[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. ]
[Tate murmurs something of an 'okay' but aside from feeling Derek's grip tighten he's woefully unprepared for the feeling of his claws gliding into the back of his neck. It's like a jolt and Tate lets out a softly strangled noise, back rigid and his lips parting in a silent gasp as all breath in his lungs is extinguished in the quickest of moments.]
Sh-Shit.
[He scrunches his eyes closed and grits his teeth, trying to focus on the memories in question as if it might help Derek find them somehow.]
[ The pain from Derek's claws doesn't last long, which surprises even him - he presses against the right nerves and forges the right connection, and despite a strong sense of physical discomfort, Tate, if anything, would more likely just feel exposed. There's the overwhelming sense of Derek's presence covering every part of him, enveloping him in every thought and feeling that makes Derek Derek, and it feels like now, more than ever, Derek can really see him.
Derek's head is a mess, with Tate's thoughts infiltrating his own. His eyes stay clenched shut as he searches through flashes of memories too fragmented and minor to understand, but he pushes through the noise in his mind until, with Tate's help, he focuses on the day the boat arrived. He sees Noah, briefly, he sees cabin walls and smells the spray of the sea, but his mind warps and changes until he sees the eldritch, horrible visions that crawled into Tate's head while he was drowning. Derek doesn't flinch, but he nearly does - which would have been enough to make this disastrous.
He takes the memories away. One by one, Tate just - forgets the horrible shit he saw. There's a faceless woman, an endless expanse of space, and one second they're there, and the next, they're not. It takes a few minutes of careful navigation, but before long, anything Tate saw while he was drowning is just - gone. ]
[Tate doesn't know how to properly describe this moment, and that's strange considering all that he's been through - including a merry amount of deaths. But he tries to keep himself focused, to fish through the mess in his head for the haunting images that blur and move before his eyes but fail to escape him in words. He almost relives the moment of suffocating on jet black water, and flashes of other memories come in through association. Fading in and out of consciousness with drugs in his system. Choking on a mouthful of blood as a room full of SWAT warily watch him fall.
He panics and thinks of something else in the half-heartbeat his mind skipped to that, realizing he can't remember what the other memories were. They're gone, like a dream he stirred from - they aren't recorded anywhere in recent memory. He opens his eyes, looking up, feeling oddly... strange about that. Did he make the right decision?]
[ Tate feels it all. The slight flare of panic from Derek when Tate stirs into clearer consciousness, the urge to tell him to wait flooding through Derek's brain as an electric impulse, the muscle memory that forges the w and the a and the i and the t through lips and tongue and teeth. They're still connected, intimately so, and Derek tells Tate to stay still before carefully, carefully taking his claws from his neck.
Tate's blood drips on the floor and Derek doesn't seem to mind the mess. He retracts his claws, exhales softly and walks around to the front of the couch, dizzy and unsteady on his feet. He stands over Tate, though, face to face, one arm folded over the other, and he tilts his chin up before he speaks, completely disconnected. ]
[Derek's looming over Tate as he pinches together his brows, feeling a bit heady but unsure - clarity is quick to return to him and he looks up at Derek with wider brown eyes than usual. He's softer around the edges, a little more present now that he can stop fixating on what he couldn't see, share or control. He's more alive but still a bit dead around the edges, gray circles under his eyes as he reaches back to touch his fingers to his neck and brings them back wet with red.
He stares at the blood on his fingertips, not all that concerned either. The wound will heal in ten minute's time but Tate's just searching again for the memories that were taken from him. He shakes his head, dismissing the notion that Derek hurt him. It hurt, yes, but it was for the best.]
[ It's not until Tate's talking again that Derek starts seeing through the fog that's clouding up his mind. I didn't hurt you, did I, he asked, only now having the delayed realization that that was a pretty stupid question to ask - Derek can smell Tate's blood in the air, he can see the red stain on both of their hands. He winces, guilty, looking down at his fingers before wiping blood off on his shirt. ]
It's-- fine.
[ If Tate says he feels better, then - fine. Derek's struggling to sort through the images in his head, but they're fading, image by image. Derek finishes cleaning off his hand before it hits him at once that he fucking hates the sight of Tate's blood on his shirt, so he pulls it off over his head and leaves it on the ground, wandering towards the laundry to find a replacement. ]
You're still spending the night here. I don't want you going back to the treehouse.
[There's no fight in Tate against that, not when he's still feeling like his head is churning itself inside out - only now without the images that once accompanied the sway-like feeling resonating through him like he was still awash in the tide. He rubs his hand up and over the bones of his wrist, curling one finger against his forearm to scratch up toward his elbow and back again in an idle tic.]
... Are they just going to be in your head now? Forever?
[A question that bubbles out of him after he looks up, not sure how he feels. Still happier not to have them in his own head, but Derek's continued burdening of himself leaves Tate feeling like he's not able to keep the balance. He should be protecting Derek too, or at the very least not continuing to prove how weak he is by needing assistance every five steps.]
[ Derek wanders out before too long, dressed again, his hands hidden away in the cotton of his thumbhole sweater. He notices the tic, before he notices the strain in Tate's voice, and Derek wants pretty badly to lie to him. It's physically possible for Derek to get rid of these thoughts, but - he won't. He never does. Someone needs to remember things like this. That someone has always been Derek. ]
Yeah.
[ He drifts back over to Tate, running a hand back through blond curls, idly playing with Tate's hair without really thinking much of the action. ]
I knew that when I offered to help you, though. Don't want you feeling bad over that.
[Tate murmurs the fact aloud, leaning in toward Derek's palm not unlike the three legged cat that roams around them half the time. He stares off for a moment into the distance, eyes unfocused, before he blinks back into himself and the present. He tilts his head to look up at Derek, reaching up with two fingers to snag the front of his clean shirt and give it a little tug right at the hem. Right over his dick.]
[ If Derek thought doing a lot for Tate was a bad thing, they never would have gotten this far. He still looks pretty worn, even with everything relatively settled back into focus now, so when Tate tugs at his sweater, Derek knows what he's after. He smiles, soft and easygoing, rocking forward on the balls of his feet, and then just slowly drops his hand to grab the back of Tate's. ]
Maybe. I still need to talk to you about something, remember?
[ Anything else can come - after. Later. If at all. He gets the feeling Tate's gonna get upset, again. ]
[Tate's fingers unhook, slow and deliberate, ghosting down the front of Derek's thigh as he lets 'maybe' sit at the forefront of his mind and feels curbed away from what he wanted with minor annoyance. He chews on his lower lip before looking back up, dark eyes intent in how they study Derek's face - waiting for the next cue on how to act. What to say. What to do.]
[ It's funny - Derek kind of forgot the weird, oppressive feeling of dread that came over him every time he had to talk about Stiles to Tate. He had to work to keep the two of them separate, seeing as Stiles always seemed to trigger some of Tate's anxiety attacks, and he's still not entirely sure why things always played out that way. Derek's remembering that feeling now, though. His chest's all tight. ]
Stiles is back.
[ Derek lets that hang in the air for a second before-- clarifying, in case he needs to. ]
He's been here for a couple of weeks. Doesn't remember being here before. Thought you should know, because... things always felt complicated between you two, I guess.
[Tate feels a pulse of something run through him and he hates how that might be noticeable, hopefully brushed off as surprise with the way his eyes widen a fraction before Derek lets him put his worry to rest by telling him that Stiles doesn't remember. That Stiles won't hold anything he once told him against him, tip toeing around sensitive subjects by lying and feeling like the only person who had nearly called him on his bullshit isn't actually back to do it again. He swallows hard, breathing in deep before exhaling slowly and really craving a smoke.]
Oh.
[There's a lot to process there and maybe it's a good thing that Derek can sense the way Tate twitches, the way he scratches at his arm again idly - because it might be perceived as the jealousy it in part truly is. Someone Derek cares about is back and Tate is just so quickly becoming agitated by the notion of having to share the attention he's receiving.]
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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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Sh-Shit.
[He scrunches his eyes closed and grits his teeth, trying to focus on the memories in question as if it might help Derek find them somehow.]
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Derek's head is a mess, with Tate's thoughts infiltrating his own. His eyes stay clenched shut as he searches through flashes of memories too fragmented and minor to understand, but he pushes through the noise in his mind until, with Tate's help, he focuses on the day the boat arrived. He sees Noah, briefly, he sees cabin walls and smells the spray of the sea, but his mind warps and changes until he sees the eldritch, horrible visions that crawled into Tate's head while he was drowning. Derek doesn't flinch, but he nearly does - which would have been enough to make this disastrous.
He takes the memories away. One by one, Tate just - forgets the horrible shit he saw. There's a faceless woman, an endless expanse of space, and one second they're there, and the next, they're not. It takes a few minutes of careful navigation, but before long, anything Tate saw while he was drowning is just - gone. ]
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He panics and thinks of something else in the half-heartbeat his mind skipped to that, realizing he can't remember what the other memories were. They're gone, like a dream he stirred from - they aren't recorded anywhere in recent memory. He opens his eyes, looking up, feeling oddly... strange about that. Did he make the right decision?]
D-Derek?
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[ Tate feels it all. The slight flare of panic from Derek when Tate stirs into clearer consciousness, the urge to tell him to wait flooding through Derek's brain as an electric impulse, the muscle memory that forges the w and the a and the i and the t through lips and tongue and teeth. They're still connected, intimately so, and Derek tells Tate to stay still before carefully, carefully taking his claws from his neck.
Tate's blood drips on the floor and Derek doesn't seem to mind the mess. He retracts his claws, exhales softly and walks around to the front of the couch, dizzy and unsteady on his feet. He stands over Tate, though, face to face, one arm folded over the other, and he tilts his chin up before he speaks, completely disconnected. ]
Was that okay? I didn't hurt you, did I?
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[Derek's looming over Tate as he pinches together his brows, feeling a bit heady but unsure - clarity is quick to return to him and he looks up at Derek with wider brown eyes than usual. He's softer around the edges, a little more present now that he can stop fixating on what he couldn't see, share or control. He's more alive but still a bit dead around the edges, gray circles under his eyes as he reaches back to touch his fingers to his neck and brings them back wet with red.
He stares at the blood on his fingertips, not all that concerned either. The wound will heal in ten minute's time but Tate's just searching again for the memories that were taken from him. He shakes his head, dismissing the notion that Derek hurt him. It hurt, yes, but it was for the best.]
I feel better. Because of you.
[He looks up again.]
Thank you.
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It's-- fine.
[ If Tate says he feels better, then - fine. Derek's struggling to sort through the images in his head, but they're fading, image by image. Derek finishes cleaning off his hand before it hits him at once that he fucking hates the sight of Tate's blood on his shirt, so he pulls it off over his head and leaves it on the ground, wandering towards the laundry to find a replacement. ]
You're still spending the night here. I don't want you going back to the treehouse.
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[There's no fight in Tate against that, not when he's still feeling like his head is churning itself inside out - only now without the images that once accompanied the sway-like feeling resonating through him like he was still awash in the tide. He rubs his hand up and over the bones of his wrist, curling one finger against his forearm to scratch up toward his elbow and back again in an idle tic.]
... Are they just going to be in your head now? Forever?
[A question that bubbles out of him after he looks up, not sure how he feels. Still happier not to have them in his own head, but Derek's continued burdening of himself leaves Tate feeling like he's not able to keep the balance. He should be protecting Derek too, or at the very least not continuing to prove how weak he is by needing assistance every five steps.]
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Yeah.
[ He drifts back over to Tate, running a hand back through blond curls, idly playing with Tate's hair without really thinking much of the action. ]
I knew that when I offered to help you, though. Don't want you feeling bad over that.
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[Tate murmurs the fact aloud, leaning in toward Derek's palm not unlike the three legged cat that roams around them half the time. He stares off for a moment into the distance, eyes unfocused, before he blinks back into himself and the present. He tilts his head to look up at Derek, reaching up with two fingers to snag the front of his clean shirt and give it a little tug right at the hem. Right over his dick.]
Will you do one more thing for me?
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Maybe. I still need to talk to you about something, remember?
[ Anything else can come - after. Later. If at all. He gets the feeling Tate's gonna get upset, again. ]
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[Tate's fingers unhook, slow and deliberate, ghosting down the front of Derek's thigh as he lets 'maybe' sit at the forefront of his mind and feels curbed away from what he wanted with minor annoyance. He chews on his lower lip before looking back up, dark eyes intent in how they study Derek's face - waiting for the next cue on how to act. What to say. What to do.]
What is it?
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Stiles is back.
[ Derek lets that hang in the air for a second before-- clarifying, in case he needs to. ]
He's been here for a couple of weeks. Doesn't remember being here before. Thought you should know, because... things always felt complicated between you two, I guess.
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Oh.
[There's a lot to process there and maybe it's a good thing that Derek can sense the way Tate twitches, the way he scratches at his arm again idly - because it might be perceived as the jealousy it in part truly is. Someone Derek cares about is back and Tate is just so quickly becoming agitated by the notion of having to share the attention he's receiving.]
You must be happy.
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