[ Takes a while, before Derek responds. He focuses on Tate's food, bringing water to boil and searching out sauce that isnt past its expiration date. When he answers him, he's got his back turned. ]
Think I've gotta get over you running back to Kavinsky before that happens.
[ He looks up at Tate, just briefly, watching him put his beer away. He quickly drops his eyes back now. ]
Things are fucked up between us. We're talking, right now, but somehow there's still this hole in my chest because of how badly I miss you. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you? Die for you, kill for you. That kind of devotion, that's... that's what you're supposed to have for someone, when there's... love, there. When you're pack.
[ Or - love between you and your home. Derek did the same for Beacon Hills. Killed for it. Tried to die for it, more than once, though that was less because of a grand sacrifice and more because he was tired. Tate's food is getting prepared and all it has to do now is cook, so Derek doesn't have a reason to keep his back to Tate anymore. Reluctantly, he turns back around. ]
But I'm scared that that's all one sided. I don't believe some of the things you've said to me, I don't... know if you even think of me, when we're not in the same room together. I'm really, really confused about us, and I just... I mean, how am I supposed to give you all my loyalty if I can't even give you a spare magical house key? It's insane. This all feels insane.
[It's - more slaps to the face for Tate, even if he's heard the words already and knows where Derek's coming from. Why should he trust Tate? Tate can't come up with an answer, not easily, but he still looks stretched in response to being told he's not believed. It hurts, it's evident, because his eyes shutter and glean with a wet show of tears and his lips turn to a very thin line. He crosses his arms defensively, looking away, nostrils flaring as he tries hard not to lose his cool.
Then he scoffs, humorlessly, wetness coming from his eyes being rubbed off on his knuckles. He's turned from the first response of being startled at the confrontation to now just being offended. One sided? One sided? Tate looks at Derek, eyes narrowed.]
I don't know what you want from me. I promised you no lies. I've told you how much... how much I missed you. I come to you first with my problems and - isn't that being pack? And you still... you're telling me you don't trust me. You don't want me around. You want so much from me but you're telling me it's not enough at the same time. How am I supposed to trust you'll ever really want me? How am I supposed to feel like you - like this place is safety if I...
[He sniffs, rubbing at his eyes again. He shakes his head.]
Nevermind. It's fine. I don't give a shit. And I'm not hungry, so.
[Fuck you and your pasta. He cracks open the beer can instead, taking a long swig.]
[ This is probably the reaction Derek should have expected, but - it just sucks. Tate's making him feel like an awful person, and months ago, he would have just caved, given in, found the ledger and written Tate's name then and there, right in front of him. Derek wasn't trying to slap Tate in the face, he wasn't - wasn't trying to make him feel like he wouldn't be safe here, in this house or with him. He's staring at Tate while he talks, intense and scrutinizing, trying to figure out how much of Tate's complaints about his behaviour are real, and how much are just based on his hurt.
At the very least, he feels like Tate not knowing what he wants from him is - a real place to start. Derek's eyes are kind of stinging, but he's gonna blame that on the steam. ]
I just want to trust you again. I don't know how to force that. If I could, I would.
[ He shrugs with one shoulder, pinching the bridge of his nose. ]
You're right, though. I've been asking too much of you. I've just been trying to figure all of this out, but - shit, I'm sorry. If you're saying this can't be fixed, or - or that you don't trust me either, then - I don't really know what to do to make all of this right.
I'm not saying I don't trust you - just... it's a two way street.
[If Derek's going to tell him he doesn't know if he can trust Tate, why shouldn't he say the same in response? He wants to trust Derek. He just also wants to be trusted. That's the downfall of being self-centered, after all. Everything has to be about you, and when it's not, you feel displaced. Tate looks at Derek, while tipping back his beer to drink more of it in a few gulps. He then wipes his mouth off on his sleeve.]
I'm also not saying it can't be fixed. I'm - I'm just tired. And I don't want to get into this again. Can we work through this later?
[ Derek doesn't know what he's done not to earn Tate's trust, but... if it's a two way street, it's a two way street. He wants this to be fixed, one way or another, and they've... they've gotta get there, somehow. Derek looks at Tate, watching him blow off the rest of their conversation, and honestly, it's for the best. They used to dump all their feelings out on one another at once and it led to some pretty ugly places, so maybe doing these little bites of conversation over the next few weeks is the only way to get through all this with civility. ]
... Yeah.
[ Tate's food is done, and Derek doesn't really know what to do with it, now. He strains the pasta, fucks with the sauce, does everything he needs to do, and he dishes up a plate full of food. He... puts it down in front of Tate, but he knows it probably won't go anywhere. ]
Still want you to spend the night here, if that's... the call you want to make. Just - promise me you'll try to eat something.
[Tate looks at the pasta and it's plain to see that he's got no appetite for it. But he doesn't push it away, but neither does he sit. He just kind of hovers, like he's evaluating his choices. If Derek hadn't asked him to eat, he would've already left the room. Instead, well. He quietly sits after pulling back the chair, sighing like this is a real big effort to be making as he picks up a fork.]
You better not give me food poisoning.
[He's still not eating, but - he's closer to it than before.]
[ For all the doubt and the suspicion that's been permeating this relationship lately, Derek takes it surprisingly hard when Tate sighs like that. Maybe it's just because this is something he's specifically trying to do for him, but it kind of - sucks, knowing that he might've fucked up. Derek scratches the back of his neck and just shakes his head when he's asked a question. ]
No. That, uh - that was my dinner, actually.
[ All he really had left, and he's giving it to Tate. Derek shrugs. ]
I'm fine, though. More worried about you than I am about me.
[He says, already decided. He stabs his fork into the pasta, takes his sweet time setting up a bite. He feels oddly watched in the process, so he glances at Derek through his bangs before he takes said bite, chewing quietly. If Derek thinks he's going to protest to this plan, Tate'll stub that out with a quick addition of:]
Pack's about meeting half way sometimes. Suck my dick if you don't agree.
[ Okay, well, fuck that. Derek's already getting ready to argue, mouth open and eyebrows meeting in the middle, but Tate intercepts and shuts him down. He exhales through his nose, long and slow, then turns away, trying to think of a way out of this. He... can't, so he sounds kind of small when he just mumbles out his feelings. ]
I want to take care of you, though.
[ Tate's the one who's hurting right now. Derek is, too, but - Derek didn't go to Tate for help the way Tate did for him. He narrows his eyes, looks back. ]
You - know that, right? Putting aside all of this bullshit between us right now, you - you know that's the bottom line for me, don't you? Making you happy, and... loving you, and... all of that. That's still... what I want.
[Tate speaks between bites, his head tucked forward but gaze lifted up; he holds his fork away from his plate as he speaks, but then resumes taking another bite of pasta soon after that. Shit could use a little cheese but, well, he's not complaining. He uses his fork to split the pile of pasta down the middle, working it into halves so he can leave some behind for Derek.]
... But I want to let you take care of me too. I'm just... not used to it. I like it, but it's new.
[ He doesn't know that - that's the fucking bullseye on the dartboard that is his issues with Tate. Derek at least has the self-awareness to not bring them back into another fucking argument, though, seconds after Tate said he didn't want to talk about all this. So. Derek just nods, like he believes it, keeping his eyes open and alert and neutral. ]
Well - get used to it. I don't want this to feel new. I want this to be - normal, for you.
[ Whatever, though, he's - done. Derek stands a little straighter, leaves all the worrying about his and Tate's relationship behind him. He walks around Tate, stands behind him, and he just - roughs Tate's hair the fuck up, all affectionate and annoying, laughing a little when it reaches the point that it's probably pissing Tate off. He's not being unkind, just... a little obnoxious. ]
I'm not eating that, by the way. [ the pasta that Tate's so diligently dividing. ] Changed my mind. You can meet me halfway on something else. Not on this. I want that plate spotless by the time you're done with it.
[Spotless plates and never taking helpings you don't plan on finishing - he's not too sharp with it but after pawing at Derek's hand to get him to stop shitting around with his hair, he's miffed just enough to huff that out. He's only going to eat a half, if that, and Derek can suck his dick if he doesn't like it. He combs back some of his hair from his eyes, then sighs.]
... Can you help me out with something after? I need to cut my hair.
Don't care. I know how long you can go without eating when you're going through something. I don't know if you're... taking care of yourself, or... if you're gonna get sick, or...
[ Or anything else like that. Derek's gonna stay pretty stern about this, for at least another five or six seconds. Tate's asking for his help, and Derek doesn't want to just cave and stop talking about what they're talking about, but.
Whatever. He leans on the counter by Tate, giving him his attention. The request makes him frown a little, looking at Tate's curls for a second, then back down to his eyes. ]
I... can help you. But - I mean - I like your hair like this. It's...
[ It's... well, Derek doesn't end up saying whatever he thinks of Tate's hair. He just trails off, looks away. Looks back. Looks at the pasta. ]
If I cut your hair, and if I don't make you finish all this - will you promise to let me make you something the next time you get hungry?
[Tate agrees quietly, resisting the urge to give another shrug. He eats a few more bites, watching Derek with inquisitive dark eyes before pulling on one of his curls to straighten it out - when tugged, it's much longer than it looks. He lets it snap back up into place.]
I wouldn't mind eating dinner here a few times a week. Or in the treehouse. I'm not really good at making things myself, so it'd be... cool, I guess.
[ Derek likes long hair. That's all. Tate pulls on his curls and Derek doesn't let it show on his face, but man, what a waste this is gonna be. Oh well. ]
Okay.
[ A few nights together doesn't mean they're better, and this sure as shit doesn't mean Derek's going to sign Tate's name to the ledger. Tate hasn't done a thing to earn either of those things. It's just - peace of mind, for Derek, knowing that someone he (maybe foolishly) cares about won't spend every fucking night with a needle in his arm, or whatever dumb, desperate shit he does when Derek's out of sight. Feels like he's even more at risk of that kind of thing, now that Peter's gone.
Shit - okay. Derek sighs, pointing his thumb to the bathroom. ]
Finish eating. I'll get my kit. We can cut your hair when you're done. You're gonna want a buzz cut, right? Just - completely bald up there?
[Tate rolls his eyes, but seems - amused. He then gives Derek the finger, while shoveling more pasta into his mouth. After being seated for so long and starting to eat, his hunger's rearing up like an old friend back in town. He eats a little more intensely after that, sipping beer between bites.]
Just a little off the top, okay? I'll kill you if you fuck my hair up.
No, we're doing this my way. Full shave. Gonna start calling you Eminem.
[ Did he have a shaved head? Doesn't matter. Derek leaves Tate alone, gets his shit from the bathroom. Being a werewolf does tend to involve a decent amount of shedding, so like, he's got what he needs to give Tate a fucking trim. He'll wait by the kitchen once he's got his supplies, a little black case filled with scissors and an electric razor with different sized clippers. ]
[Tate's brows pinch together and he shoots Derek a puzzled look, clearly not getting the reference. He lets Derek get to what he gets to - eating pasta a little past the half way mark but then leaving his plate, fork down, and finishing his beer before standing up. He's going to grab another from the fridge, just because the buzz is... nice. He cracks it open.]
Where do you want me? I can sit on the floor in front of the couch.
[ It's fine. Derek checks on Tate's plate, sees that he went over the halfway point, and there's a second or two where he thinks about just straight up asking if he wants to finish it - but he'll just get compared to Constance again, probably, and he doesn't need to be in a sour mood for this. ]
Outside. Balcony. Take a chair.
[ Plate goes straight in the fridge, no cling wrap to cover it, Derek catching the door and keeping it open after Tate gets his beer. The living room opens up directly onto the beach, and that's where they're doing this. Derek points to the door with his chin. ]
[Beer in one hand and a chair from the kitchen in the other, Tate drags it out onto the balcony and slips through the doorway to plant said chair outside. He figures Derek's the one who's going to sit in it so he drops down in front of it, crossing his legs and setting his beer down. The sound and smell of the beach sings to him and Tate looks a little less tense, eyes gravitating outward and getting distracted by the view.]
I love the way the waves come in on days like this.
[ Derek's - not gonna sit in it, man. He joins Tate on the balcony for a second, his own fresh beer in hand, and when he sees Tate on the ground, it takes him a second or two to realize what he's doing. He rolls his eyes, nudges him with his foot, and nods to the chair, probably inadvertently snapping him out of the pull of the ocean while he's at it. Sorry. ]
Dumbass.
[ But he gets what Tate's saying - Derek loves the waves, too. He never made it out to the sea all too often, and now, the waves remind him of... other people, other places. Windex is here, laying down, quizically looking up at Derek and Tate when they join her. Must have followed them back from the woods. ]
... You come to the beach much when you thought I was gone?
[Tate gestures, not making a move to get up - he sips his beer and then rests his can between his crossed legs, in the little alcove of space there. He looks back to the water, then lets his gaze drift to Windex. He stretches out his hand toward her, making a soft noise to see if she'll come closer.]
Yeah. I came here pretty often - the beach, the treehouse. Not... here, not more than once or twice. These are my favorite places... of course I came.
[ He's teasing, obviously. Derek's skin feels pretty itchy, keeping Tate on the floor like this, but if it's what he wants, it's what he wants. He takes his seat, balancing the case full of his shit leaning against one of the chair legs after taking out a particularly hefty pair of scissors. Should be all he needs, really. He used to cut Cora's hair for her all the time - this isn't new territory for him.
Tate says these were his favorite places, and Derek doesn't know what to make of it. Favorite because of him, or favorite because they're just - there? He's... not gonna ask. ]
[Derek sits though, and Tate moves accordingly - leaning back just a little to rest against his legs, more or less between them, and tilts his head back to look up at him with brows raised. Then he squints his eyes.]
Just a trim. You try any funny shit an' I'll get your cat high as fuck on catnip.
[ Windex, Trisk. Neither of them feel like his cats, but technically, they both are, now. Stiles isn't there to look after Windex, and Trisk - well, Trisk has her home in the woods, but he always feels bad when he leaves her, and she always seems to feel bad when he goes. Derek wouldn't mind moving her to the house full time, if Tate would let him.
He gets to work - he's not going to cut Tate's hair as short as he wants it, at first, just because he wants to give him the option to tell him to stop before doing something irreperable. He trims dead ends, marvelling, somewhere, in the back of his mind, how Tate's not really - stagnating, the way he should be as a ghost. He's growing. Aging. Capable of change. ]
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Think I've gotta get over you running back to Kavinsky before that happens.
[ He looks up at Tate, just briefly, watching him put his beer away. He quickly drops his eyes back now. ]
Things are fucked up between us. We're talking, right now, but somehow there's still this hole in my chest because of how badly I miss you. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you? Die for you, kill for you. That kind of devotion, that's... that's what you're supposed to have for someone, when there's... love, there. When you're pack.
[ Or - love between you and your home. Derek did the same for Beacon Hills. Killed for it. Tried to die for it, more than once, though that was less because of a grand sacrifice and more because he was tired. Tate's food is getting prepared and all it has to do now is cook, so Derek doesn't have a reason to keep his back to Tate anymore. Reluctantly, he turns back around. ]
But I'm scared that that's all one sided. I don't believe some of the things you've said to me, I don't... know if you even think of me, when we're not in the same room together. I'm really, really confused about us, and I just... I mean, how am I supposed to give you all my loyalty if I can't even give you a spare magical house key? It's insane. This all feels insane.
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Then he scoffs, humorlessly, wetness coming from his eyes being rubbed off on his knuckles. He's turned from the first response of being startled at the confrontation to now just being offended. One sided? One sided? Tate looks at Derek, eyes narrowed.]
I don't know what you want from me. I promised you no lies. I've told you how much... how much I missed you. I come to you first with my problems and - isn't that being pack? And you still... you're telling me you don't trust me. You don't want me around. You want so much from me but you're telling me it's not enough at the same time. How am I supposed to trust you'll ever really want me? How am I supposed to feel like you - like this place is safety if I...
[He sniffs, rubbing at his eyes again. He shakes his head.]
Nevermind. It's fine. I don't give a shit. And I'm not hungry, so.
[Fuck you and your pasta. He cracks open the beer can instead, taking a long swig.]
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At the very least, he feels like Tate not knowing what he wants from him is - a real place to start. Derek's eyes are kind of stinging, but he's gonna blame that on the steam. ]
I just want to trust you again. I don't know how to force that. If I could, I would.
[ He shrugs with one shoulder, pinching the bridge of his nose. ]
You're right, though. I've been asking too much of you. I've just been trying to figure all of this out, but - shit, I'm sorry. If you're saying this can't be fixed, or - or that you don't trust me either, then - I don't really know what to do to make all of this right.
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[If Derek's going to tell him he doesn't know if he can trust Tate, why shouldn't he say the same in response? He wants to trust Derek. He just also wants to be trusted. That's the downfall of being self-centered, after all. Everything has to be about you, and when it's not, you feel displaced. Tate looks at Derek, while tipping back his beer to drink more of it in a few gulps. He then wipes his mouth off on his sleeve.]
I'm also not saying it can't be fixed. I'm - I'm just tired. And I don't want to get into this again. Can we work through this later?
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... Yeah.
[ Tate's food is done, and Derek doesn't really know what to do with it, now. He strains the pasta, fucks with the sauce, does everything he needs to do, and he dishes up a plate full of food. He... puts it down in front of Tate, but he knows it probably won't go anywhere. ]
Still want you to spend the night here, if that's... the call you want to make. Just - promise me you'll try to eat something.
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You better not give me food poisoning.
[He's still not eating, but - he's closer to it than before.]
You gonna eat too?
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No. That, uh - that was my dinner, actually.
[ All he really had left, and he's giving it to Tate. Derek shrugs. ]
I'm fine, though. More worried about you than I am about me.
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[He says, already decided. He stabs his fork into the pasta, takes his sweet time setting up a bite. He feels oddly watched in the process, so he glances at Derek through his bangs before he takes said bite, chewing quietly. If Derek thinks he's going to protest to this plan, Tate'll stub that out with a quick addition of:]
Pack's about meeting half way sometimes. Suck my dick if you don't agree.
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I want to take care of you, though.
[ Tate's the one who's hurting right now. Derek is, too, but - Derek didn't go to Tate for help the way Tate did for him. He narrows his eyes, looks back. ]
You - know that, right? Putting aside all of this bullshit between us right now, you - you know that's the bottom line for me, don't you? Making you happy, and... loving you, and... all of that. That's still... what I want.
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[Tate speaks between bites, his head tucked forward but gaze lifted up; he holds his fork away from his plate as he speaks, but then resumes taking another bite of pasta soon after that. Shit could use a little cheese but, well, he's not complaining. He uses his fork to split the pile of pasta down the middle, working it into halves so he can leave some behind for Derek.]
... But I want to let you take care of me too. I'm just... not used to it. I like it, but it's new.
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Well - get used to it. I don't want this to feel new. I want this to be - normal, for you.
[ Whatever, though, he's - done. Derek stands a little straighter, leaves all the worrying about his and Tate's relationship behind him. He walks around Tate, stands behind him, and he just - roughs Tate's hair the fuck up, all affectionate and annoying, laughing a little when it reaches the point that it's probably pissing Tate off. He's not being unkind, just... a little obnoxious. ]
I'm not eating that, by the way. [ the pasta that Tate's so diligently dividing. ] Changed my mind. You can meet me halfway on something else. Not on this. I want that plate spotless by the time you're done with it.
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[Spotless plates and never taking helpings you don't plan on finishing - he's not too sharp with it but after pawing at Derek's hand to get him to stop shitting around with his hair, he's miffed just enough to huff that out. He's only going to eat a half, if that, and Derek can suck his dick if he doesn't like it. He combs back some of his hair from his eyes, then sighs.]
... Can you help me out with something after? I need to cut my hair.
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[ Or anything else like that. Derek's gonna stay pretty stern about this, for at least another five or six seconds. Tate's asking for his help, and Derek doesn't want to just cave and stop talking about what they're talking about, but.
Whatever. He leans on the counter by Tate, giving him his attention. The request makes him frown a little, looking at Tate's curls for a second, then back down to his eyes. ]
I... can help you. But - I mean - I like your hair like this. It's...
[ It's... well, Derek doesn't end up saying whatever he thinks of Tate's hair. He just trails off, looks away. Looks back. Looks at the pasta. ]
If I cut your hair, and if I don't make you finish all this - will you promise to let me make you something the next time you get hungry?
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[Tate agrees quietly, resisting the urge to give another shrug. He eats a few more bites, watching Derek with inquisitive dark eyes before pulling on one of his curls to straighten it out - when tugged, it's much longer than it looks. He lets it snap back up into place.]
I wouldn't mind eating dinner here a few times a week. Or in the treehouse. I'm not really good at making things myself, so it'd be... cool, I guess.
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Okay.
[ A few nights together doesn't mean they're better, and this sure as shit doesn't mean Derek's going to sign Tate's name to the ledger. Tate hasn't done a thing to earn either of those things. It's just - peace of mind, for Derek, knowing that someone he (maybe foolishly) cares about won't spend every fucking night with a needle in his arm, or whatever dumb, desperate shit he does when Derek's out of sight. Feels like he's even more at risk of that kind of thing, now that Peter's gone.
Shit - okay. Derek sighs, pointing his thumb to the bathroom. ]
Finish eating. I'll get my kit. We can cut your hair when you're done. You're gonna want a buzz cut, right? Just - completely bald up there?
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[Tate rolls his eyes, but seems - amused. He then gives Derek the finger, while shoveling more pasta into his mouth. After being seated for so long and starting to eat, his hunger's rearing up like an old friend back in town. He eats a little more intensely after that, sipping beer between bites.]
Just a little off the top, okay? I'll kill you if you fuck my hair up.
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[ Did he have a shaved head? Doesn't matter. Derek leaves Tate alone, gets his shit from the bathroom. Being a werewolf does tend to involve a decent amount of shedding, so like, he's got what he needs to give Tate a fucking trim. He'll wait by the kitchen once he's got his supplies, a little black case filled with scissors and an electric razor with different sized clippers. ]
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[Tate's brows pinch together and he shoots Derek a puzzled look, clearly not getting the reference. He lets Derek get to what he gets to - eating pasta a little past the half way mark but then leaving his plate, fork down, and finishing his beer before standing up. He's going to grab another from the fridge, just because the buzz is... nice. He cracks it open.]
Where do you want me? I can sit on the floor in front of the couch.
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[ It's fine. Derek checks on Tate's plate, sees that he went over the halfway point, and there's a second or two where he thinks about just straight up asking if he wants to finish it - but he'll just get compared to Constance again, probably, and he doesn't need to be in a sour mood for this. ]
Outside. Balcony. Take a chair.
[ Plate goes straight in the fridge, no cling wrap to cover it, Derek catching the door and keeping it open after Tate gets his beer. The living room opens up directly onto the beach, and that's where they're doing this. Derek points to the door with his chin. ]
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[Beer in one hand and a chair from the kitchen in the other, Tate drags it out onto the balcony and slips through the doorway to plant said chair outside. He figures Derek's the one who's going to sit in it so he drops down in front of it, crossing his legs and setting his beer down. The sound and smell of the beach sings to him and Tate looks a little less tense, eyes gravitating outward and getting distracted by the view.]
I love the way the waves come in on days like this.
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Dumbass.
[ But he gets what Tate's saying - Derek loves the waves, too. He never made it out to the sea all too often, and now, the waves remind him of... other people, other places. Windex is here, laying down, quizically looking up at Derek and Tate when they join her. Must have followed them back from the woods. ]
... You come to the beach much when you thought I was gone?
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[Tate gestures, not making a move to get up - he sips his beer and then rests his can between his crossed legs, in the little alcove of space there. He looks back to the water, then lets his gaze drift to Windex. He stretches out his hand toward her, making a soft noise to see if she'll come closer.]
Yeah. I came here pretty often - the beach, the treehouse. Not... here, not more than once or twice. These are my favorite places... of course I came.
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[ He's teasing, obviously. Derek's skin feels pretty itchy, keeping Tate on the floor like this, but if it's what he wants, it's what he wants. He takes his seat, balancing the case full of his shit leaning against one of the chair legs after taking out a particularly hefty pair of scissors. Should be all he needs, really. He used to cut Cora's hair for her all the time - this isn't new territory for him.
Tate says these were his favorite places, and Derek doesn't know what to make of it. Favorite because of him, or favorite because they're just - there? He's... not gonna ask. ]
... Sure you don't want a mohawk?
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[Derek sits though, and Tate moves accordingly - leaning back just a little to rest against his legs, more or less between them, and tilts his head back to look up at him with brows raised. Then he squints his eyes.]
Just a trim. You try any funny shit an' I'll get your cat high as fuck on catnip.
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[ Windex, Trisk. Neither of them feel like his cats, but technically, they both are, now. Stiles isn't there to look after Windex, and Trisk - well, Trisk has her home in the woods, but he always feels bad when he leaves her, and she always seems to feel bad when he goes. Derek wouldn't mind moving her to the house full time, if Tate would let him.
He gets to work - he's not going to cut Tate's hair as short as he wants it, at first, just because he wants to give him the option to tell him to stop before doing something irreperable. He trims dead ends, marvelling, somewhere, in the back of his mind, how Tate's not really - stagnating, the way he should be as a ghost. He's growing. Aging. Capable of change. ]
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