Right. Right, okay. Okay, well... fuck. I'm sorry. I don't know what to say. I should have tried harder to find you. Should have tried harder to find Noah, after he left me. He wasn't himself, when we were together. Was he okay? With you?
it's fine, it's not like i died-died. if i can still do that i just... i don't know. i'll tell you about it later i can't make... words out of it? if it makes sense how it felt. even though i keep thinking about it
when we woke up this morning we just came back to the treehouse i'm not there rn so idk if he's still there i'm getting some cigarettes can i come to the den tonight?
[ it's been days. tate mentions waking up this morning like they just washed ashore last night, and derek doesn't know how to say that if tate lost that much time, he was probably brought back to life again by LIES. maybe he doesn't want to say it at all. maybe that's not something tate needs to know.
derek just-- jesus, derek doesn't know what to say. he pushes ahead. ]
Yeah. I actually need to talk to you about something, so. You should spend the night.
[ if tate smokes inside anyway, he's not going to do more than give him a sour look, but. still. ]
I'll leave the side door unlocked.
[ the door that leads in from the beach, rather than the front door. that's the last thing derek bothers to send, before he shuts off his phone and wastes the rest of his afternoon in the wait for tate to show up. ]
[Tate'd normally fight just for the sake of fighting, or light up anyway once inside the den but today he just... doesn't feel like it. He feels a bit absent from himself and it's not a feeling he particularly likes. It's like he's just died all over again, and maybe he has, but he hasn't found a way to re-root himself in reality. He's hoping that Derek'll be an anchor but the fact Derek mentions he has to talk to him about something does nothing to keep Tate's nerves at bay.
He shows up around six thirty looking more disheveled than usual, hair a bit flatter and a gaunt look to his face; hollowed, somehow, by his unknown absence. He's got a brown paper bag with food he has absolutely no desire to eat but he needed to go through some motions. He slips in through the door like a whisper, a certain blank blackness to his eyes that doesn't go away even when he lays them on Derek.]
I brought food.
[He puts it on the counter, where the strong scent of greasy chinese can waft out of the bag.]
[ Derek doesn't startle easily, but even though he'd expected to see Tate tonight, his arrival still takes him by surprise. Tate's voice creeps into his ears and makes him jump, every silent footfall he takes and sound of his heartbeat dulled just by merit of the state he's in. It's like he appears out of nowhere, fading into existence the second he stepped across the threshold into Derek's home, even the crinkling of the paper bag in his hand seemingly deadened by his presence.
But Derek's still relieved to see him, fucked up though he might be right now. Derek's pulse finds its regular rhythm again as he drifts to the counter to start unpacking food, keeping a worried eye on Tate as he takes in the sight of him. This is a lot like the Tate Derek first knew two years ago - silent and shadowed, vacant and unsettling. The kind of kid Derek tried to teach control to through blood and red eyes, as woeful of a mistake as that might have been. Derek doesn't like it. ]
... You hungry, or is this just for me?
[ The last thing Tate looks is hungry. Derek starts pulling out chinese from the bag, setting each disposable tub of tupperware next to one another before peeling off plastic lids. His cats - both of them - seem to have smelled the chicken in the air, because Windex has jumped onto the counter to get a better look while Trisk sits patiently at Derek's feet. Neither of them seem to give a fuck that Tate is clearly recently dead. ]
[He answers immediately, like that's all he has to say - and it could be, if he didn't a moment later hesitate as if drawn back to a part of himself he'd learned to rely on around Derek the last little while. That's the part where he's more open about himself, like he's stirring to make an additional comment because Derek is owed it, just like he's owed honesty and openness.
Tate's a bit displeased still, nose crinkling a bit at the pungent smell of the chicken and he'd rather not even stay in the room but he knows what his answer should be for Derek. And while he's not yet at the point where he wants to eat, he eases into it step by step:]
I feel kind of sick still, I haven't eaten all day.
[He wets his lips, glancing at Derek, assuming it means he's surrendering to it now like a dog with its ears tucked back and tail down in wary submission.]
[ While it's clear to Derek that Tate probably isn't going to eat tonight, he also thinks it's important that he tries. Three days without food is-- intense, and while he knows that Tate might not need food to survive, he does also cling to the hope that there's something about Duplicity that keeps the poor kid alive. Genuinely, authentically alive. The sooner Tate treats his body like a living thing worth protecting, the sooner, hopefully, he'll feel like less of a phantom. ]
That's okay. Just... have something. For me. Even if it's small.
[ Derek shrugs one shoulder, reaching over the counter to grab a couple of forks from the drawer behind it. He leaves one on the counter beside him for Tate to pick up, if he wants it, but then just stabs some chicken for himself, taking a bite. There's an insistent meow by his ankles, and after taking a few more mouthfuls, Derek starts breaking up some of the chicken for his cats, keeping his eyes off of Tate. He doesn't want to pressure him. ]
I can fix you something easier, if this is too much. Soup, or... toast, or something. Doesn't have to be now, either, just - you should have something before you go to sleep.
[Tate's silent in a way that's a bit telling about how he feels about the notion of only eating a little, but after a long stagnant pause he picks up the fork. He takes his time to get a plate, meandering around the kitchen like he's drifting along and making no hurried motion to fill up. In fact it's not until Derek offers to make him something else that he teeters over the edge, using his fork to part a bit of rice onto his plate and what you'd consider a morsel of meat.]
This is fine - I'll try.
[He's never quite felt as vividly dead here as he does now, but he supposes he's just forgotten it. It's been two years pretty much since he drifted in and even though he feels bogged down by a persistent fog in his head, he's going to try to shake it off. This isn't the House - he needs to keep moving and not become a forgotten afterthought. He steps closer to Derek, closer than he needs to, side to side as he takes a fortune cookie and tears its packet open with his teeth.]
[ Derek keeps his eyes on Tate, completely silent, just-- watching, hawk-eyed and protective. It's something of a relief when Tate actually does stockpile on a few tiny scraps of food, though a part of Derek would have preferred him to make a few shitty comments and shoot him down than to just-- drift, like this. When Tate starts migrating with his plate towards the living room, Derek nods, standing up straight and pushing back from the counter. ]
Couch.
[ He doesn't waste time with a plate, only keeping the tupperware on hand as he moves, partially because he doesn't want to bother getting one out of the cupboards when Tate's sticking so close to his side. He drifts towards the couch and takes a seat, patting the seat next to him in case Tate feels in any way like he can't stick as close to him as he needs to, and with his feet on the coffee table in front of him, Derek goes back to eating, quietly trying to process everything these last few days might mean. ]
[Tate slinks toward the couch like Derek's shadow, curling up with his heels on the sofa cushion and his body tilted toward Derek on a slant. It's one of those moods of Tate's where he won't outwardly say it but there's a clear want to be touched or held, and he just drops his head to look down at his pitiful plate of food which he pokes at with his fork. He licks a few grains of rice off the prongs of the fork.]
Okay.
[The boat - a place of merciless blood and suffering, and a few experiences he probably should forget about. Being shackled to the brig's walls was one of those things he will just neglect to mention and in time seemingly forget ever happened - if you ignore it long enough it's like it never took place? He spears chicken on his fork.]
I found Noah there, after... I don't know how long I was there. We wanted to get off but didn't really know how until we saw people jump.
[ Derek sticks close to Tate, though he's consciously avoiding being overwhelming. He keeps constant contact, with Derek leaning against Tate's shoulder with his own or resting a reassuring hand on his leg between bites of his food, but for the most part he keeps his focus on their conversation. He eats slowly, worried that Tate's going to stop eating the second Derek's finished, and he keeps his eyes down, looking at his hands. ]
I barely remember how I got there in the first place.
[ He remembers cleaning the beach, he remembers the boat arriving, but everything gets blurry, after that. Derek casts a quick side glance Tate's way, worriedly checking in on him and trying to read his expression. ]
A little. Not bad or anything, but there was a lot going on.
[People were tearing one another apart in a variety of ways, from the more violent to the sadistically sexual and he definitely got some hands thrown his way in such a way he was disheveled long before he made it to the brig to be left to the mercy of strangers. He spins the ring on his thumb and then tentatively eats a bite of chicken, which tastes like nothing in his mouth. It takes a lot of effort to swallow.]
Worst was after we jumped. We did it together, to get back to land. I know how to swim pretty okay and it was like nothing I've ever experienced before. I just sunk down and down.
[ It sounds like Noah was more like himself, by the time he and Tate tried to flee back to shore, but Derek can't help but wonder if things were different. Maybe Noah was still possessed - maybe, when the thing inside of him couldn't kill him, it took to smarter tactics and easier prey. Maybe it... did something. Drowned Tate after they jumped, or - knocked him out so the sea could have him. Derek doesn't know what to think.
He lets his fork hang limply between his fingers, eyes set on Tate more firmly. His gut instinct is to try and fix this, somehow, but he doesn't know how he would even start. There's no... un-drowning someone. Even the brief flash of righteous anger that sparks in him doesn't find enough of a foothold to last. Derek just-- shakes his head, not sure what he could say to make this even the slightest bit better. ]
I should have protected you. Should have kept you safe.
I don't know if there was anything you could've done. I didn't even know you were there.
[Until after, at least. Maybe if he had found Derek it would've been something different - he would've had someone to help him, even. He looks sidelong at Derek like he might be thinking about that in particular but he doesn't say anything. He just stabs at another small piece of chicken off his plate and avoids putting it to his lips.]
When I - when I went under, I...
[Tate stares blankly, fork drooping back down to the plate. He stares off to the distant wall of the den, blank and unfocused. He doesn't quite flinch but it's like there's something plaguing him, and he rubs at his eye before clutching the side of his head almost as if pain is shooting through it.]
I saw stuff. I can't - I can't make sense of it. Even when I try.
[ Derek's been through enough now to know that nothing productive can come from blaming himself for things he can't help, but - having a logical awareness of something like that doesn't magically prevent him from feeling guilty over not being there when Tate needed him. If he could have been there, he would have been, and he knows Tate knows that better than anyone, but... like Tate, Derek knows that things could have been different. Should have been different. He's supposed to protect this kid.
Derek watches Tate's expression shift into something-- uncomfortable, maybe, under all the passive, dead distance. There's something innately disturbing about seeing him like this, and Derek wishes he knew how to fix it. He sets down his food, too, shifting in his seat to look more directly at Tate, draping his arm across the back of the sofa behind them. ]
[Tate repeats a little louder, almost slipping into a frustrated tone. It's not that he doesn't want to figure out the flashes of color in his head but every time he tries to there's something that blends everything together in his head and makes him a bit sick from trying to keep it all separate and apart. He clutches his hands into his hair, grimacing with his eyes closed and his body hunching forward. He heaves a breath and his fork falls from his plate, off his lap and onto the floor.]
Everything is - any time I try to think, it hurts. Nothing makes sense when I try to talk about it. It's in my head and I can't fucking get it out!
[ Derek was expecting something like this to happen, so when Tate's composure breaks and he starts to slip, he's ready to help however he can. He takes Tate's plate and moves it to the table, quickly doing the same with his fork and his own food, moving fast while Tate's voice cracks under the strain of how loudly he's starting to talk. ]
Okay. Okay. Here -
[ He twists in place, gets himself facing Tate more directly, and he puts a hand on Tate's chest, just for the connection. He doesn't want to pull the poor guy into a hug, or something, if he's just going to feel trapped and lose his shit, but he still doubles down on the physical contact to keep him anchored. ]
I can help you. I can get into your head with my claws, I can - try to make it clearer. I can take those memories away from you, if you don't want to see them.
[He's so caught up in his own upset that he doesn't have the foresight to see what kind of a danger it would be to have Derek peek into his head. One wrong memory and everything he's built here would unravel as violently as all the lives he once snuffed out. But Tate's still suffering in his own head, starting to rock gently, but he breathes in deep at the contact from Derek and slowly relaxes. He's still tense, muscles tight, teeth clenched together and his fingers still gripping into the curls that halo his head.]
It's in my head and I can't even talk about it. I want it out. Take it out.
[ The last thing Derek wants to do is invade Tate's privacy, but - this is going to be his first time delving into someone else's mind, and by using his own claws instead of relying on Talia's as a set of safety wheels, he's not going to have the control he might need to find already corrupted memories in Tate's head. He's made the promise, though, and after curling his hand against Tate's chest, he nods, standing and stepping back. ]
Alright. This is going to hurt, but - I've got you.
[ He moves until he's standing behind Tate, reaching over the back of the sofa to grip him by the shoulders, gently squeezing in an attempt to get him relaxed. Derek wets his lips and follows the curve of Tate's spine, beating down all the worries trying to convince him that this is a bad idea. Too deep and Tate could end up a wolf - too imprecise and he could end up paralyzed or dead. Again. Derek's stomach twists. ]
[He's not ready - he's still caught up in the whirlwind in his head that even after Derek moves, it's not until he's squeezing his shoulders that he really realized where he went. Tate is hunched forward just a bit and tries to correct, leaning back against the support of Derek's hands before slanting forward again on second thought. His heart flickers in its beat and he turns to look over his shoulder, vaguely present but also - rightly apprehensive.]
Do I need to do anything? Should I- do anything?
[Close his eyes. Take off his shirt? Hold his breath or count to twenty?]
[ Derek's grip on Tate is still affectionate and reassuring, but the hold on his shoulder gets tighter, once he's worked up the guts to go through with this. He darts his tongue between his lips and takes a quick breath to steady himself, and - and he considers preparing Tate more concretely about what's to come, but the faster this starts, the sooner it'll be finished.
Claws extend from Derek's right hand, and Tate feels the sharp, violent pain of four sharp nails pressed in a vertical line against the tip of his spine. Derek holds Tate steady, exhibiting more force than he'd like just to hold him still, and he shuts his eyes, searching for the images and shapes and sights haunting Tate. ]
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Right, okay.
Okay, well... fuck. I'm sorry. I don't know what to say.
I should have tried harder to find you.
Should have tried harder to find Noah, after he left me. He wasn't himself, when we were together.
Was he okay? With you?
[ or was he the reason they drowned? ]
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i just... i don't know. i'll tell you about it later
i can't make... words out of it? if it makes sense
how it felt. even though i keep thinking about it
when we woke up this morning we just came back to the treehouse
i'm not there rn so idk if he's still there
i'm getting some cigarettes
can i come to the den tonight?
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derek just-- jesus, derek doesn't know what to say. he pushes ahead. ]
Yeah.
I actually need to talk to you about something, so.
You should spend the night.
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what kinda stuff do u need 2 talk to me about
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i'll come by tonight
i can smoke inside right
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[ if tate smokes inside anyway, he's not going to do more than give him a sour look, but. still. ]
I'll leave the side door unlocked.
[ the door that leads in from the beach, rather than the front door. that's the last thing derek bothers to send, before he shuts off his phone and wastes the rest of his afternoon in the wait for tate to show up. ]
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He shows up around six thirty looking more disheveled than usual, hair a bit flatter and a gaunt look to his face; hollowed, somehow, by his unknown absence. He's got a brown paper bag with food he has absolutely no desire to eat but he needed to go through some motions. He slips in through the door like a whisper, a certain blank blackness to his eyes that doesn't go away even when he lays them on Derek.]
I brought food.
[He puts it on the counter, where the strong scent of greasy chinese can waft out of the bag.]
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But Derek's still relieved to see him, fucked up though he might be right now. Derek's pulse finds its regular rhythm again as he drifts to the counter to start unpacking food, keeping a worried eye on Tate as he takes in the sight of him. This is a lot like the Tate Derek first knew two years ago - silent and shadowed, vacant and unsettling. The kind of kid Derek tried to teach control to through blood and red eyes, as woeful of a mistake as that might have been. Derek doesn't like it. ]
... You hungry, or is this just for me?
[ The last thing Tate looks is hungry. Derek starts pulling out chinese from the bag, setting each disposable tub of tupperware next to one another before peeling off plastic lids. His cats - both of them - seem to have smelled the chicken in the air, because Windex has jumped onto the counter to get a better look while Trisk sits patiently at Derek's feet. Neither of them seem to give a fuck that Tate is clearly recently dead. ]
And them.
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[He answers immediately, like that's all he has to say - and it could be, if he didn't a moment later hesitate as if drawn back to a part of himself he'd learned to rely on around Derek the last little while. That's the part where he's more open about himself, like he's stirring to make an additional comment because Derek is owed it, just like he's owed honesty and openness.
Tate's a bit displeased still, nose crinkling a bit at the pungent smell of the chicken and he'd rather not even stay in the room but he knows what his answer should be for Derek. And while he's not yet at the point where he wants to eat, he eases into it step by step:]
I feel kind of sick still, I haven't eaten all day.
[He wets his lips, glancing at Derek, assuming it means he's surrendering to it now like a dog with its ears tucked back and tail down in wary submission.]
I don't want a lot.
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That's okay. Just... have something. For me. Even if it's small.
[ Derek shrugs one shoulder, reaching over the counter to grab a couple of forks from the drawer behind it. He leaves one on the counter beside him for Tate to pick up, if he wants it, but then just stabs some chicken for himself, taking a bite. There's an insistent meow by his ankles, and after taking a few more mouthfuls, Derek starts breaking up some of the chicken for his cats, keeping his eyes off of Tate. He doesn't want to pressure him. ]
I can fix you something easier, if this is too much. Soup, or... toast, or something. Doesn't have to be now, either, just - you should have something before you go to sleep.
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This is fine - I'll try.
[He's never quite felt as vividly dead here as he does now, but he supposes he's just forgotten it. It's been two years pretty much since he drifted in and even though he feels bogged down by a persistent fog in his head, he's going to try to shake it off. This isn't the House - he needs to keep moving and not become a forgotten afterthought. He steps closer to Derek, closer than he needs to, side to side as he takes a fortune cookie and tears its packet open with his teeth.]
Where do we eat? Couch?
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Couch.
[ He doesn't waste time with a plate, only keeping the tupperware on hand as he moves, partially because he doesn't want to bother getting one out of the cupboards when Tate's sticking so close to his side. He drifts towards the couch and takes a seat, patting the seat next to him in case Tate feels in any way like he can't stick as close to him as he needs to, and with his feet on the coffee table in front of him, Derek goes back to eating, quietly trying to process everything these last few days might mean. ]
... You wanna talk about the boat?
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Okay.
[The boat - a place of merciless blood and suffering, and a few experiences he probably should forget about. Being shackled to the brig's walls was one of those things he will just neglect to mention and in time seemingly forget ever happened - if you ignore it long enough it's like it never took place? He spears chicken on his fork.]
I found Noah there, after... I don't know how long I was there. We wanted to get off but didn't really know how until we saw people jump.
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I barely remember how I got there in the first place.
[ He remembers cleaning the beach, he remembers the boat arriving, but everything gets blurry, after that. Derek casts a quick side glance Tate's way, worriedly checking in on him and trying to read his expression. ]
Did you get hurt before you jumped?
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[People were tearing one another apart in a variety of ways, from the more violent to the sadistically sexual and he definitely got some hands thrown his way in such a way he was disheveled long before he made it to the brig to be left to the mercy of strangers. He spins the ring on his thumb and then tentatively eats a bite of chicken, which tastes like nothing in his mouth. It takes a lot of effort to swallow.]
Worst was after we jumped. We did it together, to get back to land. I know how to swim pretty okay and it was like nothing I've ever experienced before. I just sunk down and down.
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He lets his fork hang limply between his fingers, eyes set on Tate more firmly. His gut instinct is to try and fix this, somehow, but he doesn't know how he would even start. There's no... un-drowning someone. Even the brief flash of righteous anger that sparks in him doesn't find enough of a foothold to last. Derek just-- shakes his head, not sure what he could say to make this even the slightest bit better. ]
I should have protected you. Should have kept you safe.
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[Until after, at least. Maybe if he had found Derek it would've been something different - he would've had someone to help him, even. He looks sidelong at Derek like he might be thinking about that in particular but he doesn't say anything. He just stabs at another small piece of chicken off his plate and avoids putting it to his lips.]
When I - when I went under, I...
[Tate stares blankly, fork drooping back down to the plate. He stares off to the distant wall of the den, blank and unfocused. He doesn't quite flinch but it's like there's something plaguing him, and he rubs at his eye before clutching the side of his head almost as if pain is shooting through it.]
I saw stuff. I can't - I can't make sense of it. Even when I try.
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Derek watches Tate's expression shift into something-- uncomfortable, maybe, under all the passive, dead distance. There's something innately disturbing about seeing him like this, and Derek wishes he knew how to fix it. He sets down his food, too, shifting in his seat to look more directly at Tate, draping his arm across the back of the sofa behind them. ]
What did you see?
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[Tate repeats a little louder, almost slipping into a frustrated tone. It's not that he doesn't want to figure out the flashes of color in his head but every time he tries to there's something that blends everything together in his head and makes him a bit sick from trying to keep it all separate and apart. He clutches his hands into his hair, grimacing with his eyes closed and his body hunching forward. He heaves a breath and his fork falls from his plate, off his lap and onto the floor.]
Everything is - any time I try to think, it hurts. Nothing makes sense when I try to talk about it. It's in my head and I can't fucking get it out!
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Okay. Okay. Here -
[ He twists in place, gets himself facing Tate more directly, and he puts a hand on Tate's chest, just for the connection. He doesn't want to pull the poor guy into a hug, or something, if he's just going to feel trapped and lose his shit, but he still doubles down on the physical contact to keep him anchored. ]
I can help you. I can get into your head with my claws, I can - try to make it clearer. I can take those memories away from you, if you don't want to see them.
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[He's so caught up in his own upset that he doesn't have the foresight to see what kind of a danger it would be to have Derek peek into his head. One wrong memory and everything he's built here would unravel as violently as all the lives he once snuffed out. But Tate's still suffering in his own head, starting to rock gently, but he breathes in deep at the contact from Derek and slowly relaxes. He's still tense, muscles tight, teeth clenched together and his fingers still gripping into the curls that halo his head.]
It's in my head and I can't even talk about it. I want it out. Take it out.
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Alright. This is going to hurt, but - I've got you.
[ He moves until he's standing behind Tate, reaching over the back of the sofa to grip him by the shoulders, gently squeezing in an attempt to get him relaxed. Derek wets his lips and follows the curve of Tate's spine, beating down all the worries trying to convince him that this is a bad idea. Too deep and Tate could end up a wolf - too imprecise and he could end up paralyzed or dead. Again. Derek's stomach twists. ]
You ready?
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Do I need to do anything? Should I- do anything?
[Close his eyes. Take off his shirt? Hold his breath or count to twenty?]
Don't count down or anything. Just do it.
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[ Derek's grip on Tate is still affectionate and reassuring, but the hold on his shoulder gets tighter, once he's worked up the guts to go through with this. He darts his tongue between his lips and takes a quick breath to steady himself, and - and he considers preparing Tate more concretely about what's to come, but the faster this starts, the sooner it'll be finished.
Claws extend from Derek's right hand, and Tate feels the sharp, violent pain of four sharp nails pressed in a vertical line against the tip of his spine. Derek holds Tate steady, exhibiting more force than he'd like just to hold him still, and he shuts his eyes, searching for the images and shapes and sights haunting Tate. ]
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