[After everything that happened, taking to Derek didn't feel accessible. Tate's pride was still wounded from blowing up, and although they haven't - and hopefully won't - address it, he doesn't know if he burnt those bridges he was building with the two of them. Derek and he were supposed to be able to talk, but Tate no longer felt confident what he said was truly between them. Not when he could see Stiles and Derek were close, with that hint of jealous suspicion.
He moves his arm and looks at Derek with one uncovered eye, low lidded and still glazed by the shit in his system. It's a blank stare because he's not sure how to open up to the notion of being taken care of when the last slap to the face still stings his cheek. Another night and he might've sat up to walk away to dispel this anxiety, but he can't even lift his head. He just grunts, shutting his eyes.]
I don't trust you yet. And you don't trust me. So I don't know if I believe you, but I want to. That'd be nice, for a change.
[ this isn't something he can force. if tate doesn't trust him, he can't just - say something to make it happen. just like he couldn't with stiles, just like he hasn't been able to with scott. with erica and boyd and isaac, they were all desperate for an escape, and derek could offer it to them knowing they'd be willing to take that risk. tate... ]
I'm going to tell you something.
[ tate doesn't seem so willing to let go. he wants an escape, but he doesn't want to be hurt. isaac had been hurt enough to be willing to risk getting hurt again, because what would one more scar matter - and boyd wouldn't have minded getting hurt, if it meant he was getting someone's attention. erica had hurt herself enough that there was nothing derek could do to her that she wouldn't have already felt.
but tate seems to just... tate needs things to go right. he's clumsy, in his search for it, but he wants to be okay, and derek can't just jump to the end of this where he's promising a receptive tate the bite. maybe he needs to take this slow. ]
Back home - my family was murdered. A woman I knew... trapped them in the basement of our home, set a chemical fire and burned them to death.
[ but at the same time -
but at the same time, he sees himself in tate. so fucking angry, his back so tight to the wall. derek can't let that lay. the only reason derek ever started opening himself to people again was because stiles pretty much forced him to trust him, through life and death situations he kept pulling him from. tate's only going to spiral, if he's left alone. derek has to do something. ]
I don't trust anyone. But I want to trust you. Do you want to trust me?
[Tate's staring up at the ceiling when Derek talks and his expressions are muted; faint prickling of his brow, a twitch of his lip. Hearing about his family is something sad, mostly because it's meant to be. Like watching the couples be shot on stage at the Fort, Tate knows how he's supposed to feel about this. He's supposed to be empathetic, even if he doesn't know Derek's family. He's supposed to identify that as something horrible instead of intriguing - he knows better than to ask intrusive questions that'll only sate his own curiosity.
His eyes flick to the side, watching Derek from the corners as he sucks in a slow breath and squirms against the bed. He lifts his head and drops it again, before rolling onto his side facing Derek, legs tucking up as he curls inward to himself. He watches Derek with distance, only wetting his lips after a moderate bout of silence.]
How could... why would she do that?
[He thinks of Lawrence and how much hate Tate had inside him that poured out when the gasoline did. When that match was lit, Tate didn't really feel anything past that point. Did this woman hate Derek's family that much? Larry's punishment was suiting to his crimes, however, and Tate doesn't know how to ask what would've brought Kate to their house in the first place.]
[ if derek were a little smarter, he'd use his nose. he'd search out chemosignals, he'd listen for the quickening rush of tate's pulse. he'd do more than just sit, and listen, and talk. but he doesn't - partly because tate's still rolling and derek doesn't think he'd be able to read anything legible from him if he tried, and partly because this is an exercise of trust. he needs to believe that tate cares. that he won't use this against him, one day. he needs to believe that he's right to choose this path, instead of just leaving tate at that party to suffer in silence.
this, too, feels like a life or death moment. derek isn't going to answer tate's question. he just shakes his head, and he keeps trying to make him understand his point. ]
Look - I thought you were going to hurt Stiles. You were angry, you had the razor, and back during orientation, you were willing to hurt me. I thought you were like her. I think everyone is like her.
[ derek shifts on the bed. he doesn't want to lay down, but sitting like this, legs crossed and back hunched, it's not doing anything for his spine. he straightens out and leans back as best as he can, hands sinking further into the sheets. he looks down at tate, wondering, in disconnected, wordless thoughts, if he's going to need to stay up all night helping tate vomit and sweat and work out whatever it is that's in his system. ]
But - that was wrong of me. I know you're just scared. Alone. You're like me - sometimes things get too much, and you just... have to get it out. I shouldn't have pushed you away, and I shouldn't have lied to you about how I knew Stiles. I was trying to protect myself from you, and that's...
[ a pause. derek shakes his head. he's in the wrong, to feel guilty. he's in the wrong, explaining himself to tate. he's in the wrong, bringing up kate, sharing another secret. it's so fucking hard to... pull himself out of this shell. he's trying so hard to be more than just angry and reticent and walled off, but he's clumsy, and he doesn't know how. but he has to learn. an alpha has to be able to do shit like this. talk. inspire. he needs to know how to control the tides of any situation. getting tate to trust him is just - a part of that. ]
I haven't been fair to you. I want to be fair to you. I want to trust you. You have to let me in, so I can.
[Derek doesn't answer Tate's question and Tate spends a little too long after the fact wondering why. He's not fully paying attention for a few seconds, swept into his own head - wondering why this woman would've done this to Derek, and how she did it. But then he blinks a few times, stirring back to the conversation and honing in on the rest of what Derek's saying.
He could defend himself - state he wasn't ever going to hurt them despite the evidence. He could rile himself up and get mad, try to pull Derek to his side here but. That's tiring. He's tired. He's tired and he won't be able to sleep for a while, uppers still in his system despite the exhaustion that's sloped back into his bones. He just rests his head a bit more soundly on the bed, dark eyes shifting to look at the bedding with a distant, unblinking stare.]
I'll trust you if you'll trust me.
[He wants that. He wants someone to care for him after so long without. He's tired of these uphill runs, these moments of failure. He's still not sure that Derek will ever want him as much as he must want people he knows and likes more. He must trust Stiles, therefore saying 'I don't trust anyone' has to be a lie. But he's not going to call that out. He'll just remember it later, when he justifies to himself that hiding things is fine.
Tate keeps staring, unfocused, at the bed his head is resting on - barely moving except for the rise and fall of his breath. He has no plans to move, either, to just absorb these blank seconds and let them linger on. It feels like being alone with this conversation, their voices the only things in an otherwise empty room. He no longer even notices Derek's there physically.]
[ derek just... watches tate. the way his eyes drift in his skull like jelly sliding down a pane of glass. he stares at the pillow instead of derek, he speaks quietly, fuzzily, barely there. there's a promise tentatively built between them, a vow to do better by each other, and derek's still not entirely sure if this is the right thing to do, but it all feels better than letting tate rot and suffer alone. carefully, derek stands, gets off the bed. he'll spend the night in the chair facing the bed, watching tate. he won't sleep. ]
Okay. Deal.
[ he would have tate shake on it, but he figures he's so out of his fucking head that he won't even remember this promise, come morning. he's not going to drag him upright when he'll probably just throw up all over the edge of his mattress. derek wonders - not for the first time - if he needs to take tate to the hospital, but.
he doesn't. he won't. subconsciously, a part of him wonders if he could be blamed for biting tate, if he was sick enough to need it. if saving his life would be a good enough reason to forego all the explanations, forego the difficult conversations. if he knew that's how he felt, he would be disgusted in himself for being such a coward.
derek takes his seat, leaning back in the armchair, letting one arm dangle over the side, propping the other up by his elbow. he shuts his eyes, leans against his knuckles. "it'll be better", tate says. asks. derek can't tell which. ]
Yeah. I promise. All I want is to be someone who makes your life better.
[ which isn't a lie. he hopes it's obvious that that isn't a lie. derek yawns, mouth closed, inhaling deep and letting go. he watches tate for another few seconds, listening to his heartbeat. irregular, faster than it should be, given that he's laying there, relaxed. the drugs have done a number on him, even after they've started to wear off. just another thing to be worried about. ]
You should get some sleep. I know this has been... a lot, to throw on you. Especially now, when you're so...
[Tate barely murmurs his response, and it's heavily inattentive. He's pressing his face into the bed like a dog, brushing his face against the bedding with his eyes low lidded. He's not tired and yet he's exhausted; the stimulant siphoned out of his system bit by bit, leaving him to lay over the rocks of fatigue. He won't fall asleep for a while yet, but he'll lay there quietly drifting. Just the soft rise and fall of his chest to indicate he's still breathing when the rest of him lays in place like a statue.
He's drowsy when he murmurs one last thing, pale lashes fluttering as his dark brown eyes peek out the corner of his eyelids. They look at Derek but they also look at something else. The cobwebs of blood he sees, like a calming spiral of ink in a glass of water. The room doesn't frighten him. He's used to the blood. The desire to be drenched in it, to write in it, to die in it. But...]
Tell th - just keep it down. I don't want to hear it.
[He's not talking about Derek when he lifts his hand, grazing nails down his cheek to leave a white line before he rolls over to lay face down and curled into himself. He breathes a little bit heavier, but relaxes again, and will stay like this until he falls into a treacherously restless sleep. He wakes up a few times with a jolt or a shudder, but bows back out into unsettled dreaming in a cold sweat. Plagued by red floods any time he opens his eyes, he keeps screwing them shut and refusing to face reality for just a little bit longer over and over again.
It's mid morning by the time he groans, miserable in bed and feeling ill.]
[ "I don't want to hear it," Tate says, and of course Derek misinterprets, of course he thinks Tate's talking about him. He's not upset, exactly, but the flutter of his eyes looks slightly hurt, and any attempt at a reassuring smile just comes out wry and distant. Still - he doesn't say anything. He just nods, leans back in his chair, and lets Tate sleep.
Morning comes, and Derek hasn't moved. His back's sore and his neck feels pulled and strained, but he's awake, if only barely. He'd slept on and off through the night, but he never left the chair facing the bed. Without a blanket, he was cold during the night, but he's had far worse nights than this.
Derek never really had the chance to nail down what happened at the party last night. Never really managed to fully express why he wanted to take care of Tate, or at least establish some kind of mutual trust with him. He brought up the fire, and he's been tossing and turning over whether or not that was something he's going to regret doing, but it doesn't matter. He doesn't think Tate's even going to remember.
Tate blearily starts to move, and Derek expects the worst. He lifts his head from his shoulder and watches Tate look sick, and he slowly drifts his eyes down, looking beneath the bedside table. He did get up just once, during the night - ]
Bucket's beside the bed.
[ - to get something for the vomit. you know, just in case. ]
[Tate says with a voice that feels like it was put through a steel grinder, arms pulled under his face so he can rub it up against them before shakily pushing up onto his elbows. He just stays there for a moment, uncertain like a newborn deer that's only just gotten its legs under it. He doesn't know what to do next but he's still refusing to acknowledge the bucket, even if he does feel like hurling would be nice to do.
He should be dead three times over by how much shit he did last night, so when he looks up to Derek he blinks at him with tired eyes and then gives up. He collapses back onto the bed, but rolls over onto his side, facing him. Head lolled sideways on the bed, so he doesn't have to hold it up. The room's no longer spinning or oozing blood, so that's nice.]
How long have I been here?
[He can't tell. He doesn't even know what time it is now, or really remember how he got to this place. Is it Derek's? He knows that he knows the answer to that, but his brain's struggling to come up with it. All he can think of is the pulsing music from the party. Insistent. Continuous. And infiltrating his every thought. He groans and rubs at his eyes, complaining quietly about his head hurting under his breath.]
[ Tate smells like death. Not physically, maybe - but with some of the drugs dulled in his system and his regenerative powers overworking the parts of him so brutally damaged from night, Derek can smell it in his blood. Sickly and rotten and sweet. It's-- alarming, but Tate's moving, he's breathing, and all Derek can do is watch him. Dragging him to a hospital neither of them trusts wouldn't do shit for their relationship. Offering him the bite might, but there's no room here to deploy the finesse an offer like that might need.
He sits in his seat, cold, dried sweat sticking his shirt to the back. He doesn't answer Tate right away - just gives him a few seconds to wake up and orientate himself the right way, then speaks soft and quiet to save aggravating whatever migraine might be slamming itself against the inside of his skull. ]
Since last night.
[ Derek watches Tate, concerned, then looks away, as if he needs to - give him some privacy, or something, like he's worried he might feel humiliated or ashamed by the state he's in. He picks at his bottom lip with his thumbnail, feeling cracked and dry skin that he quickly wets with the tip of his tongue. ]
[Blurs of color and highs and lows; so much of the night blended together that it's hard to decipher the start from the finish. He remembers seeing Derek, but parts of what came before and after that are harder to distinguish. He feels drenched in dried, cold sweat, and it's disgusting but it takes a good long moment before it's enough to make him want to sit up. Which he does, seeing the room swim with a woozy, humorless laugh.]
I remember parts of - I don't know. I just wanted to know how long I was out for.
[He could honestly roll back over and sleep, but feels like he needs to shred some layers first. Get a drink of water and maybe wash his face. He looks at Derek with distance behind his eyes, more open and docile than usual. The defenses are still down, namely because he's still kind of dopey.]
[ Derek can't keep looking away from Tate, regardless of whether or not it feels like an invasion of privacy. He's fucking struggling, and Derek hates it. He tilts his head, looks at Tate out of the corner of his eye, then just - stares, straight on, piercing and unwavering. Tate asks for some water, and Derek worries, because it feels like a way to keep him distracted so he can sneak out. ]
Yeah.
[ But Tate's not going to go anywhere. Even if he could move, where would he go? Back home to the down, to sleep among the filth and the roaches? Maybe he'd go straight to-- to whoever hosted the party, to get more drugs and fuck himself up even more so he wouldn't feel sober, but. He'd have to get past Derek to get out, and Derek wouldn't let that happen.
So he nods. Gets up, heads to the kitchen, grabs a glass, fills it with water, doesn't add ice this time, just takes it from the fridge instead of the faucet so it's cold. He heads back and sets it on the bedside table, giving Tate the chance to wake up and have a drink on his own speed instead of rushing to grab it from Derek out of some unneeded sense of politeness.
Derek doesn't sit down, though, not now that his up. His bones are aching and he's not blinking as much as he should, but he just - stands, close to the bed, trying to give Tate a minimal amount of distance and maybe not giving him enough. ]
You're not feeling well.
[ most obvious statement of the century, he figures, but "how are you feeling?" sounds so fucking shallow and cheap. ]
[Tate watches Derek set down the glass and stares at it for a long moment, enamored by a streak of dampness along the outer side of the glass before he sort of blinks out of his reverie. He reaches to take it, scooting closer to the table so he can put it down if it feels too heavy to keep holding. He sips and swallows, sighing as he wets his lips.
He could just sit here all zoned out for a while. But Derek's like a mosquito bite that keeps itching, reminding him he's there. So he looks up at him, eyelids still heavy. Shit, what was he even on last night? He thinks he lost track.]
May have... gone too hard. No lecture required. I'll be out of your hair in five.
[ It's not until Tate moves that Derek backs off a bit, taking a few paces backwards. He folds his arms over his chest, tilts his head down. Tate still reeks of death. It's not that he's rotten, exactly - it's like he's been rotten, and now he's not. It's residual, the smell that sticks to his blood. Like something prevented the rot from really lasting. ]
That's not what I want.
[ For Tate to leave. To lecture him. Derek shakes his head. He knows Tate doesn't respond to that kind of support, and even if he did, Derek's too fucking sad for his temper to run short. ]
I'm not going to lecture you. You don't have to leave. You'll feel better faster if you sleep it off here.
[Be the burden Derek puts up with. But he doesn't finish that sentence, instead taking a few more sips of water and runs his tongue over the front line of his teeth. His mouth's got a shitty taste to it and he still feels exhausted and sore, hair stuck together with sweat when he rakes his fingers back through it. He yawns against his wrist.
He breathes in deep and looks back up at Derek, trying to remember what would possess him to - care about Tate. Did they screw? No, he doesn't think so. But his stomach flops and he does remember someone's tongue down his throat, so a bit of color floods his face as his gaze quickly drops back down. Snaps to the floor, even.]
Did - Was I hitting on you or something, last night?
[ It would be easy to take "I don't want to" at face value. It'd make sense for Tate to not want to be around him, and Derek would let him go, if he did, but after spending as much time as he has trying to get Tate to come around and be his friend and trust him, it would still sting.
But Derek hears the way he trails off and doesn't make any rash interpretations, choosing instead to stay quiet and wait for Tate to talk again. He watches him, sees the way he struggles to adjust to the waking world, and he drifts his eyes back to the glass of water, silently telling Tate to take another drink, if he needs it. When he looks back, Tate is red, and Derek... knew this question was coming, or at least some variation of it. He stays stoic. Unemotional. ]
You just wanted me to stay at the party and hang out with you. I brought you here, instead. Made you get some sleep.
[ Not entirely the truth, but. They can get to that, if they have to. ]
[Tate's voice seems small and he feels - weird still, but doesn't know how to explain it all away. He'll think back to this later on when more pieces sort themselves out in his skull and when he remembers the elevator? He won't get mad at Derek for 'lying'. He'll see it as what it seems to be - a cover for his sake, to spare him the embarrassment of being a sloppy whore.
The rest? Well, uh. That'll be harder to decipher. Tate's brows knit and he rubs at his face.]
I get horny when I'm - it's the coke. And... whatever else.
[It had to have been the lingering effects of some serious shit, as the rest of his high faded away with leaving the premises. Tate remembers this slowly, looking down as he fumbles through his pockets again, looking for what he had on him. He stops after one empty pocket, shortly sighing.]
I swear I remember... If it wasn't you, I don't know who the fuck it was.
[ Derek's just trying to protect Tate, but that's - a hard button to press, for some people. If Tate got defensive over that, if Tate hated Derek for lying for that, it wouldn't matter how decent Derek's intentions might be. He wouldn't have a way to make it better. ]
I know. It's okay.
[ Derek's not judging Tate, he doesn't think any less of him. The kid's lonely and starved of affection, he doesn't like himself, he doesn't understand himself - it's not a surprise that he turned to drugs, it's just... it's hard to see how deeply he fell into it.
Tate continues. Says there was a someone else, implies that something happened. Derek winces, and he tries to cover it, but it's obviously something that gets to him pretty hard. He could smell it on Tate, last night. Can still smell it now, to an extent. He just hoped... it was the atmosphere of the party, it was the proximity to other people. Thought the sweaty scent of sex could've just rubbed off on him. It was always an unlikely thing to think.
Still. ]
It's none of my business, what you do. I just... want to make sure you're safe.
[ And the last thing Tate's been is safe. Derek pauses, takes another few steps back, then leans against the arm of the chair. He sighs. ]
[Tate can't shake this waterlogged feeling when it comes to how Derek's reactions affect him. He looks up at him with dark eyes, as expressive as a guilty dog - confused about what he's done, even if he's not in trouble for it. Screwing around, in whatever capacity he did, is none of Derek's business. And yet he feels like he needs to explain away the shit he can't even remember.
His nose is running, so he sniffs a few times before rubbing it with the back of his hand. He was hoping that in losing the lecture, he lost this whole touchy feely guilt thing. But here they are.]
Sorry. It's not like... [Hm.] It's fine. I kinda learned my lesson, okay?
[Did he, though.]
Haven't you ever just... wanted to get high or something? Don't tell me you're some straight edge freak.
I'm not-- sorry. I don't want you to apologize. That's not what this is about.
[ He's starting to sound frustrated, but it's - obviously aimed inwards. Not getting his point across, not saying the right thing. He's just trying to tell Tate that he wants to be here for him, and he's fucking that up. Making him feel guilty.
This would be so much easier if he just... only cared about power. It was so much easier to lie to Erica and Boyd and Isaac when he had tunnel vision. Can't have that, for Tate, now that he's actually gotten to know him. Should've given him the bite after orientation.
He bites his tongue, waits a few beats, figures out what he wants to say before he says it. Figures now's a good a time as any. He looks at Tate, leaning back on the chair a little more concretely. ]
[His answer is direct, quick to question right after Derek speaks. He hasn't had any reason to suspect anything different about Derek, but the mere hint of something supernatural has his rapt attention. Is he like him? Dead, but... the way Tate used to be, where highs weren't worth chasing when your world kept sticking back to the moment you died? Or is he something... else?]
[ He answers quickly, but not harshly. He just - says it, fast and simple, another brisk shake of his head. At this point, it's only a matter of time until Tate knows this about him, but Derek doesn't even know if Tate remembers the conversation they had last night. Derek's pledge to trust him, if Tate trusted him back. He doesn't know if Tate understands the gravity of the secret, so it's... not a secret he can completely share when the poor kid's dealing with a migraine that won't fade for a week. ]
I didn't... bring that up so we could focus on me. I'm just saying. I don't get high. Not through normal drugs.
[ Wolfsbane, maybe. He's seen what it can do. The hallucinations, the hysteria. Wouldn't be surprised, if there was a strain that could fuck him up without killing him. He's not going to go looking for it, but he's sure it's out there. ]
[Tate's expression changes, deja vu filtering through his skull and is apparent in his eyes. He scowls, brows knitting together as he jabs at the air with his finger. Right in Derek's direction. He's not going to let this get glossed over, not so easily.]
You can't keep doing that. Saying something and then moving on. Is this... is what you are related to that woman? And what she did to you.
[ Tate brings up Kate. Tate brings up Kate, and Derek visibly winces, looking pained. That's a kick to the stomach, and it caught him off guard. He feels winded, suddenly, and when this vicious, spiteful anger directed at Tate flares up inside him, it only takes a second for it to die down and fade away. ]
I'm not trying to... hide anything from you. It's just...
[ Derek's voice is a little strained, and he stands up, wandering a little. He walks to the foot of the bed, arms over his chest, like always, and he stares at his feet, brows pinched together. Fuck. Didn't think Tate would remember that. ]
It's hard to talk about. If I tell you, you have to keep it to yourself. I don't... want to give you that kind of responsibility, least of all when you're recovering.
[ And it's unspoken, but still obviously there - he doesn't know if he can trust Tate. ]
If you don't want to tell me, that's fine. But you need to not bait people and then shut them out.
[He's on the cusp of closing off again and darkening behind the eyes, feeling that itch down his back that reminds him of the shed. Of not being privy to something - of... the fact Stiles probably knows what Derek is. Could he? Why would they be so secretive if not to protect one another. He wonders if Stiles is whatever Derek is, too. Something that could be killed with fire? Why can he only think of goddamn witches.]
I'm not going to go telling people. I'm not stupid.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[After everything that happened, taking to Derek didn't feel accessible. Tate's pride was still wounded from blowing up, and although they haven't - and hopefully won't - address it, he doesn't know if he burnt those bridges he was building with the two of them. Derek and he were supposed to be able to talk, but Tate no longer felt confident what he said was truly between them. Not when he could see Stiles and Derek were close, with that hint of jealous suspicion.
He moves his arm and looks at Derek with one uncovered eye, low lidded and still glazed by the shit in his system. It's a blank stare because he's not sure how to open up to the notion of being taken care of when the last slap to the face still stings his cheek. Another night and he might've sat up to walk away to dispel this anxiety, but he can't even lift his head. He just grunts, shutting his eyes.]
I don't trust you yet. And you don't trust me. So I don't know if I believe you, but I want to. That'd be nice, for a change.
[He laughs weakly, without any humor.]
But I did warn you I'm a little fucked up.
no subject
I'm going to tell you something.
[ tate doesn't seem so willing to let go. he wants an escape, but he doesn't want to be hurt. isaac had been hurt enough to be willing to risk getting hurt again, because what would one more scar matter - and boyd wouldn't have minded getting hurt, if it meant he was getting someone's attention. erica had hurt herself enough that there was nothing derek could do to her that she wouldn't have already felt.
but tate seems to just... tate needs things to go right. he's clumsy, in his search for it, but he wants to be okay, and derek can't just jump to the end of this where he's promising a receptive tate the bite. maybe he needs to take this slow. ]
Back home - my family was murdered. A woman I knew... trapped them in the basement of our home, set a chemical fire and burned them to death.
[ but at the same time -
but at the same time, he sees himself in tate. so fucking angry, his back so tight to the wall. derek can't let that lay. the only reason derek ever started opening himself to people again was because stiles pretty much forced him to trust him, through life and death situations he kept pulling him from. tate's only going to spiral, if he's left alone. derek has to do something. ]
I don't trust anyone. But I want to trust you. Do you want to trust me?
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His eyes flick to the side, watching Derek from the corners as he sucks in a slow breath and squirms against the bed. He lifts his head and drops it again, before rolling onto his side facing Derek, legs tucking up as he curls inward to himself. He watches Derek with distance, only wetting his lips after a moderate bout of silence.]
How could... why would she do that?
[He thinks of Lawrence and how much hate Tate had inside him that poured out when the gasoline did. When that match was lit, Tate didn't really feel anything past that point. Did this woman hate Derek's family that much? Larry's punishment was suiting to his crimes, however, and Tate doesn't know how to ask what would've brought Kate to their house in the first place.]
Why'd she do it?
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this, too, feels like a life or death moment. derek isn't going to answer tate's question. he just shakes his head, and he keeps trying to make him understand his point. ]
Look - I thought you were going to hurt Stiles. You were angry, you had the razor, and back during orientation, you were willing to hurt me. I thought you were like her. I think everyone is like her.
[ derek shifts on the bed. he doesn't want to lay down, but sitting like this, legs crossed and back hunched, it's not doing anything for his spine. he straightens out and leans back as best as he can, hands sinking further into the sheets. he looks down at tate, wondering, in disconnected, wordless thoughts, if he's going to need to stay up all night helping tate vomit and sweat and work out whatever it is that's in his system. ]
But - that was wrong of me. I know you're just scared. Alone. You're like me - sometimes things get too much, and you just... have to get it out. I shouldn't have pushed you away, and I shouldn't have lied to you about how I knew Stiles. I was trying to protect myself from you, and that's...
[ a pause. derek shakes his head. he's in the wrong, to feel guilty. he's in the wrong, explaining himself to tate. he's in the wrong, bringing up kate, sharing another secret. it's so fucking hard to... pull himself out of this shell. he's trying so hard to be more than just angry and reticent and walled off, but he's clumsy, and he doesn't know how. but he has to learn. an alpha has to be able to do shit like this. talk. inspire. he needs to know how to control the tides of any situation. getting tate to trust him is just - a part of that. ]
I haven't been fair to you. I want to be fair to you. I want to trust you. You have to let me in, so I can.
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He could defend himself - state he wasn't ever going to hurt them despite the evidence. He could rile himself up and get mad, try to pull Derek to his side here but. That's tiring. He's tired. He's tired and he won't be able to sleep for a while, uppers still in his system despite the exhaustion that's sloped back into his bones. He just rests his head a bit more soundly on the bed, dark eyes shifting to look at the bedding with a distant, unblinking stare.]
I'll trust you if you'll trust me.
[He wants that. He wants someone to care for him after so long without. He's tired of these uphill runs, these moments of failure. He's still not sure that Derek will ever want him as much as he must want people he knows and likes more. He must trust Stiles, therefore saying 'I don't trust anyone' has to be a lie. But he's not going to call that out. He'll just remember it later, when he justifies to himself that hiding things is fine.
Tate keeps staring, unfocused, at the bed his head is resting on - barely moving except for the rise and fall of his breath. He has no plans to move, either, to just absorb these blank seconds and let them linger on. It feels like being alone with this conversation, their voices the only things in an otherwise empty room. He no longer even notices Derek's there physically.]
Moving forward. It'll be better. Right?
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Okay. Deal.
[ he would have tate shake on it, but he figures he's so out of his fucking head that he won't even remember this promise, come morning. he's not going to drag him upright when he'll probably just throw up all over the edge of his mattress. derek wonders - not for the first time - if he needs to take tate to the hospital, but.
he doesn't. he won't. subconsciously, a part of him wonders if he could be blamed for biting tate, if he was sick enough to need it. if saving his life would be a good enough reason to forego all the explanations, forego the difficult conversations. if he knew that's how he felt, he would be disgusted in himself for being such a coward.
derek takes his seat, leaning back in the armchair, letting one arm dangle over the side, propping the other up by his elbow. he shuts his eyes, leans against his knuckles. "it'll be better", tate says. asks. derek can't tell which. ]
Yeah. I promise. All I want is to be someone who makes your life better.
[ which isn't a lie. he hopes it's obvious that that isn't a lie. derek yawns, mouth closed, inhaling deep and letting go. he watches tate for another few seconds, listening to his heartbeat. irregular, faster than it should be, given that he's laying there, relaxed. the drugs have done a number on him, even after they've started to wear off. just another thing to be worried about. ]
You should get some sleep. I know this has been... a lot, to throw on you. Especially now, when you're so...
[ a pause. ]
Tired.
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[Tate barely murmurs his response, and it's heavily inattentive. He's pressing his face into the bed like a dog, brushing his face against the bedding with his eyes low lidded. He's not tired and yet he's exhausted; the stimulant siphoned out of his system bit by bit, leaving him to lay over the rocks of fatigue. He won't fall asleep for a while yet, but he'll lay there quietly drifting. Just the soft rise and fall of his chest to indicate he's still breathing when the rest of him lays in place like a statue.
He's drowsy when he murmurs one last thing, pale lashes fluttering as his dark brown eyes peek out the corner of his eyelids. They look at Derek but they also look at something else. The cobwebs of blood he sees, like a calming spiral of ink in a glass of water. The room doesn't frighten him. He's used to the blood. The desire to be drenched in it, to write in it, to die in it. But...]
Tell th - just keep it down. I don't want to hear it.
[He's not talking about Derek when he lifts his hand, grazing nails down his cheek to leave a white line before he rolls over to lay face down and curled into himself. He breathes a little bit heavier, but relaxes again, and will stay like this until he falls into a treacherously restless sleep. He wakes up a few times with a jolt or a shudder, but bows back out into unsettled dreaming in a cold sweat. Plagued by red floods any time he opens his eyes, he keeps screwing them shut and refusing to face reality for just a little bit longer over and over again.
It's mid morning by the time he groans, miserable in bed and feeling ill.]
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Morning comes, and Derek hasn't moved. His back's sore and his neck feels pulled and strained, but he's awake, if only barely. He'd slept on and off through the night, but he never left the chair facing the bed. Without a blanket, he was cold during the night, but he's had far worse nights than this.
Derek never really had the chance to nail down what happened at the party last night. Never really managed to fully express why he wanted to take care of Tate, or at least establish some kind of mutual trust with him. He brought up the fire, and he's been tossing and turning over whether or not that was something he's going to regret doing, but it doesn't matter. He doesn't think Tate's even going to remember.
Tate blearily starts to move, and Derek expects the worst. He lifts his head from his shoulder and watches Tate look sick, and he slowly drifts his eyes down, looking beneath the bedside table. He did get up just once, during the night - ]
Bucket's beside the bed.
[ - to get something for the vomit. you know, just in case. ]
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[Tate says with a voice that feels like it was put through a steel grinder, arms pulled under his face so he can rub it up against them before shakily pushing up onto his elbows. He just stays there for a moment, uncertain like a newborn deer that's only just gotten its legs under it. He doesn't know what to do next but he's still refusing to acknowledge the bucket, even if he does feel like hurling would be nice to do.
He should be dead three times over by how much shit he did last night, so when he looks up to Derek he blinks at him with tired eyes and then gives up. He collapses back onto the bed, but rolls over onto his side, facing him. Head lolled sideways on the bed, so he doesn't have to hold it up. The room's no longer spinning or oozing blood, so that's nice.]
How long have I been here?
[He can't tell. He doesn't even know what time it is now, or really remember how he got to this place. Is it Derek's? He knows that he knows the answer to that, but his brain's struggling to come up with it. All he can think of is the pulsing music from the party. Insistent. Continuous. And infiltrating his every thought. He groans and rubs at his eyes, complaining quietly about his head hurting under his breath.]
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He sits in his seat, cold, dried sweat sticking his shirt to the back. He doesn't answer Tate right away - just gives him a few seconds to wake up and orientate himself the right way, then speaks soft and quiet to save aggravating whatever migraine might be slamming itself against the inside of his skull. ]
Since last night.
[ Derek watches Tate, concerned, then looks away, as if he needs to - give him some privacy, or something, like he's worried he might feel humiliated or ashamed by the state he's in. He picks at his bottom lip with his thumbnail, feeling cracked and dry skin that he quickly wets with the tip of his tongue. ]
I picked you up. Brought you back here.
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[Blurs of color and highs and lows; so much of the night blended together that it's hard to decipher the start from the finish. He remembers seeing Derek, but parts of what came before and after that are harder to distinguish. He feels drenched in dried, cold sweat, and it's disgusting but it takes a good long moment before it's enough to make him want to sit up. Which he does, seeing the room swim with a woozy, humorless laugh.]
I remember parts of - I don't know. I just wanted to know how long I was out for.
[He could honestly roll back over and sleep, but feels like he needs to shred some layers first. Get a drink of water and maybe wash his face. He looks at Derek with distance behind his eyes, more open and docile than usual. The defenses are still down, namely because he's still kind of dopey.]
Can I... get some water?
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Yeah.
[ But Tate's not going to go anywhere. Even if he could move, where would he go? Back home to the down, to sleep among the filth and the roaches? Maybe he'd go straight to-- to whoever hosted the party, to get more drugs and fuck himself up even more so he wouldn't feel sober, but. He'd have to get past Derek to get out, and Derek wouldn't let that happen.
So he nods. Gets up, heads to the kitchen, grabs a glass, fills it with water, doesn't add ice this time, just takes it from the fridge instead of the faucet so it's cold. He heads back and sets it on the bedside table, giving Tate the chance to wake up and have a drink on his own speed instead of rushing to grab it from Derek out of some unneeded sense of politeness.
Derek doesn't sit down, though, not now that his up. His bones are aching and he's not blinking as much as he should, but he just - stands, close to the bed, trying to give Tate a minimal amount of distance and maybe not giving him enough. ]
You're not feeling well.
[ most obvious statement of the century, he figures, but "how are you feeling?" sounds so fucking shallow and cheap. ]
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[Tate watches Derek set down the glass and stares at it for a long moment, enamored by a streak of dampness along the outer side of the glass before he sort of blinks out of his reverie. He reaches to take it, scooting closer to the table so he can put it down if it feels too heavy to keep holding. He sips and swallows, sighing as he wets his lips.
He could just sit here all zoned out for a while. But Derek's like a mosquito bite that keeps itching, reminding him he's there. So he looks up at him, eyelids still heavy. Shit, what was he even on last night? He thinks he lost track.]
May have... gone too hard. No lecture required. I'll be out of your hair in five.
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That's not what I want.
[ For Tate to leave. To lecture him. Derek shakes his head. He knows Tate doesn't respond to that kind of support, and even if he did, Derek's too fucking sad for his temper to run short. ]
I'm not going to lecture you. You don't have to leave. You'll feel better faster if you sleep it off here.
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[Be the burden Derek puts up with. But he doesn't finish that sentence, instead taking a few more sips of water and runs his tongue over the front line of his teeth. His mouth's got a shitty taste to it and he still feels exhausted and sore, hair stuck together with sweat when he rakes his fingers back through it. He yawns against his wrist.
He breathes in deep and looks back up at Derek, trying to remember what would possess him to - care about Tate. Did they screw? No, he doesn't think so. But his stomach flops and he does remember someone's tongue down his throat, so a bit of color floods his face as his gaze quickly drops back down. Snaps to the floor, even.]
Did - Was I hitting on you or something, last night?
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But Derek hears the way he trails off and doesn't make any rash interpretations, choosing instead to stay quiet and wait for Tate to talk again. He watches him, sees the way he struggles to adjust to the waking world, and he drifts his eyes back to the glass of water, silently telling Tate to take another drink, if he needs it. When he looks back, Tate is red, and Derek... knew this question was coming, or at least some variation of it. He stays stoic. Unemotional. ]
You just wanted me to stay at the party and hang out with you. I brought you here, instead. Made you get some sleep.
[ Not entirely the truth, but. They can get to that, if they have to. ]
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[Tate's voice seems small and he feels - weird still, but doesn't know how to explain it all away. He'll think back to this later on when more pieces sort themselves out in his skull and when he remembers the elevator? He won't get mad at Derek for 'lying'. He'll see it as what it seems to be - a cover for his sake, to spare him the embarrassment of being a sloppy whore.
The rest? Well, uh. That'll be harder to decipher. Tate's brows knit and he rubs at his face.]
I get horny when I'm - it's the coke. And... whatever else.
[It had to have been the lingering effects of some serious shit, as the rest of his high faded away with leaving the premises. Tate remembers this slowly, looking down as he fumbles through his pockets again, looking for what he had on him. He stops after one empty pocket, shortly sighing.]
I swear I remember... If it wasn't you, I don't know who the fuck it was.
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I know. It's okay.
[ Derek's not judging Tate, he doesn't think any less of him. The kid's lonely and starved of affection, he doesn't like himself, he doesn't understand himself - it's not a surprise that he turned to drugs, it's just... it's hard to see how deeply he fell into it.
Tate continues. Says there was a someone else, implies that something happened. Derek winces, and he tries to cover it, but it's obviously something that gets to him pretty hard. He could smell it on Tate, last night. Can still smell it now, to an extent. He just hoped... it was the atmosphere of the party, it was the proximity to other people. Thought the sweaty scent of sex could've just rubbed off on him. It was always an unlikely thing to think.
Still. ]
It's none of my business, what you do. I just... want to make sure you're safe.
[ And the last thing Tate's been is safe. Derek pauses, takes another few steps back, then leans against the arm of the chair. He sighs. ]
Scared me. Seeing you so far gone last night.
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His nose is running, so he sniffs a few times before rubbing it with the back of his hand. He was hoping that in losing the lecture, he lost this whole touchy feely guilt thing. But here they are.]
Sorry. It's not like... [Hm.] It's fine. I kinda learned my lesson, okay?
[Did he, though.]
Haven't you ever just... wanted to get high or something? Don't tell me you're some straight edge freak.
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[ He's starting to sound frustrated, but it's - obviously aimed inwards. Not getting his point across, not saying the right thing. He's just trying to tell Tate that he wants to be here for him, and he's fucking that up. Making him feel guilty.
This would be so much easier if he just... only cared about power. It was so much easier to lie to Erica and Boyd and Isaac when he had tunnel vision. Can't have that, for Tate, now that he's actually gotten to know him. Should've given him the bite after orientation.
He bites his tongue, waits a few beats, figures out what he wants to say before he says it. Figures now's a good a time as any. He looks at Tate, leaning back on the chair a little more concretely. ]
Can't get high. Not human.
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[His answer is direct, quick to question right after Derek speaks. He hasn't had any reason to suspect anything different about Derek, but the mere hint of something supernatural has his rapt attention. Is he like him? Dead, but... the way Tate used to be, where highs weren't worth chasing when your world kept sticking back to the moment you died? Or is he something... else?]
What are you?
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[ He answers quickly, but not harshly. He just - says it, fast and simple, another brisk shake of his head. At this point, it's only a matter of time until Tate knows this about him, but Derek doesn't even know if Tate remembers the conversation they had last night. Derek's pledge to trust him, if Tate trusted him back. He doesn't know if Tate understands the gravity of the secret, so it's... not a secret he can completely share when the poor kid's dealing with a migraine that won't fade for a week. ]
I didn't... bring that up so we could focus on me. I'm just saying. I don't get high. Not through normal drugs.
[ Wolfsbane, maybe. He's seen what it can do. The hallucinations, the hysteria. Wouldn't be surprised, if there was a strain that could fuck him up without killing him. He's not going to go looking for it, but he's sure it's out there. ]
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[Tate's expression changes, deja vu filtering through his skull and is apparent in his eyes. He scowls, brows knitting together as he jabs at the air with his finger. Right in Derek's direction. He's not going to let this get glossed over, not so easily.]
You can't keep doing that. Saying something and then moving on. Is this... is what you are related to that woman? And what she did to you.
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I'm not trying to... hide anything from you. It's just...
[ Derek's voice is a little strained, and he stands up, wandering a little. He walks to the foot of the bed, arms over his chest, like always, and he stares at his feet, brows pinched together. Fuck. Didn't think Tate would remember that. ]
It's hard to talk about. If I tell you, you have to keep it to yourself. I don't... want to give you that kind of responsibility, least of all when you're recovering.
[ And it's unspoken, but still obviously there - he doesn't know if he can trust Tate. ]
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[He's on the cusp of closing off again and darkening behind the eyes, feeling that itch down his back that reminds him of the shed. Of not being privy to something - of... the fact Stiles probably knows what Derek is. Could he? Why would they be so secretive if not to protect one another. He wonders if Stiles is whatever Derek is, too. Something that could be killed with fire? Why can he only think of goddamn witches.]
I'm not going to go telling people. I'm not stupid.
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