[ Ah, man. Tate snaps, and Derek would be lying if he said he didn't feel a burst of frustration underneath a thin layer of hurt. Tate's shaking from the cold, he's shaking from grief, and for a second Derek is just-- immobilized by how fucking badly he wants to help him. He holds his hands up, out to Tate like he's reaching out to touch him, or something, wishing he could ease some of this but having know fucking idea how to do it.
But Tate breaks him out of it by allowing himself some obedience, and when he starts shrugging off his jacket, Derek helps him. He peels the jacket off Tate's body, takes it from between his hands and callously drops it to the ground, because-- because right now, it doesn't matter. He loves that jacket more than anything in the world, but right now, it's in the fucking way. ]
Okay. It's okay. She might not be gone. We don't know yet.
[ He doubts it. Allison was the same - Stiles went looking for her, he reached out to her, but calls bounced back, messages went unanswered, and now she's gone. Fuck, for now, he's wrapping the towel tight around Tate's shoulders, trying to just keep him as warm as he can. Drying him off is a fucking fool's errand while he's still covered in wet clothes, but he's not really thinking coherently enough to get him something dry.
He doesn't want Tate to spiral over this. ]
Look - you love her. I know you do. I'm sorry for ever....
[ He-- shakes his head. He can get to that. He drags his towel up to Tate's hair, smoothing it back. He's still bent down, staying eye to eye, so Tate can really see him. Hazel, not red. ]
I'll help you look, okay? But-- but for now, you need to get dry.
I looked - I've been looking, and... she's not there. She's gone.
[Panic laces his voice and he doesn't know how to get it across in words, to explain that he's been watching for days. He didn't ever find anything wrong with standing in the doorways, watching her when he had time to spare. Smoking a cigarette and seeing her go home for the day, even going so far as to walk around inside her apartment when she wasn't there, just to see if the air of the rooms she lived in felt any different. He of all people would know she's gone. So she's gone.
He can't keep sounding like a broken record, though. And part of him is desperate to cave to someone else's instruction, to be told what to do next. Because he can't do this on his own. He just wants to claw his skin open and scream. He folds into himself a bit, letting Derek wrap the towel around him and he's breathing hard when he dries his hair with it next. It takes a moment but he's coaxed into looking Derek in the eye, sniffing back tears but focusing on the depths of his hazel green eyes.]
I didn't... didn't get to say what I wanted to say. I didn't get her to... to forgive me. To make up, or anything.
[He reaches up, holding on to a corner of the towel but otherwise being useless in helping dry himself.]
[ Fuck. Derek watches Tate panic like a startled dog, reflecting its owners anxiety and not knowing how to handle it. He wets his lips and he nods in rapid, shaky dips of his head, caught between wanting to make calming, shushing noises and being afraid that those would only make things worse. He listens to Tate, because he knows that's the best thing he can do, and he pulls the towel a little closer around his neck. He's... he only ever makes things worse, Derek knows that about himself, but he drops his voice to a softer volume, and he tries to sound calm and stable without sounding callous and disinterested. ]
I'm sorry. It's... I know it's never easy, when people... go. I've never been able to handle it.
[ Derek wraps the towel around Tate's hair like a cozy hood, taking his cheeks in his hands and dabbing his face dry. He sighs, looking at Tate like he just - doesn't know what to do with him, soft and affectionate and worried. A part of him is fucking furious, because both this world and the world he came from has been nothing but cruel to Tate, and he doesn't know what the fuck he's done to deserve this much cosmic punishment. He's doing his best to bury that anger. It's not what Tate needs.
What can he even do, other than offer Tate a place to stay for the night and something warm to drink? What can he do to make this okay. He takes a stab in the dark, voice still soft and carefully measured. ]
You told me. I know how much you love her, and - and I know you, I know how good you are. I know she would have been with you again if she gave you a chance.
[ a pause - ]
I should've done more. Should've helped her connect with you again. Should've tried, at least.
[Little by little, Derek does have an effect on Tate. He's anchoring him in by putting the towel over his head, cutting out some of the sensory overload that Tate's going through even incidentally. Tate's eyes still swim with tears and he can taste the salt on his lips, so he wipes his face off on the corner of the towel before hunching forward a bit to keep his head bowed.]
Why does it keep happening to me? People leave. They're taken away. It's not fair.
[He's emphasizing the words more than he needs to, the whole issue blown up simply because he's upset. But he feels retched, sucking in a cold deep breath that rattles in his chest and makes him shiver. He looks back up to Derek slowly, before starting to gravitate back toward him. He hesitates, the barrier unseen blocking him off from properly ducking into a request for touch. Fuck if he doesn't just want to cry and be held right now. Cry, be held and be reassured. Holy trinity.]
I just wanted to make things right. Now what do I do?
[ Tate's getting worse. Derek watches, something stirring in his chest. There's something so small and fragile and sad about how he rocks on his feet, like he's too afraid to just-- breach the final inch between them and ask for the hug he clearly fucking wants, and Derek's heart can't really take it. He thinks of Isaac - the affection he should have fucking shown him, back when he had the chance - and his gut makes the decision for him. ]
Hey, c'mere.
[ Derek steps forward and carefully, carefully pulls Tate in, bringing him in to bury his face against his chest, his neck, his shoulder, wherever he feels most comfortable. As far as hugs go, this one might not be the best; it's wet and clammy and Tate must be fucking uncomfortable in his ice-cold clothes, but it's loving and it's firm and it's real. One of Derek's arms is pulled tight around Tate's back, and the other is curled around his neck, and his hand is slipping beneath the towel to cup the back of his head. He strokes his fingers through Tate's hair, smooths a line up and down the skin behind his ear with his thumb, and he anchors him in, trying to keep him safe and cocooned from the outside world.
Tate doesn't deserve any of this. Now what do I do, he asks, and Derek feels a little more lost for him. ]
You just... get by. Day by day. You can come over any time you want, and we can-- read, or talk, or maybe watch a movie with Stiles. We can work on the treehouse. We can explore the beach - look for some sick caves, like you were talking about. We can do anything you want that might make you feel okay.
[ Derek adjusts his arm, dropping it a little, holding Tate by his waist. He sighs, bends his neck forward, and rests his nose against the towel still covering Tate's hair. He can smell the rain. He can smell Tate's heartbreak, if he focuses on his chemosignals. He tries not to, because it feels-- invasive, but it's-- it's hard to miss. ]
We can wait for her to come back, if you want. Together. You and me. I'm not going anywhere.
[Derek does it for him and Tate's grateful - he melts against him at the slightest pull, like a stubborn child, exhaling with a shudder as he presses his forehead to the center of Derek's chest. Soon after that he shifts, cheek to his shoulder as he leans more flush to Derek, one arm loosely wrapping back around him as if still uncertain about accepting the contact. He needs it, though. He needs the energy, absorbing it with a weak sigh as a hand over the back his head threads through his hair, making him feel six years old again and so fucking happy to be doted on.
Tate listens as Derek lays out the plan of what they can do together - together - to move forward and he feels the sting of salt in his eyes again, but for a different reason. There's a lot to do, a lot he'll get caught up in doing, but he needs to first get over the unfairness of his situation and he's - not ready to do that, not yet.]
Do you think she will? Come back. Will she even remember?
[Does it matter? It's not like he had success in convincing her he wasn't anything but a monster.]
I know I'm supposed to move on. I know. I'm trying - I just. I didn't think she'd go. I never had to think about losing her before. But it hurts.
[ Derek's so, so scared of doing the wrong thing. Of saying the wrong thing. Tate might feel like he's draining energy from Derek, finding strength in his comfort and his care, but it's - the opposite. He leans into him and Derek's breathing slows to match Tate's, he squeezes Derek back and Derek feels like he's worthwhile. Feels like he's doing something right. He softly toys with Tate's hair, he soothes his neck with light, sporadic strokes. He gives himself the chance to feel safe. ]
People come back all the time. You don't have to think about the future right now.
[ It-- was Derek, who told Tate to focus on moving on, but right now that just feels like fucking horrible advice. Derek's hand slips down Tate's hair, drifting a little more towards his shoulder, his fingernails curling and lightly, sensitively scratching the back of his neck. ]
Right now - she's gone. That feeling is hard to be okay with. You need to just... get through the next couple of days.
[Tate feels like if he asks about any shred of proof of that, Derek's certainty will dissolve. Does he know anyone that has come back? Has anyone ever come back? Tate doesn't know, doesn't know how to begin to look into it and he's. Tired. He's stressed. And the second he's started to deflate from the teary eyed panic, that tiredness has washed in over him and made him feel as cold as his skin really is. His teeth chatter and he keeps his face planted against Derek's chest, trying to fight off having to pull away. The tactile run of Derek's hand over him is everything - he wishes he could just curl up and fall asleep to it, were he not drenched and shivering.]
I... I don't want to.
[Okay, that's just his last little petulant whine, his voice thick as he murmurs the words against Derek's chest. Then, finally, he presses his hand to Derek's shoulder and leans back to break away. He's not crying anymore, but his face is splotchy and his eyes red. He's still soaked through and retched looking, hair mussed and a dullness to his eyes. Distance sits in the way he looks off to the side, lost in his own head.]
She has nothing to go back to. She should've stayed. She deserved to stay.
[ Derek resists, when it's time to let go. Tate puts his hand on his chest and leverages himself away, and Derek's arms tense like he's not ready to stop holding him, but - he does, all the same. He's cold - he feels like he's been in the rain, too, for how wet his shirt is now. That's fine. He's not important right now.
The last thing Derek wants to do is force Tate to... get through anything, or - let go, move on. Petulant whining has its place, and Derek's not going to jump down his throat for being sad. All he can do is nod, slowly, soft and understanding, as he folds his arms over his chest and presses the heel of his palm against his bicep, fidgeting while he tries to warm up. Tate looks lost. Derek thinks of the party, feels his stomach twist and hurt. ]
Look - why don't you go take a shower? You'll feel better when you're warm. I'll get you some spare clothes, maybe make you something to eat. We can just... hang out for a while.
[ a pause - ]
Talk about Violet, maybe. Or about - you. Anything.
[Tate just makes a noise, disgruntled but lightly acquiescing to the idea. Hard to tell from his sulking body language, but he will drift along if guided toward the shower. He's still clammy and cold and it hasn't sunk in to him how much so, until he looks at his hand and sees it shake. But that could just be the vibrating emotion in him, so Tate flexes his fingers and rubs at his face again. Shower. Hot shower. He can do that, at least.
He looks at Derek, still sort of lost:]
If she's still here, you can find her, right? You'd find her?
I promise. I'll look for her, even if you think she's gone. I'll be able to track her scent, I'll be able to see things you can't - there's every possibility she's still here.
[ If Tate needs to be guided to the bathroom, then - Derek will know. He cautiously puts his hand on Tate's lower back, not trying to be pushy, just - trying to help, and he steadily starts walking him a little ways down the hall. The bathroom connects to his and Stiles' bedroom, which is - good, because it means Derek can linger and pretend he's just getting warm clothes instead of staying close and listening to Tate to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid.
Derek opens the bathroom door, slowly ushering Tate in. ]
Nothing more we can do in this rain, okay? Just - focus on yourself, for a little while. You don't do that enough.
[Tate wants to believe that, so he does, hoping with a waning wish that Derek will find her and prove Tate wrong. That he'll tell him Violet's fine, she just... had to do something sudden or serious. He'd rather know that she's seeing his texts and ignoring them than not even seeing them at all. Anything. Fucking anything.
He steps into the bathroom, wet shoelaces dragging over the ground and looks back to Derek from where he stops at the sink. He's being told to relax, to ground himself, and nods his head vaguely before emptying his pockets. He puts his phone and wallet on the ledge, a set of keys next to that and then pauses while tugging the wet sleeve down his arm in preparation to take it off.]
Okay.
[Quietly he just agrees - blinking absently before turning his back to Derek, pulling his shirt up overhead and letting it fall to the floor. His skin's pale, more so from the cold and somber mood than anything. He runs his fingers through his hair, and looks at the shower before moving over to it - hand lightly on his belt.]
[ Derek's... relieved, honestly. He's seen too much of Tate at his worst to not feel relieved, hearing the quiet gratitude in his voice and the solemn willingness to be helped. Derek nods, jaw clenched tight, and he's spent too many years hiding from people to know how to react to being thanked like that. His voice comes out strangled, though he attempts to sound sturdy. ]
It's. It's okay.
[ He lingers at the doorway for a little too long, staring at Tate's back. The curve of his shoulderblades, the dip of his spine. Maybe it's the rain, maybe it's losing Violet, but he just looks - fragile. It's not until Tate's fully threaded his belt from his pants that Derek realizes he's too close. He doesn't close the door behind him when he leaves, not all the way. He leaves it ajar. Just in case.
Derek hovers in the bedroom, running his hand down his chin and staring at the light coming from beneath the bathroom door. He just - feels like shit. Feels like he has to keep one eye on Tate to make sure he doesn't hurt himself. He focuses on getting some clean clothes and leaving them on the bed for Tate when he comes out; most of Stiles' are in the wash and even though they're closer to Tate's in size, he's not sure how Stiles would feel if Derek lent somebody his shit, so.
He chooses some of his own clothes, instead. Layers, because he knows Tate likes that. A henley, one of the looser ones with longer sleeves, and a plain black tee to pair it with, if he wants it. Sweats, too, a dark wine red. He takes his time, getting it all ready, laid out flat on the sheets of his bed. He needs to leave; he's hovered and wasted enough time for Tate to be nearly done, but he just... doesn't feel right, leaving Tate alone.
Derek sits on the corner of the bed, running his thumb over the side of his phone, feeling sick. He'll go, once Tate's out, obviously not intending to fucking watch him while he gets changed. He just wants to make sure he's gonna come out of that bathroom in one piece. ]
[Tate takes his time stripping down, putting his belt next to his belongings and then loosening his jeans. He lets them fall to the floor even before he notices the door nearly closed, issuing him privacy, just not completely. It doesn't bother him but it does remind him of what Derek might think of him, what Stiles might - that he's the kid who carried razors, a plausible danger to himself. Who's to say now, at his low point, he might not do something stupid?
He wishes. He feels almost too apathetic for that, stripping naked before getting in under the hot spray of the shower after turning it on. It's too hot, but that's how he likes it, stinging his skin and turning it pink. The water plasters back his hair and the heat spreads through him, fighting away the chill like a flame lighting up the dark. He doesn't scratch at himself, even if seeing some red might make him feel anchored - instead he just tips back his head. Takes his time under the spray. Derek can tell, he knows he can, that Tate cries just a little more - letting his tears wash away with a soft, anguished sigh before he carries on with washing up.
Takes longer than it should for him to pull out of the shower, skin pink from the heat and his hair slicked back over his head. His eyes are hollowed, a little red around the edges and he looks much more reserved as he stares at his own reflection through a foggy mirror and wraps a towel around his waist after drying off his arms. Water trickles down lines on his back as he walks, dripping off from the tips of his hair and beading against his shoulder when he leaves the room to walk back into the adjoining one, seeing Derek waiting for him.
He's better now, he'd like to think, less panicked. Less brimming with tears. He's got his belongings in one hand, and walks over to set them on the bed next to the clothes lined out for him. He shoots a glance to Derek soon after, before picking up the henley and starting to put it on after making sure with a cautious tuck that his towel's secure around his waist.
He doesn't know what to say. So he doesn't say anything.]
[ Tate joins him, despite the long stretch of impatient silence lingering in the air after he shuts off the faucet. Derek knows he should move, get out of here before Tate thinks he's being a fucking creep, but - he sits, and he stays, concern mountain in his stomach the longer it takes for him to hear Tate's soft, wet footsteps padding over porcelain.
There's no smell of blood. No taste of iron in the air, no scratches on Tate's wrist. He knows, now, that Tate can alter his appearance, to some degree - that he's capable of branding himself with a triskele, fixing his skin to hide imperfections or add things that were never there - but Derek looks anyway, cautious, so as not to be seen. He doesn't... feel comforted, knowing that Tate didn't hurt himself. Doesn't feel proud, like he thought he might. Just... sad, still. Sad for him.
Tate starts fidgeting with his henley and Derek-- Derek really should leave. He stays, and he watches Tate, like he's waiting for something to change. A sign that Tate's okay, as if he'll suddenly be alright just because he burned his skin a little red. The bedroom is quiet and still and unevolving, and Derek needs to move before he stagnates with it. ]
I'll... get you something to eat.
[ He doesn't expect Tate to eat, but - he at least wants to make an effort. Make an excuse to leave. He stands. Doesn't leave. Like he's still fucking expecting Tate to kick open the bedroom window and run down the beach and into the ocean, never to be seen again. Derek doesn't even take one step towards the door before he starts buying time with questions, hovering by the edge of the bed, eyes on Tate's profile. ]
Or... drink. Hot chocolate, maybe. I think we still have some pizza, but - I can do something homemade.
[About what there is to eat, or whether Derek's going to get him something to drink with it or not. His voice is still quiet and calm, reeking of exhaustion that wasn't there before. The panic subsided and it rolled in to fill its place as Tate pulls on the shirt overhead. It's a bit oversized in a way that Tate likes and prefers, so he adjusts the collar and then blinks before looking at Derek - he didn't mean to be dismissive.]
If - As long as it's warm, I don't care.
[He felt compelled to add that on, to not seem ungrateful as he scratches an itch on his collarbone and looks back down to the clothing laid out. Sweatpants are far from his favorite thing but hey, not a lot of options here. He picks them up, before finding himself in an odd position. On one hand, he doesn't really feel like he cares if Derek sees him change. On the other, he feels he should. So he hesitates, waiting to be alone to finish changing.]
I shouldn't stay too long so. Whatever you have that's easy.
[ Warm. Warm, okay, he can do warm. Derek nods, watching Tate slip his shirt on over his head, and - that's enough. He's overstepping his bounds, making Tate uncomfortable, and that's not what he wanted, he's just... scared. He nods again, and then again, and he's nodding too much for it to be natural. He turns, starts to leave, and then - Tate says he's not going to stay. ]
Wait - you don't want to stay? I could take the couch. I wouldn't mind. Stiles wouldn't, either. You're not going to get in trouble for sleeping one night where you're not supposed to.
[ And - this is going to be Tate's home in a few months, anyway, he wants to add, but he feels like talking that far into the future right now is only going to push Tate away. Derek doesn't want him to fucking be alone, though, or -- or go back with his dom, who he still doesn't trust. He looks at Tate, quietly, just - wracking his brain, going through excuse after excuse after excuse, trying to think of a way to keep him here. Just for tonight. ]
It's raining. You should at least stay until it stops.
[Tate frowns, just faintly, because he doesn't like the concept of invading on - Stiles and Derek's life. Which is what this feels like still, even if he's been welcomed repeatedly and directly. He doesn't reply because he doesn't know how to, at first. He just makes a gesture, half-shrug and half something else, that gives a bit of hope to the idea of lingering around. He'd like nothing more than to curl up right now and sleep, in all honesty.
He looks up at Derek and his eyes might say it all - how he's on the cusp of agreeing, how he would if he's been told to do something, how the hesitance and fog is just there out of a general slathering of apathy that's eating him from the inside out to cover out the burned out holes in his chest from feeling too much.]
[ Okay. Pizza - he can do pizza. He can work with half-shrugs, he can work with-- with all of this. Tate is forlorn and distant and Derek's heart hurts the longer he looks at him, but he thinks, or maybe just hopes, that Tate wants to stay. He wants to stay, and he just - doesn't know how to ask.
So. Derek doesn't make it an option. He puts aside the fear of looking controlling, he puts aside the doubt that makes him wonder again and again and again if he's been nothing but bad for Tate, and he takes a stab in the dark and prays that he's doing the right thing. For once. ]
You're gonna stay the night. We're gonna get something warm in you, and then... relax, until you feel like going to sleep. Anything else can wait until tomorrow.
[ All this heartache can wait its turn. Tonight, Tate needs to rest. Derek lingers just another few seconds, feeling more and more like he's turning his back on Tate by leaving. He steels himself, hurts his teeth from biting down on them so hard, and in slow, unwilling steps, he leaves the room.
There's pizza in the fridge, like he thought there would be, and Derek doesn't have to do much other than pop it in the microwave and wait. He rests his ass against the kitchen counter, arms over his chest, as he stares at the sterile, yellow light behind the microwave door, the spinning pizza that smells like too much grease. It pings, and Derek takes it straight to the living room, leaving plates and a few drinks on the table in front of leather couches.
And then he just - waits, with a knot in his stomach, for Tate to join him. ]
[Tate doesn't balk at being told what to do, and he feels a bit like he wants to resist but he doesn't voice it. Not yet, anyway. He can walk out of here later if he feels like it, once the rain's lightened up and maybe after his head stops feeling like it's been dipped underwater. He finishes dressing once Derek's gone, slipping on the sweatpants after dropping his towel, taking the latter back to the bathroom to put with his other clothes. He then carries his few belongings with him, back out into the main area of the den - feeling a bit lost but gravitating toward the couches because that's where Derek is.
He would've liked to hang out here on better days, and maybe he should visit more. Rather than bide his time away at the beach alone. He sits, dropping his things to the table and looking at the pizza like it's the most unappetizing thing in the world. Still, he reaches for the plate mechanically.]
[ After that - Derek doesn't know what else to say. Last thing he wants to do is push Tate, and he's Derek Fucking Hale - for all the strides he's been trying to make in being a better alpha, learning how to comfort people through his time with Stiles, everything else, he's always going to feel burned out. Talking's still hard.
But he has to do something. Tate sits, eats like he has to just to get through the day, and - Derek's been there. If that's what he has to do, it's what he has to do. Derek just... wants to make it less hard. Cautiously, he tries to be better. ]
C'mere.
[ It's not much, but - Derek raises one arm, stretches it out over the back of the seat, offers Tate a little more closeness. A hug, again, if he wants one. Wants to curl up with someone while he just - forgets the day in shitty, greasy pizza. He's not going to force it if he doesn't. Derek's good at giving hugs, but he's still so fucking rusty. ]
[Tate's not expecting it, which is why he shoots Derek a sudden look when beckoned closer. He's still got the plate in his hand, reheated pizza sticking to it, and his eyes seem uncertain as they flick from his open arm to his face. He's cautious, because as much as he automatically feels the lurch to want to sink into the space and feel comforted, he still feels like there's some invisible hurdle there.
Derek's trying to comfort him and he should accept it - he wants to accept it - but maybe it's ego that puts on a delay. There's no more pretending to be straight or perceiving this as something too gay to indulge in, not after the numerous occasions that Tate's done far gayer things with people.
So he. Sits. He stares. And then he starts to slope backward, not quite curling in against Derek but occupying the space on an angle, where his back is in the junction of Derek's arm and shoulder and he can feel him almost draped around him. If he moved his arm it would be, curled around Tate like a seatbelt. His legs are bent, feet up on the couch as slowly - sloooowly he starts to lean his weight back.]
[ Derek's impassive, as Tate decides. Again, the last thing he wants to do is force him to do anything he wants to do; if Tate slinks away from him and puts as much distance between them on this seat as he can, Derek's not going to chase after him. He's just... trying to make him comfortable.
It's been a long time since Tate was scared to touch another guy. A long time since they've had talks about sexuality, and what it means, and the life Tate's afforded in a world as open and freeing as this one. But - being consoled is still hard, even for the most secure of people. Tate looks like he's going to shoot him down, for a second there, and Derek slowly starts to pull his arm back.
But then Tate surprises him. He takes the invitation, making himself small and thin, like he doesn't want to be a bother, or like he doesn't want to make this real by putting too much of his weight into what they're doing. That changes, bit by bit, and Derek lets it, focusing on nothing but the sound of the rain and the waves it washes down the den's floor to ceiling windows. When Tate settles, tells him he misses Violet -
Derek understands that, too. ]
I know.
[ He pulls Tate a little closer, just to gently, quietly punctuate that he wants this, and moves his arm to rest closer over Tate's shoulder, down his chest. His hand is just by Tate's side, and Derek lightly, lightly strokes the parts of him he can reach, calm and steady and reassuring. He can hear Tate's heartbeat, heavy as it is. Derek's at a loss on how to ease his pain. ]
I'm going to... do what I can. Not just in trying to find her - in everything. You just need to ask me for something, and - you'll get it. Whatever I can do to make your life a little better.
[The longer he holds on to his food the less he wants to eat it, but Tate isn't giving up on hope yet. He feels Derek's arm slope over him and it's heavy in a way that feels comforting, weighted against him and keeping him in place. He stares off into the corner of the room for a few seconds, before he rests his cheek against Derek's arm the way a comfort seeking dog might.
He's still so hung up on the loss of Violet that he doesn't know what to do - he's upset because he'll never see her again, he's lost his chance to win her back. But in there, deep below all that, there's a sense of relief that has yet to blossom. There's nobody here (little does he know,) that can reveal... the truth about him. No way to jeopardize what he was with Derek, what he's being offered. He'll turn to that soon with a sense of acknowledgement. Until then, he's just going to be brattily distressed.]
[ Stupid question. Derek's hand stops smoothing down Tate's arm just for a second, then picks right back up. He's trying pretty fucking hard to stay calm and secure and reliable, but there's a tentative softness in what he says. ]
I want you to stay here every night.
[ And he gets why he can't, just like he gets that there's the comfortable isolation he's found with Stiles that he doesn't want to lose - but he wants everything, he wants it all. He wants everyone important to him locked away under one roof, where it's safe. Where he can keep them safe. ]
Do you... want to tell me about Violet? Maybe talk about the things she likes, or - what you did on dates. We don't have to talk about her, but.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
But Tate breaks him out of it by allowing himself some obedience, and when he starts shrugging off his jacket, Derek helps him. He peels the jacket off Tate's body, takes it from between his hands and callously drops it to the ground, because-- because right now, it doesn't matter. He loves that jacket more than anything in the world, but right now, it's in the fucking way. ]
Okay. It's okay. She might not be gone. We don't know yet.
[ He doubts it. Allison was the same - Stiles went looking for her, he reached out to her, but calls bounced back, messages went unanswered, and now she's gone. Fuck, for now, he's wrapping the towel tight around Tate's shoulders, trying to just keep him as warm as he can. Drying him off is a fucking fool's errand while he's still covered in wet clothes, but he's not really thinking coherently enough to get him something dry.
He doesn't want Tate to spiral over this. ]
Look - you love her. I know you do. I'm sorry for ever....
[ He-- shakes his head. He can get to that. He drags his towel up to Tate's hair, smoothing it back. He's still bent down, staying eye to eye, so Tate can really see him. Hazel, not red. ]
I'll help you look, okay? But-- but for now, you need to get dry.
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[Panic laces his voice and he doesn't know how to get it across in words, to explain that he's been watching for days. He didn't ever find anything wrong with standing in the doorways, watching her when he had time to spare. Smoking a cigarette and seeing her go home for the day, even going so far as to walk around inside her apartment when she wasn't there, just to see if the air of the rooms she lived in felt any different. He of all people would know she's gone. So she's gone.
He can't keep sounding like a broken record, though. And part of him is desperate to cave to someone else's instruction, to be told what to do next. Because he can't do this on his own. He just wants to claw his skin open and scream. He folds into himself a bit, letting Derek wrap the towel around him and he's breathing hard when he dries his hair with it next. It takes a moment but he's coaxed into looking Derek in the eye, sniffing back tears but focusing on the depths of his hazel green eyes.]
I didn't... didn't get to say what I wanted to say. I didn't get her to... to forgive me. To make up, or anything.
[He reaches up, holding on to a corner of the towel but otherwise being useless in helping dry himself.]
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I'm sorry. It's... I know it's never easy, when people... go. I've never been able to handle it.
[ Derek wraps the towel around Tate's hair like a cozy hood, taking his cheeks in his hands and dabbing his face dry. He sighs, looking at Tate like he just - doesn't know what to do with him, soft and affectionate and worried. A part of him is fucking furious, because both this world and the world he came from has been nothing but cruel to Tate, and he doesn't know what the fuck he's done to deserve this much cosmic punishment. He's doing his best to bury that anger. It's not what Tate needs.
What can he even do, other than offer Tate a place to stay for the night and something warm to drink? What can he do to make this okay. He takes a stab in the dark, voice still soft and carefully measured. ]
You told me. I know how much you love her, and - and I know you, I know how good you are. I know she would have been with you again if she gave you a chance.
[ a pause - ]
I should've done more. Should've helped her connect with you again. Should've tried, at least.
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Why does it keep happening to me? People leave. They're taken away. It's not fair.
[He's emphasizing the words more than he needs to, the whole issue blown up simply because he's upset. But he feels retched, sucking in a cold deep breath that rattles in his chest and makes him shiver. He looks back up to Derek slowly, before starting to gravitate back toward him. He hesitates, the barrier unseen blocking him off from properly ducking into a request for touch. Fuck if he doesn't just want to cry and be held right now. Cry, be held and be reassured. Holy trinity.]
I just wanted to make things right. Now what do I do?
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Hey, c'mere.
[ Derek steps forward and carefully, carefully pulls Tate in, bringing him in to bury his face against his chest, his neck, his shoulder, wherever he feels most comfortable. As far as hugs go, this one might not be the best; it's wet and clammy and Tate must be fucking uncomfortable in his ice-cold clothes, but it's loving and it's firm and it's real. One of Derek's arms is pulled tight around Tate's back, and the other is curled around his neck, and his hand is slipping beneath the towel to cup the back of his head. He strokes his fingers through Tate's hair, smooths a line up and down the skin behind his ear with his thumb, and he anchors him in, trying to keep him safe and cocooned from the outside world.
Tate doesn't deserve any of this. Now what do I do, he asks, and Derek feels a little more lost for him. ]
You just... get by. Day by day. You can come over any time you want, and we can-- read, or talk, or maybe watch a movie with Stiles. We can work on the treehouse. We can explore the beach - look for some sick caves, like you were talking about. We can do anything you want that might make you feel okay.
[ Derek adjusts his arm, dropping it a little, holding Tate by his waist. He sighs, bends his neck forward, and rests his nose against the towel still covering Tate's hair. He can smell the rain. He can smell Tate's heartbreak, if he focuses on his chemosignals. He tries not to, because it feels-- invasive, but it's-- it's hard to miss. ]
We can wait for her to come back, if you want. Together. You and me. I'm not going anywhere.
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Tate listens as Derek lays out the plan of what they can do together - together - to move forward and he feels the sting of salt in his eyes again, but for a different reason. There's a lot to do, a lot he'll get caught up in doing, but he needs to first get over the unfairness of his situation and he's - not ready to do that, not yet.]
Do you think she will? Come back. Will she even remember?
[Does it matter? It's not like he had success in convincing her he wasn't anything but a monster.]
I know I'm supposed to move on. I know. I'm trying - I just. I didn't think she'd go. I never had to think about losing her before. But it hurts.
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People come back all the time. You don't have to think about the future right now.
[ It-- was Derek, who told Tate to focus on moving on, but right now that just feels like fucking horrible advice. Derek's hand slips down Tate's hair, drifting a little more towards his shoulder, his fingernails curling and lightly, sensitively scratching the back of his neck. ]
Right now - she's gone. That feeling is hard to be okay with. You need to just... get through the next couple of days.
[ With him. Here. Together. ]
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I... I don't want to.
[Okay, that's just his last little petulant whine, his voice thick as he murmurs the words against Derek's chest. Then, finally, he presses his hand to Derek's shoulder and leans back to break away. He's not crying anymore, but his face is splotchy and his eyes red. He's still soaked through and retched looking, hair mussed and a dullness to his eyes. Distance sits in the way he looks off to the side, lost in his own head.]
She has nothing to go back to. She should've stayed. She deserved to stay.
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The last thing Derek wants to do is force Tate to... get through anything, or - let go, move on. Petulant whining has its place, and Derek's not going to jump down his throat for being sad. All he can do is nod, slowly, soft and understanding, as he folds his arms over his chest and presses the heel of his palm against his bicep, fidgeting while he tries to warm up. Tate looks lost. Derek thinks of the party, feels his stomach twist and hurt. ]
Look - why don't you go take a shower? You'll feel better when you're warm. I'll get you some spare clothes, maybe make you something to eat. We can just... hang out for a while.
[ a pause - ]
Talk about Violet, maybe. Or about - you. Anything.
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He looks at Derek, still sort of lost:]
If she's still here, you can find her, right? You'd find her?
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[ If Tate needs to be guided to the bathroom, then - Derek will know. He cautiously puts his hand on Tate's lower back, not trying to be pushy, just - trying to help, and he steadily starts walking him a little ways down the hall. The bathroom connects to his and Stiles' bedroom, which is - good, because it means Derek can linger and pretend he's just getting warm clothes instead of staying close and listening to Tate to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid.
Derek opens the bathroom door, slowly ushering Tate in. ]
Nothing more we can do in this rain, okay? Just - focus on yourself, for a little while. You don't do that enough.
[ he says, like a fucking incorrect idiot baby. ]
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He steps into the bathroom, wet shoelaces dragging over the ground and looks back to Derek from where he stops at the sink. He's being told to relax, to ground himself, and nods his head vaguely before emptying his pockets. He puts his phone and wallet on the ledge, a set of keys next to that and then pauses while tugging the wet sleeve down his arm in preparation to take it off.]
Okay.
[Quietly he just agrees - blinking absently before turning his back to Derek, pulling his shirt up overhead and letting it fall to the floor. His skin's pale, more so from the cold and somber mood than anything. He runs his fingers through his hair, and looks at the shower before moving over to it - hand lightly on his belt.]
... Thanks. For - you know. This.
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It's. It's okay.
[ He lingers at the doorway for a little too long, staring at Tate's back. The curve of his shoulderblades, the dip of his spine. Maybe it's the rain, maybe it's losing Violet, but he just looks - fragile. It's not until Tate's fully threaded his belt from his pants that Derek realizes he's too close. He doesn't close the door behind him when he leaves, not all the way. He leaves it ajar. Just in case.
Derek hovers in the bedroom, running his hand down his chin and staring at the light coming from beneath the bathroom door. He just - feels like shit. Feels like he has to keep one eye on Tate to make sure he doesn't hurt himself. He focuses on getting some clean clothes and leaving them on the bed for Tate when he comes out; most of Stiles' are in the wash and even though they're closer to Tate's in size, he's not sure how Stiles would feel if Derek lent somebody his shit, so.
He chooses some of his own clothes, instead. Layers, because he knows Tate likes that. A henley, one of the looser ones with longer sleeves, and a plain black tee to pair it with, if he wants it. Sweats, too, a dark wine red. He takes his time, getting it all ready, laid out flat on the sheets of his bed. He needs to leave; he's hovered and wasted enough time for Tate to be nearly done, but he just... doesn't feel right, leaving Tate alone.
Derek sits on the corner of the bed, running his thumb over the side of his phone, feeling sick. He'll go, once Tate's out, obviously not intending to fucking watch him while he gets changed. He just wants to make sure he's gonna come out of that bathroom in one piece. ]
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He wishes. He feels almost too apathetic for that, stripping naked before getting in under the hot spray of the shower after turning it on. It's too hot, but that's how he likes it, stinging his skin and turning it pink. The water plasters back his hair and the heat spreads through him, fighting away the chill like a flame lighting up the dark. He doesn't scratch at himself, even if seeing some red might make him feel anchored - instead he just tips back his head. Takes his time under the spray. Derek can tell, he knows he can, that Tate cries just a little more - letting his tears wash away with a soft, anguished sigh before he carries on with washing up.
Takes longer than it should for him to pull out of the shower, skin pink from the heat and his hair slicked back over his head. His eyes are hollowed, a little red around the edges and he looks much more reserved as he stares at his own reflection through a foggy mirror and wraps a towel around his waist after drying off his arms. Water trickles down lines on his back as he walks, dripping off from the tips of his hair and beading against his shoulder when he leaves the room to walk back into the adjoining one, seeing Derek waiting for him.
He's better now, he'd like to think, less panicked. Less brimming with tears. He's got his belongings in one hand, and walks over to set them on the bed next to the clothes lined out for him. He shoots a glance to Derek soon after, before picking up the henley and starting to put it on after making sure with a cautious tuck that his towel's secure around his waist.
He doesn't know what to say. So he doesn't say anything.]
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There's no smell of blood. No taste of iron in the air, no scratches on Tate's wrist. He knows, now, that Tate can alter his appearance, to some degree - that he's capable of branding himself with a triskele, fixing his skin to hide imperfections or add things that were never there - but Derek looks anyway, cautious, so as not to be seen. He doesn't... feel comforted, knowing that Tate didn't hurt himself. Doesn't feel proud, like he thought he might. Just... sad, still. Sad for him.
Tate starts fidgeting with his henley and Derek-- Derek really should leave. He stays, and he watches Tate, like he's waiting for something to change. A sign that Tate's okay, as if he'll suddenly be alright just because he burned his skin a little red. The bedroom is quiet and still and unevolving, and Derek needs to move before he stagnates with it. ]
I'll... get you something to eat.
[ He doesn't expect Tate to eat, but - he at least wants to make an effort. Make an excuse to leave. He stands. Doesn't leave. Like he's still fucking expecting Tate to kick open the bedroom window and run down the beach and into the ocean, never to be seen again. Derek doesn't even take one step towards the door before he starts buying time with questions, hovering by the edge of the bed, eyes on Tate's profile. ]
Or... drink. Hot chocolate, maybe. I think we still have some pizza, but - I can do something homemade.
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[About what there is to eat, or whether Derek's going to get him something to drink with it or not. His voice is still quiet and calm, reeking of exhaustion that wasn't there before. The panic subsided and it rolled in to fill its place as Tate pulls on the shirt overhead. It's a bit oversized in a way that Tate likes and prefers, so he adjusts the collar and then blinks before looking at Derek - he didn't mean to be dismissive.]
If - As long as it's warm, I don't care.
[He felt compelled to add that on, to not seem ungrateful as he scratches an itch on his collarbone and looks back down to the clothing laid out. Sweatpants are far from his favorite thing but hey, not a lot of options here. He picks them up, before finding himself in an odd position. On one hand, he doesn't really feel like he cares if Derek sees him change. On the other, he feels he should. So he hesitates, waiting to be alone to finish changing.]
I shouldn't stay too long so. Whatever you have that's easy.
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Wait - you don't want to stay? I could take the couch. I wouldn't mind. Stiles wouldn't, either. You're not going to get in trouble for sleeping one night where you're not supposed to.
[ And - this is going to be Tate's home in a few months, anyway, he wants to add, but he feels like talking that far into the future right now is only going to push Tate away. Derek doesn't want him to fucking be alone, though, or -- or go back with his dom, who he still doesn't trust. He looks at Tate, quietly, just - wracking his brain, going through excuse after excuse after excuse, trying to think of a way to keep him here. Just for tonight. ]
It's raining. You should at least stay until it stops.
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He looks up at Derek and his eyes might say it all - how he's on the cusp of agreeing, how he would if he's been told to do something, how the hesitance and fog is just there out of a general slathering of apathy that's eating him from the inside out to cover out the burned out holes in his chest from feeling too much.]
Pizza's fine. I'll eat pizza.
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[ Okay. Pizza - he can do pizza. He can work with half-shrugs, he can work with-- with all of this. Tate is forlorn and distant and Derek's heart hurts the longer he looks at him, but he thinks, or maybe just hopes, that Tate wants to stay. He wants to stay, and he just - doesn't know how to ask.
So. Derek doesn't make it an option. He puts aside the fear of looking controlling, he puts aside the doubt that makes him wonder again and again and again if he's been nothing but bad for Tate, and he takes a stab in the dark and prays that he's doing the right thing. For once. ]
You're gonna stay the night. We're gonna get something warm in you, and then... relax, until you feel like going to sleep. Anything else can wait until tomorrow.
[ All this heartache can wait its turn. Tonight, Tate needs to rest. Derek lingers just another few seconds, feeling more and more like he's turning his back on Tate by leaving. He steels himself, hurts his teeth from biting down on them so hard, and in slow, unwilling steps, he leaves the room.
There's pizza in the fridge, like he thought there would be, and Derek doesn't have to do much other than pop it in the microwave and wait. He rests his ass against the kitchen counter, arms over his chest, as he stares at the sterile, yellow light behind the microwave door, the spinning pizza that smells like too much grease. It pings, and Derek takes it straight to the living room, leaving plates and a few drinks on the table in front of leather couches.
And then he just - waits, with a knot in his stomach, for Tate to join him. ]
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He would've liked to hang out here on better days, and maybe he should visit more. Rather than bide his time away at the beach alone. He sits, dropping his things to the table and looking at the pizza like it's the most unappetizing thing in the world. Still, he reaches for the plate mechanically.]
Sorry to just show up.
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[ After that - Derek doesn't know what else to say. Last thing he wants to do is push Tate, and he's Derek Fucking Hale - for all the strides he's been trying to make in being a better alpha, learning how to comfort people through his time with Stiles, everything else, he's always going to feel burned out. Talking's still hard.
But he has to do something. Tate sits, eats like he has to just to get through the day, and - Derek's been there. If that's what he has to do, it's what he has to do. Derek just... wants to make it less hard. Cautiously, he tries to be better. ]
C'mere.
[ It's not much, but - Derek raises one arm, stretches it out over the back of the seat, offers Tate a little more closeness. A hug, again, if he wants one. Wants to curl up with someone while he just - forgets the day in shitty, greasy pizza. He's not going to force it if he doesn't. Derek's good at giving hugs, but he's still so fucking rusty. ]
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Derek's trying to comfort him and he should accept it - he wants to accept it - but maybe it's ego that puts on a delay. There's no more pretending to be straight or perceiving this as something too gay to indulge in, not after the numerous occasions that Tate's done far gayer things with people.
So he. Sits. He stares. And then he starts to slope backward, not quite curling in against Derek but occupying the space on an angle, where his back is in the junction of Derek's arm and shoulder and he can feel him almost draped around him. If he moved his arm it would be, curled around Tate like a seatbelt. His legs are bent, feet up on the couch as slowly - sloooowly he starts to lean his weight back.]
I miss her.
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It's been a long time since Tate was scared to touch another guy. A long time since they've had talks about sexuality, and what it means, and the life Tate's afforded in a world as open and freeing as this one. But - being consoled is still hard, even for the most secure of people. Tate looks like he's going to shoot him down, for a second there, and Derek slowly starts to pull his arm back.
But then Tate surprises him. He takes the invitation, making himself small and thin, like he doesn't want to be a bother, or like he doesn't want to make this real by putting too much of his weight into what they're doing. That changes, bit by bit, and Derek lets it, focusing on nothing but the sound of the rain and the waves it washes down the den's floor to ceiling windows. When Tate settles, tells him he misses Violet -
Derek understands that, too. ]
I know.
[ He pulls Tate a little closer, just to gently, quietly punctuate that he wants this, and moves his arm to rest closer over Tate's shoulder, down his chest. His hand is just by Tate's side, and Derek lightly, lightly strokes the parts of him he can reach, calm and steady and reassuring. He can hear Tate's heartbeat, heavy as it is. Derek's at a loss on how to ease his pain. ]
I'm going to... do what I can. Not just in trying to find her - in everything. You just need to ask me for something, and - you'll get it. Whatever I can do to make your life a little better.
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He's still so hung up on the loss of Violet that he doesn't know what to do - he's upset because he'll never see her again, he's lost his chance to win her back. But in there, deep below all that, there's a sense of relief that has yet to blossom. There's nobody here (little does he know,) that can reveal... the truth about him. No way to jeopardize what he was with Derek, what he's being offered. He'll turn to that soon with a sense of acknowledgement. Until then, he's just going to be brattily distressed.]
... I can really stay here tonight?
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I want you to stay here every night.
[ And he gets why he can't, just like he gets that there's the comfortable isolation he's found with Stiles that he doesn't want to lose - but he wants everything, he wants it all. He wants everyone important to him locked away under one roof, where it's safe. Where he can keep them safe. ]
Do you... want to tell me about Violet? Maybe talk about the things she likes, or - what you did on dates. We don't have to talk about her, but.
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