[Tate's not entirely sure he's satisfied with that but even he can tell that's as good as it's going to get for him. He tips back his beer, still determined to get through it, but starting to feel like it's not worth the effort. He sets the can down between swigs, and yawns against the back of his hand. Funny how he's never tired until he's around Derek.]
Is there anything we can do together to prepare for them, if they do show up? Or is it just getting back to training, and that kind of thing?
[ Derek shrugs, a little forlorn. They can talk about training and hunters, yeah, and it's probably the right thing to address - but selfishly, and maybe even hypocritically, Derek had liked being able to just relax with Tate and see him smile. It feels kind of shitty, being stuck in this whirlpool again. Remembering how badly people want him dead. ]
Let me worry about that. I promised you I'd take care of you.
[ He finishes off his second beer and gets to his feet, holding his hand out to help Tate up. The yawn caught his attention. ]
[His protest is immediate, looking up at Derek with pinched brows and the face of a kid who's being told to go to bed on Christmas Eve. Everything tonight is fun and perfect, and so what if he yawned and wants to yawn again? He holds it in, staring at Derek's hand for a beat before grumpily swatting at it. Scowling, but turning over to crawl over to the sleeping bag instead. He has a feeling if he stands he'll get more of a head rush than he wants to let on.]
But look, I'll lay here. We can keep talking? I don't want to sleep.
[He murmurs, sitting on the flattened out sleeping bag and patting next to him for Derek to join.]
[ Derek gets promptly rejected, and he laughs, hands lazily held up by his sides. A spark of his old mood gets reignited, and he feels fond and distant as Tate shuffles into bed like a dog. Derek folds his arms across his chest and slowly drifts over, standing over Tate until he's comfortable - there are no safety rails in place yet, so he quietly measures the distance between Tate and the end of the platform, wondering briefly if he's going to roll over to his death in the middle of the night. They're far enough away from the edge for him to feel they'll be okay.
Semi-begrudgingly, he sinks down, laying next to Tate. He's not laying in the sleeping bag, or even on it, and he is a little shivery, but he's got his jacket to keep him warm. He's on his side, propping himself up on his elbow, and the floor is hard and uncomfortable, but that sort of thing has never really bothered him.
Seeing Tate all chill, getting ready for bed, it's - exciting. He's looking forward to July. ]
Lay on the fucking thing, don't... just come here?
[Tate's scowling as he slips to lay back, but reaches over to grab Derek by the bicep and try to tug him closer. Onto the sleeping bag he's using as bedding under him, where there's only the slightest cushion but it feels like enough. Tate's often always cold, so he doesn't mind the chilly air but he would feel far more comfortable with Derek not acting like a dweeb. He'll then curl up a bit out of habit, wanting to turn on his side but not wanting to break eye contact with Derek.]
What should we talk about then? Want... wanna play a game? Just asking each other questions. No winning or losing, just... stuff like what's your favorite food?
[ So pushy. Derek's not mad - he's still smiling, so he's obviously not mad - but he's big and he's tough, so he can't just roll into bed when he's asked. Still, he goes, letting Tate's hand on his bicep reel him in. He won't lay entirely on the sleeping bag, because he wants Tate to have most of it, but he'll lay close enough for Tate to leech his body heat if he needs it.
Favorite food. Favorite food, okay. ]
Meat.
[ Which sounds - maybe obvious, actually, saying it out loud, but. Meat. Derek's turn. ]
[Repeated with a skeptical tone, but an amused one at that. Kind of a shitty answer but he's not really sure what he expected? He smiles, flopping over and finally putting his back to Derek simply because - well, hides his face for when he answers. He leans back, however, trying to ensure Derek's close one way or another.]
What makes this a good mood? I'm buzzed and... I'm happy, I don't know.
[ Meat. Derek raises his eyebrows, happy and challenging, before Tate rolls onto his side. Derek moves away, just so he can grab the top end of the sleeping bag and pull it up over Tate's shoulders, getting him warmer. He settles in a few inches closer after that, talking as he lays down again. ]
I don't know. Feels like you haven't been happy for a while. I'm just - glad to see it again. Makes me feel good.
[ Derek looks out over the back of Tate's head, down towards the ocean. He can hear it, still and gentle. It's easy to forget how fucked up this place is when he's got the ocean and the woods and his pack and a home. Easy enough. ]
Well, it's been shitty. But I've got reasons to feel better.
[Violet was a blow but he's switched gears with that, trying to focus on the people that are still around. Things are going good with Peter. With Derek. Hell, even things with Kavinsky have been alright. Tate tucks his hands up under his cheek, and breathes in deep while getting settled. He should've finished his beer but instead he just savors the moment instead.]
What did you used to wanna be when you grew up? What do you still wanna be?
[ He hopes the treehouse is, at least. He thinks it is. Thinks they both are. Derek takes a long few seconds before he answers Tate's question, and when he does, it's... actually not really an answer at all. There's the trace of something close to laughter in his voice, but at the same time, genuine, self-conscious anxiety. ]
[Tate cracks a soft laugh, muffled behind his arm. He's quiet for a beat after that, but when he speaks it's evidently with that same laugh in the tone of his voice, like he's battled to suppress it but it can't quite be defeated. He's still grinning, too.]
No, no. It's fine - I mean, strippers are a pretty certified career around here. Your dreams are attainable.
I did have a phase where I wanted to be a porn star. Because I was a fucking fifteen year old boy.
[ But no, that's not the joke. Derek wets his lips, stares at the back of Tate's head, trying to figure out if he's actually going to follow through on this or not. Figures it's not the worst secret he's shared about himself, though, ssssoooooo. ]
Kind of wanted to play basketball professionally?
[ He says, like it's a question. As for what he wants to do now - he doesn't really have an answer. Hibernate, maybe. ]
Damnit, that's not even embarrassing, Derek. I mean, kinda shitty of you 'cause - cheating, much? But if you had a shot that's a pretty normal fucking dream. I probably could've run track better than I did, but I don't think that would've panned out for me either.
[Not just 'cause he died, of course. But because it was just a hobby over a focus. He wasn't wildly great at it despite a few medals and a trophy here or there. He wasn't a superhuman kid who probably kicked ass on the court and would've gotten in shit when doing testing later on.]
You could reignite the porn star thing here, though. Hard Wolf Hale. It could work.
[ He thinks it's stupid, really. A childish dream that doesn't suit him anymore. He's not a team player, despite all his cries for a pack. He doesn't play games. Doesn't have fun. Derek drops his ear against his bicep, getting more comfortable.
Track, though. Track suits Tate. Even now. ]
Doubt anybody watches porn here. Seems kind of pointless, when you can just... go out and fuck whoever you want.
People still watch it. There was a shit ton of it at the hotel.
[He might've watched some of it himself, just to - get in the mood before getting carried away with who he was with. But that's just it, it was a segue into fucking someone else so maybe Derek's right. Then again, there must be some sad sacks here he who can't even get laid so they stick to jerking off or scratching their voyeur kinks some other ways.]
I'm surprised nobody who's come here's made anything, but maybe they have. It's a lot easier to share that shit on modern computers. Back when I was growing up, it was VHS tapes and spotty antenna connections.
Magazines stashed in the woods, for me. But. Didn't really have much of a choice.
[ Because, you know - growing up in a family of people who fucking knew what he was doing no matter how hard he tried to find it didn't give him a lot of avenues for... that. Jesus, okay. Circling away from himself. ]
Anyway. I'm sure at least one person has solicited dick pics on the network. There's gotta be LIERs porn somewhere. We just haven't gone looking for it. [ Or Derek hasn't, at least. ]
[Tate laughs lightly - porn in the woods, fuck. He grins a bit and his breathing has begun to even out, but he still is a bit restless albeit happy. He leans back a little, flush to Derek, and lifts his head to look back over his shoulder at him. He's a lot easier to read like this, blond hair a mess and his eyes openly expressive. He blinks at Derek for a silent moment.]
Yours, I think.
[His breath smells of booze, but he doesn't care. Sorry Derek.]
[ Tate closes the distance between them and Derek... doesn't really know where to put his hands. He's fine with this, even if affectionate intimacy is still kind of difficult for him, because Tate's worked his way up to it over these past few months. He just sorta leaves his arm at his side, for now, though he props himself up more with the other to get a better look at Tate.
He's also had 22 years to get used to being uncomfortably attuned to people's breath, so. That's fine, too. ]
[Deliberately not taking that bait, he smiles in a way that suggests he knows precisely where Derek was digging and what for. He then studies his face, weight still leaned back against Derek so he can stare at him from this close up. He can see every little feature, from the stubble on his jaw to the way the light hits his eyes from the moon filtering down from up above. God, it's quiet up here.]
Can you do me a favor?
[Kavinsky would always get annoyed if he didn't continue with it right away, so he does:]
Can you do that thing to my hair again. Like before?
[ Mermaids, eat shit. Tate asks for a favour and Derek doesn't get annoyed in the brief gap of time before he follows up. He just listens, and he waits, and when Tate tells him what he wants, it only takes a second before he connects the dots and remembers what he means.
And yeah, of course he will. They're too close for Derek to comfortably stroke through Tate's hair without touching him a little more, so he has to rest his arm on Tate's side, but again, he doesn't feel that weird about it. It's the kind of comfort he's always wanted to give people, it's the kind of comfort he's only ever really found with Stiles, which - is different, obviously, to the Alpha instincts he has with Tate. He brushes back some of Tate's hair behind his ear, then just - threads his fingers through his hair, grazing over his skin. He touches him, kind and gentle, the way Talia did for him when she first saw his eyes turn blue.
He keeps his voice just as gentle. ]
Do you like mermaids because they're connected to the ocean, or... because you think fucking sailors and drowning them sounds like a metal way to spend your afternoon?
[Tate knows all about werewolves - the scent tracking, the heart beat monitoring and the way Derek can peel an emotion off Tate simply by the chemosignals that radiate off him when he feels it. So he doesn't try to hide anything around him, which is good. Because he wouldn't be able to high the sigh of relief, the way his limbs get heavy the second Derek's playing with his hair the way Nora used to, when she first saw him in the basement.
It's sedating and Tate struggles not to fall for it too quickly, eyelids low and heavy and his body shifting to get comfortable. He curls to be the little spoon in the arrangement, feeling safe and tucked away. Still, he laughs, a bit delayed and chased by another soft yawn.]
Both? Sirens are cool too. But yeah, it's... it's metal.
[Fuck. He's tired. Why all of a sudden? The warmth, the care, the heart beat of another person tucked up behind him. Tate's fighting a losing battle and it shows.]
[ Which should be enough? He could list out everything else that makes werewolves great - teeth, eyes, muscles, the ability to walk on land without having to sell your voice to a witch - but Tate's getting too tired, he thinks, and it's gotta be better to just let him sleep. Derek strokes through his hair a little slower, closing his eyes, letting everything just be... warm and safe and familiar.
Too familiar, maybe. Tate presses in tighter against him, silently asking to be held, and Derek swallows, his throat dry. It can't be attraction that does it, because they're pack, and he's happily taken, but - he's a guy, and he's a werewolf, and he's being pressed up against in a way that's pretty fucking familiar to how Stiles presses up against him at night, and maybe it's pavlovian, maybe it's just-- bad luck, but Derek does feel himself getting kinda hard. He tries to ignore it, and he does a pretty good job, he thinks, but he's not breathing when he's half-mast against Tate's ass, just like he's not breathing when he slowly moves away.
He twists his hips and adds some distance, just an inch or so between them, trying to be subtle about it but fucking that up by clearing his throat. He's not touching Tate's hair anymore. He brings his arm away from him, putting it back at his own side. Cautiously, he just - ends this conversation here, his stomach in a bit of a knot. ]
[Tate's hitting that sweet spot of limbo where he's just about to start having dream-like thoughts that will erase if he pulls out of them, but he doesn't get to get that far. Derek pulls away and Tate blinks back awake, not sure if Derek's last words had just been said then and now or a few minutes back. His eyes still feel heavy, but he doesn't like the sudden space between them.
He leans back, killing the distance and purposely putting his weight up against Derek.]
[ Fuck. Tate leans into him again, cutting Derek's escape attempt short. He presses back against Derek, all tight and warm and close, and for a second, the friction blue screens Derek a bit and freezes him up. He swallows, getting harder, and he puts one hand on Tate's shoulder, ready to roll him away again.
And he doesn't think Tate understands what he's doing, or why this is a problem, but Derek is - warning, more than anything, when he talks again. Stony and sharp, like he's only going to say this once. ]
[Tate's more awake now, blinking back to focus and turning his head to look at Derek in the dark with a narrowed glance that's lost all the fondness of earlier. Like he's getting barked at for no reason, he takes a defensive stance. He pulls away, back forward and onto his forearm before turning over the other way and staring at Derek blearily in the dark - wishing, perhaps, he'd thought to bring any sort of light. He thinks of his phone after a beat, fishing it out of his pocket and shining the light directly in Derek's face.]
What's your problem? You're acting...
[The light illuminates Derek's chest and down, and Tate's eyes drift. So does the light.]
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[Tate's not entirely sure he's satisfied with that but even he can tell that's as good as it's going to get for him. He tips back his beer, still determined to get through it, but starting to feel like it's not worth the effort. He sets the can down between swigs, and yawns against the back of his hand. Funny how he's never tired until he's around Derek.]
Is there anything we can do together to prepare for them, if they do show up? Or is it just getting back to training, and that kind of thing?
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Let me worry about that. I promised you I'd take care of you.
[ He finishes off his second beer and gets to his feet, holding his hand out to help Tate up. The yawn caught his attention. ]
C'mon. You're tired. Bed.
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[His protest is immediate, looking up at Derek with pinched brows and the face of a kid who's being told to go to bed on Christmas Eve. Everything tonight is fun and perfect, and so what if he yawned and wants to yawn again? He holds it in, staring at Derek's hand for a beat before grumpily swatting at it. Scowling, but turning over to crawl over to the sleeping bag instead. He has a feeling if he stands he'll get more of a head rush than he wants to let on.]
But look, I'll lay here. We can keep talking? I don't want to sleep.
[He murmurs, sitting on the flattened out sleeping bag and patting next to him for Derek to join.]
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Semi-begrudgingly, he sinks down, laying next to Tate. He's not laying in the sleeping bag, or even on it, and he is a little shivery, but he's got his jacket to keep him warm. He's on his side, propping himself up on his elbow, and the floor is hard and uncomfortable, but that sort of thing has never really bothered him.
Seeing Tate all chill, getting ready for bed, it's - exciting. He's looking forward to July. ]
Let's just - talk about good things.
[ Instead of hunters. ]
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[Tate's scowling as he slips to lay back, but reaches over to grab Derek by the bicep and try to tug him closer. Onto the sleeping bag he's using as bedding under him, where there's only the slightest cushion but it feels like enough. Tate's often always cold, so he doesn't mind the chilly air but he would feel far more comfortable with Derek not acting like a dweeb. He'll then curl up a bit out of habit, wanting to turn on his side but not wanting to break eye contact with Derek.]
What should we talk about then? Want... wanna play a game? Just asking each other questions. No winning or losing, just... stuff like what's your favorite food?
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[ So pushy. Derek's not mad - he's still smiling, so he's obviously not mad - but he's big and he's tough, so he can't just roll into bed when he's asked. Still, he goes, letting Tate's hand on his bicep reel him in. He won't lay entirely on the sleeping bag, because he wants Tate to have most of it, but he'll lay close enough for Tate to leech his body heat if he needs it.
Favorite food. Favorite food, okay. ]
Meat.
[ Which sounds - maybe obvious, actually, saying it out loud, but. Meat. Derek's turn. ]
Why are you in such a good mood tonight?
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[Repeated with a skeptical tone, but an amused one at that. Kind of a shitty answer but he's not really sure what he expected? He smiles, flopping over and finally putting his back to Derek simply because - well, hides his face for when he answers. He leans back, however, trying to ensure Derek's close one way or another.]
What makes this a good mood? I'm buzzed and... I'm happy, I don't know.
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I don't know. Feels like you haven't been happy for a while. I'm just - glad to see it again. Makes me feel good.
[ Derek looks out over the back of Tate's head, down towards the ocean. He can hear it, still and gentle. It's easy to forget how fucked up this place is when he's got the ocean and the woods and his pack and a home. Easy enough. ]
Your turn.
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[Violet was a blow but he's switched gears with that, trying to focus on the people that are still around. Things are going good with Peter. With Derek. Hell, even things with Kavinsky have been alright. Tate tucks his hands up under his cheek, and breathes in deep while getting settled. He should've finished his beer but instead he just savors the moment instead.]
What did you used to wanna be when you grew up? What do you still wanna be?
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[ He hopes the treehouse is, at least. He thinks it is. Thinks they both are. Derek takes a long few seconds before he answers Tate's question, and when he does, it's... actually not really an answer at all. There's the trace of something close to laughter in his voice, but at the same time, genuine, self-conscious anxiety. ]
You're gonna make fun of me.
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No, no. It's fine - I mean, strippers are a pretty certified career around here. Your dreams are attainable.
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[ But no, that's not the joke. Derek wets his lips, stares at the back of Tate's head, trying to figure out if he's actually going to follow through on this or not. Figures it's not the worst secret he's shared about himself, though, ssssoooooo. ]
Kind of wanted to play basketball professionally?
[ He says, like it's a question. As for what he wants to do now - he doesn't really have an answer. Hibernate, maybe. ]
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[Not just 'cause he died, of course. But because it was just a hobby over a focus. He wasn't wildly great at it despite a few medals and a trophy here or there. He wasn't a superhuman kid who probably kicked ass on the court and would've gotten in shit when doing testing later on.]
You could reignite the porn star thing here, though. Hard Wolf Hale. It could work.
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[ He thinks it's stupid, really. A childish dream that doesn't suit him anymore. He's not a team player, despite all his cries for a pack. He doesn't play games. Doesn't have fun. Derek drops his ear against his bicep, getting more comfortable.
Track, though. Track suits Tate. Even now. ]
Doubt anybody watches porn here. Seems kind of pointless, when you can just... go out and fuck whoever you want.
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[He might've watched some of it himself, just to - get in the mood before getting carried away with who he was with. But that's just it, it was a segue into fucking someone else so maybe Derek's right. Then again, there must be some sad sacks here he who can't even get laid so they stick to jerking off or scratching their voyeur kinks some other ways.]
I'm surprised nobody who's come here's made anything, but maybe they have. It's a lot easier to share that shit on modern computers. Back when I was growing up, it was VHS tapes and spotty antenna connections.
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[ Because, you know - growing up in a family of people who fucking knew what he was doing no matter how hard he tried to find it didn't give him a lot of avenues for... that. Jesus, okay. Circling away from himself. ]
Anyway. I'm sure at least one person has solicited dick pics on the network. There's gotta be LIERs porn somewhere. We just haven't gone looking for it. [ Or Derek hasn't, at least. ]
Who's turn is it?
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Yours, I think.
[His breath smells of booze, but he doesn't care. Sorry Derek.]
Shoot.
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He's also had 22 years to get used to being uncomfortably attuned to people's breath, so. That's fine, too. ]
Shit, uh. Favorite mythological creature?
[ he's fishing for werewolf. ]
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[Deliberately not taking that bait, he smiles in a way that suggests he knows precisely where Derek was digging and what for. He then studies his face, weight still leaned back against Derek so he can stare at him from this close up. He can see every little feature, from the stubble on his jaw to the way the light hits his eyes from the moon filtering down from up above. God, it's quiet up here.]
Can you do me a favor?
[Kavinsky would always get annoyed if he didn't continue with it right away, so he does:]
Can you do that thing to my hair again. Like before?
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[ Mermaids, eat shit. Tate asks for a favour and Derek doesn't get annoyed in the brief gap of time before he follows up. He just listens, and he waits, and when Tate tells him what he wants, it only takes a second before he connects the dots and remembers what he means.
And yeah, of course he will. They're too close for Derek to comfortably stroke through Tate's hair without touching him a little more, so he has to rest his arm on Tate's side, but again, he doesn't feel that weird about it. It's the kind of comfort he's always wanted to give people, it's the kind of comfort he's only ever really found with Stiles, which - is different, obviously, to the Alpha instincts he has with Tate. He brushes back some of Tate's hair behind his ear, then just - threads his fingers through his hair, grazing over his skin. He touches him, kind and gentle, the way Talia did for him when she first saw his eyes turn blue.
He keeps his voice just as gentle. ]
Do you like mermaids because they're connected to the ocean, or... because you think fucking sailors and drowning them sounds like a metal way to spend your afternoon?
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It's sedating and Tate struggles not to fall for it too quickly, eyelids low and heavy and his body shifting to get comfortable. He curls to be the little spoon in the arrangement, feeling safe and tucked away. Still, he laughs, a bit delayed and chased by another soft yawn.]
Both? Sirens are cool too. But yeah, it's... it's metal.
[Fuck. He's tired. Why all of a sudden? The warmth, the care, the heart beat of another person tucked up behind him. Tate's fighting a losing battle and it shows.]
Gimme one reason werewolves are cooler.
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[ Which should be enough? He could list out everything else that makes werewolves great - teeth, eyes, muscles, the ability to walk on land without having to sell your voice to a witch - but Tate's getting too tired, he thinks, and it's gotta be better to just let him sleep. Derek strokes through his hair a little slower, closing his eyes, letting everything just be... warm and safe and familiar.
Too familiar, maybe. Tate presses in tighter against him, silently asking to be held, and Derek swallows, his throat dry. It can't be attraction that does it, because they're pack, and he's happily taken, but - he's a guy, and he's a werewolf, and he's being pressed up against in a way that's pretty fucking familiar to how Stiles presses up against him at night, and maybe it's pavlovian, maybe it's just-- bad luck, but Derek does feel himself getting kinda hard. He tries to ignore it, and he does a pretty good job, he thinks, but he's not breathing when he's half-mast against Tate's ass, just like he's not breathing when he slowly moves away.
He twists his hips and adds some distance, just an inch or so between them, trying to be subtle about it but fucking that up by clearing his throat. He's not touching Tate's hair anymore. He brings his arm away from him, putting it back at his own side. Cautiously, he just - ends this conversation here, his stomach in a bit of a knot. ]
Go to sleep.
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He leans back, killing the distance and purposely putting his weight up against Derek.]
Don't go anywhere.
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And he doesn't think Tate understands what he's doing, or why this is a problem, but Derek is - warning, more than anything, when he talks again. Stony and sharp, like he's only going to say this once. ]
Tate.
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[Tate's more awake now, blinking back to focus and turning his head to look at Derek in the dark with a narrowed glance that's lost all the fondness of earlier. Like he's getting barked at for no reason, he takes a defensive stance. He pulls away, back forward and onto his forearm before turning over the other way and staring at Derek blearily in the dark - wishing, perhaps, he'd thought to bring any sort of light. He thinks of his phone after a beat, fishing it out of his pocket and shining the light directly in Derek's face.]
What's your problem? You're acting...
[The light illuminates Derek's chest and down, and Tate's eyes drift. So does the light.]
You're getting mad over that?
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