eyes, laying together like this for hours.
But he can't. He spends another moment laying there, still and calm, before his muscles twitch and stiffen. He sits up, slowly and sluggishly, lifting his hand to move Derek's hand aside so he can hunch forward and put one foot back on the ground. He turns to look over his shoulder, dark eyes subdued.]
I don't want to be in the way, though. I'll just rest for a bit and when the rain stops, I'll go home.
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no subject
I... I don't want to.
[Okay, that's just his last little petulant whine, his voice thick as he murmurs the words against Derek's chest. Then, finally, he presses his hand to Derek's shoulder and leans back to break away. He's not crying anymore, but his face is splotchy and his eyes red. He's still soaked through and retched looking, hair mussed and a dullness to his eyes. Distance sits in the way he looks off to the side, lost in his own head.]
She has nothing to go back to. She should've stayed. She deserved to stay.
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The last thing Derek wants to do is force Tate to... get through anything, or - let go, move on. Petulant whining has its place, and Derek's not going to jump down his throat for being sad. All he can do is nod, slowly, soft and understanding, as he folds his arms over his chest and presses the heel of his palm against his bicep, fidgeting while he tries to warm up. Tate looks lost. Derek thinks of the party, feels his stomach twist and hurt. ]
Look - why don't you go take a shower? You'll feel better when you're warm. I'll get you some spare clothes, maybe make you something to eat. We can just... hang out for a while.
[ a pause - ]
Talk about Violet, maybe. Or about - you. Anything.
no subject
He looks at Derek, still sort of lost:]
If she's still here, you can find her, right? You'd find her?
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[ If Tate needs to be guided to the bathroom, then - Derek will know. He cautiously puts his hand on Tate's lower back, not trying to be pushy, just - trying to help, and he steadily starts walking him a little ways down the hall. The bathroom connects to his and Stiles' bedroom, which is - good, because it means Derek can linger and pretend he's just getting warm clothes instead of staying close and listening to Tate to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid.
Derek opens the bathroom door, slowly ushering Tate in. ]
Nothing more we can do in this rain, okay? Just - focus on yourself, for a little while. You don't do that enough.
[ he says, like a fucking incorrect idiot baby. ]
no subject
He steps into the bathroom, wet shoelaces dragging over the ground and looks back to Derek from where he stops at the sink. He's being told to relax, to ground himself, and nods his head vaguely before emptying his pockets. He puts his phone and wallet on the ledge, a set of keys next to that and then pauses while tugging the wet sleeve down his arm in preparation to take it off.]
Okay.
[Quietly he just agrees - blinking absently before turning his back to Derek, pulling his shirt up overhead and letting it fall to the floor. His skin's pale, more so from the cold and somber mood than anything. He runs his fingers through his hair, and looks at the shower before moving over to it - hand lightly on his belt.]
... Thanks. For - you know. This.
no subject
It's. It's okay.
[ He lingers at the doorway for a little too long, staring at Tate's back. The curve of his shoulderblades, the dip of his spine. Maybe it's the rain, maybe it's losing Violet, but he just looks - fragile. It's not until Tate's fully threaded his belt from his pants that Derek realizes he's too close. He doesn't close the door behind him when he leaves, not all the way. He leaves it ajar. Just in case.
Derek hovers in the bedroom, running his hand down his chin and staring at the light coming from beneath the bathroom door. He just - feels like shit. Feels like he has to keep one eye on Tate to make sure he doesn't hurt himself. He focuses on getting some clean clothes and leaving them on the bed for Tate when he comes out; most of Stiles' are in the wash and even though they're closer to Tate's in size, he's not sure how Stiles would feel if Derek lent somebody his shit, so.
He chooses some of his own clothes, instead. Layers, because he knows Tate likes that. A henley, one of the looser ones with longer sleeves, and a plain black tee to pair it with, if he wants it. Sweats, too, a dark wine red. He takes his time, getting it all ready, laid out flat on the sheets of his bed. He needs to leave; he's hovered and wasted enough time for Tate to be nearly done, but he just... doesn't feel right, leaving Tate alone.
Derek sits on the corner of the bed, running his thumb over the side of his phone, feeling sick. He'll go, once Tate's out, obviously not intending to fucking watch him while he gets changed. He just wants to make sure he's gonna come out of that bathroom in one piece. ]
no subject
He wishes. He feels almost too apathetic for that, stripping naked before getting in under the hot spray of the shower after turning it on. It's too hot, but that's how he likes it, stinging his skin and turning it pink. The water plasters back his hair and the heat spreads through him, fighting away the chill like a flame lighting up the dark. He doesn't scratch at himself, even if seeing some red might make him feel anchored - instead he just tips back his head. Takes his time under the spray. Derek can tell, he knows he can, that Tate cries just a little more - letting his tears wash away with a soft, anguished sigh before he carries on with washing up.
Takes longer than it should for him to pull out of the shower, skin pink from the heat and his hair slicked back over his head. His eyes are hollowed, a little red around the edges and he looks much more reserved as he stares at his own reflection through a foggy mirror and wraps a towel around his waist after drying off his arms. Water trickles down lines on his back as he walks, dripping off from the tips of his hair and beading against his shoulder when he leaves the room to walk back into the adjoining one, seeing Derek waiting for him.
He's better now, he'd like to think, less panicked. Less brimming with tears. He's got his belongings in one hand, and walks over to set them on the bed next to the clothes lined out for him. He shoots a glance to Derek soon after, before picking up the henley and starting to put it on after making sure with a cautious tuck that his towel's secure around his waist.
He doesn't know what to say. So he doesn't say anything.]
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There's no smell of blood. No taste of iron in the air, no scratches on Tate's wrist. He knows, now, that Tate can alter his appearance, to some degree - that he's capable of branding himself with a triskele, fixing his skin to hide imperfections or add things that were never there - but Derek looks anyway, cautious, so as not to be seen. He doesn't... feel comforted, knowing that Tate didn't hurt himself. Doesn't feel proud, like he thought he might. Just... sad, still. Sad for him.
Tate starts fidgeting with his henley and Derek-- Derek really should leave. He stays, and he watches Tate, like he's waiting for something to change. A sign that Tate's okay, as if he'll suddenly be alright just because he burned his skin a little red. The bedroom is quiet and still and unevolving, and Derek needs to move before he stagnates with it. ]
I'll... get you something to eat.
[ He doesn't expect Tate to eat, but - he at least wants to make an effort. Make an excuse to leave. He stands. Doesn't leave. Like he's still fucking expecting Tate to kick open the bedroom window and run down the beach and into the ocean, never to be seen again. Derek doesn't even take one step towards the door before he starts buying time with questions, hovering by the edge of the bed, eyes on Tate's profile. ]
Or... drink. Hot chocolate, maybe. I think we still have some pizza, but - I can do something homemade.
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[About what there is to eat, or whether Derek's going to get him something to drink with it or not. His voice is still quiet and calm, reeking of exhaustion that wasn't there before. The panic subsided and it rolled in to fill its place as Tate pulls on the shirt overhead. It's a bit oversized in a way that Tate likes and prefers, so he adjusts the collar and then blinks before looking at Derek - he didn't mean to be dismissive.]
If - As long as it's warm, I don't care.
[He felt compelled to add that on, to not seem ungrateful as he scratches an itch on his collarbone and looks back down to the clothing laid out. Sweatpants are far from his favorite thing but hey, not a lot of options here. He picks them up, before finding himself in an odd position. On one hand, he doesn't really feel like he cares if Derek sees him change. On the other, he feels he should. So he hesitates, waiting to be alone to finish changing.]
I shouldn't stay too long so. Whatever you have that's easy.
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Wait - you don't want to stay? I could take the couch. I wouldn't mind. Stiles wouldn't, either. You're not going to get in trouble for sleeping one night where you're not supposed to.
[ And - this is going to be Tate's home in a few months, anyway, he wants to add, but he feels like talking that far into the future right now is only going to push Tate away. Derek doesn't want him to fucking be alone, though, or -- or go back with his dom, who he still doesn't trust. He looks at Tate, quietly, just - wracking his brain, going through excuse after excuse after excuse, trying to think of a way to keep him here. Just for tonight. ]
It's raining. You should at least stay until it stops.
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He looks up at Derek and his eyes might say it all - how he's on the cusp of agreeing, how he would if he's been told to do something, how the hesitance and fog is just there out of a general slathering of apathy that's eating him from the inside out to cover out the burned out holes in his chest from feeling too much.]
Pizza's fine. I'll eat pizza.
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[ Okay. Pizza - he can do pizza. He can work with half-shrugs, he can work with-- with all of this. Tate is forlorn and distant and Derek's heart hurts the longer he looks at him, but he thinks, or maybe just hopes, that Tate wants to stay. He wants to stay, and he just - doesn't know how to ask.
So. Derek doesn't make it an option. He puts aside the fear of looking controlling, he puts aside the doubt that makes him wonder again and again and again if he's been nothing but bad for Tate, and he takes a stab in the dark and prays that he's doing the right thing. For once. ]
You're gonna stay the night. We're gonna get something warm in you, and then... relax, until you feel like going to sleep. Anything else can wait until tomorrow.
[ All this heartache can wait its turn. Tonight, Tate needs to rest. Derek lingers just another few seconds, feeling more and more like he's turning his back on Tate by leaving. He steels himself, hurts his teeth from biting down on them so hard, and in slow, unwilling steps, he leaves the room.
There's pizza in the fridge, like he thought there would be, and Derek doesn't have to do much other than pop it in the microwave and wait. He rests his ass against the kitchen counter, arms over his chest, as he stares at the sterile, yellow light behind the microwave door, the spinning pizza that smells like too much grease. It pings, and Derek takes it straight to the living room, leaving plates and a few drinks on the table in front of leather couches.
And then he just - waits, with a knot in his stomach, for Tate to join him. ]
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He would've liked to hang out here on better days, and maybe he should visit more. Rather than bide his time away at the beach alone. He sits, dropping his things to the table and looking at the pizza like it's the most unappetizing thing in the world. Still, he reaches for the plate mechanically.]
Sorry to just show up.
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[ After that - Derek doesn't know what else to say. Last thing he wants to do is push Tate, and he's Derek Fucking Hale - for all the strides he's been trying to make in being a better alpha, learning how to comfort people through his time with Stiles, everything else, he's always going to feel burned out. Talking's still hard.
But he has to do something. Tate sits, eats like he has to just to get through the day, and - Derek's been there. If that's what he has to do, it's what he has to do. Derek just... wants to make it less hard. Cautiously, he tries to be better. ]
C'mere.
[ It's not much, but - Derek raises one arm, stretches it out over the back of the seat, offers Tate a little more closeness. A hug, again, if he wants one. Wants to curl up with someone while he just - forgets the day in shitty, greasy pizza. He's not going to force it if he doesn't. Derek's good at giving hugs, but he's still so fucking rusty. ]
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Derek's trying to comfort him and he should accept it - he wants to accept it - but maybe it's ego that puts on a delay. There's no more pretending to be straight or perceiving this as something too gay to indulge in, not after the numerous occasions that Tate's done far gayer things with people.
So he. Sits. He stares. And then he starts to slope backward, not quite curling in against Derek but occupying the space on an angle, where his back is in the junction of Derek's arm and shoulder and he can feel him almost draped around him. If he moved his arm it would be, curled around Tate like a seatbelt. His legs are bent, feet up on the couch as slowly - sloooowly he starts to lean his weight back.]
I miss her.
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It's been a long time since Tate was scared to touch another guy. A long time since they've had talks about sexuality, and what it means, and the life Tate's afforded in a world as open and freeing as this one. But - being consoled is still hard, even for the most secure of people. Tate looks like he's going to shoot him down, for a second there, and Derek slowly starts to pull his arm back.
But then Tate surprises him. He takes the invitation, making himself small and thin, like he doesn't want to be a bother, or like he doesn't want to make this real by putting too much of his weight into what they're doing. That changes, bit by bit, and Derek lets it, focusing on nothing but the sound of the rain and the waves it washes down the den's floor to ceiling windows. When Tate settles, tells him he misses Violet -
Derek understands that, too. ]
I know.
[ He pulls Tate a little closer, just to gently, quietly punctuate that he wants this, and moves his arm to rest closer over Tate's shoulder, down his chest. His hand is just by Tate's side, and Derek lightly, lightly strokes the parts of him he can reach, calm and steady and reassuring. He can hear Tate's heartbeat, heavy as it is. Derek's at a loss on how to ease his pain. ]
I'm going to... do what I can. Not just in trying to find her - in everything. You just need to ask me for something, and - you'll get it. Whatever I can do to make your life a little better.
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He's still so hung up on the loss of Violet that he doesn't know what to do - he's upset because he'll never see her again, he's lost his chance to win her back. But in there, deep below all that, there's a sense of relief that has yet to blossom. There's nobody here (little does he know,) that can reveal... the truth about him. No way to jeopardize what he was with Derek, what he's being offered. He'll turn to that soon with a sense of acknowledgement. Until then, he's just going to be brattily distressed.]
... I can really stay here tonight?
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I want you to stay here every night.
[ And he gets why he can't, just like he gets that there's the comfortable isolation he's found with Stiles that he doesn't want to lose - but he wants everything, he wants it all. He wants everyone important to him locked away under one roof, where it's safe. Where he can keep them safe. ]
Do you... want to tell me about Violet? Maybe talk about the things she likes, or - what you did on dates. We don't have to talk about her, but.
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Tate tilts his head back a bit, looking up at the ceiling. There's not a lot to say about Violet that doesn't somehow... paint a different picture of him that maybe he's not about to share. But Derek knows enough that he picks at a few pieces in his head, thinking whether or not to share them.]
We only had one real date, but we hung out a lot. She skipped school and I hung around after my sessions, so we would go to the attic and play cards. Or checkers... or just sit together and listen to music. It was just... nice.
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[ Not just because of what she was to Tate - a light in the dark after years of isolation - but because of the stability she provided. Checkers with Violet sounds like chess with Stiles. After lacking that level of stable, familiar warmth for as long as he did, Derek needs those little moments of peace to survive. Tate must have felt the same.
A part of him wants to bring up Paige, but - he doesn't. Won't. Of course he won't. ]
You said... it didn't work out because of... the way you are. The way you feel things.
[ And he doesn't quite prompt Tate to tell him what happened, exactly - but he at least... tries to leave the question out there, wordless as it is. Giving Tate the opportunity to talk about what happened towards the end without forcing him to if he doesn't want to. ]
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[Sullen, that was the last kick to his appetite and he pulls away from Derek just a bit to reach out and slide the plate onto the coffee table with the untouched slice of pizza sitting on it. He then looks down at Derek's arm like he's thinking about whether or not to push it aside, fingers on his forearm before he settles back. It's easier at this angle, when he's not facing Derek directly. Not staring into his eyes or having them bore into him.]
She... She said that we shared a darkness in us? But at the end, she took back her feelings. She said I was that darkness. I still don't understand. I loved her. And she loved me, I know it.
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She was just... young.
[ Derek bends his elbow back, brings his arm up, and slowly cards his fingers through Tate's hair. He plays with his curls a little, smoothing his nails gently across his scalp, just... being soothing. ]
From what you've told me about her - she was just a normal, human girl. She was naive. She didn't know how to give you what you needed, and...
[ And that sucks, because Tate deserves someone normal, but Tate deserves someone strong enough and smart enough to see that Tate needed help, not a back turned on him. Violet only left because - what, he yelled, sometimes? Cried? How fucking cruel of her, to see someone with trauma and mental illness and say that they're the darkness. ]
It wasn't your fault. All this shit you have to deal with - the darkness, the anger, the heartache - it's something you've been suffering through. None of it makes you a bad person, and... I'm sorry she didn't know how to be there for you the way you knew how to be there for her.
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He could lay like this indefinitely. He could fall asleep like this.
Tate softly sighs, breath shuddering in a way that betrays those feelings and is hopeful for Derek not to stop. Fingers through his head reminds him of the days Nora would take to him, playing with his curls and treating him like the son she lost and the son she loved. It feels warm and nice in the wake of everything cold and wicked.]
I was there for her... I just? I don't know. I wish a lot of things had gone differently for me. Wish I knew someone like you back home.
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You have me here.
[ Which isn't the same, he knows it isn't the same, but - it's all that Derek can offer him. Safe harbor in the middle of all of Tate's storms. Love and acceptance and gravity, for as long as Tate lets Derek want him. For as long as Tate proves himself to be everything Derek believes him to be. ]
You wanna try and get some sleep?
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[He's quiet for a beat, feeling this wash of - nothing come over him again before he closes his eyes again and answers. He'd like to sleep like this, leaning up against Derek and feeling the warmth radiate off his chest. He'd like to feel his heartbeat like he's wanted to for so long - spending days alone in the house, now here, facing the suffering feeling of being alone reignited by losing Violet. The person who once loved him so much that they could get lost in one another's eyes, laying together like this for hours.
But he can't. He spends another moment laying there, still and calm, before his muscles twitch and stiffen. He sits up, slowly and sluggishly, lifting his hand to move Derek's hand aside so he can hunch forward and put one foot back on the ground. He turns to look over his shoulder, dark eyes subdued.]
I don't want to be in the way, though. I'll just rest for a bit and when the rain stops, I'll go home.
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