[ Sleep is a mysterious beast, for Derek. With Stiles' erratic insomnia and bad dreams on top of his own relationship with the moon, Derek can pass out early and sleep until daybreak one day then stay up all night staring at the ceiling the next. He never knows what he's going to get.
Tonight, he's asleep. Stiles is an octopus all tangled up in clothes and blankets and murmuring something in his sleep about someone having the right to remain sexy, and Derek is drooling on his pillow and kicking his foot like he's trying to run. His phone is on silent but the buzz is enough to jolt him awake in a panic, sitting up with one eye stuck closed as he smacks around on the floor by his mattress to check whoever's messaging him.
Derek staggers out of bed, feeling sleep-drunk and dizzy, stumbling over his own feet as he texts back as quickly as he can and autopilots to the bathroom. He's quiet enough not to wake Stiles up, but probably only barely. ]
yes What Im here You broke your phone? Whats wrong You hurt?
[ Okay. Okay, that's - fixable. Tate's conscious enough to talk to him, so that's. Fuck. Jesus. Okay. Okay okay okay. Derek finishes up in the bathroom, and he washes his hands, because he's not an animal (so to speak). He's not going to waste time getting dressed, really, but he throws on one of Stiles' shirts that are way too small for him and laces up his boots at the front door, heading out into the woods in his boxers. He keeps typing to Tate while he moves, rubbing his eyes and flashing them red so he can see more easily in the dark. ]
The safety guard isn't up? I thought we finished putting that together yesterday. Did it come loose, or something?
[Tate tries to think but - again, head injury. He swears he wasn't even that close to the edge, and yet one second he's moving to light up a smoke and the next he's in free fall. He doesn't think he hit anything on the way down but can't be sure - it did take him a little while to get his bearings when he woke up. Shit, how long was he even out?
Takes a moment before he realizes he doesn't want Derek to see him as messed up as he is, and he tries to use his sleeve to smear away the blood down his temple. It's dark and sticky, and he wonders if it's a lost cause - he'll smell it on him anyway. The only upside is the wound's closed or just about. His arm though - he tries to move it again and only feels a shot of intense pain. He gasps, thudding his head back against the tree he's sat up against somewhere below the platform.]
Okay. Stop typing. Just - rest. Don't move. I'll be there soon.
[ Any other night, Derek would be going out of his way to hide the sound of his boots crunching over dry leaves and dead branches, but he's impatient and anxious and these woods feel safe enough that he just - doesn't bother keeping an eye out for danger. He walks a little faster, and then he jogs, and then he runs, and when he finally, finally gets to the treehouse, he practically has to skid to a stop beside Tate's body, kicking up dirt and hurting his heels.
He drops to his hands and his knees and shuffles in close to Tate, wincing when he sees the state of him. His eyes are still red, and he's not really thinking about the effect it might have on Tate - he just needs to see him as closely as he can. He smells blood, and that's-- bad. Derek holds his hands out to Tate, gingerly, like he wants to hold him and doesn't know how to do it without making things worse. ]
Easy. Easy, I'm here. What-- what happened? Where does it hurt?
[Tate's happy to lower his phone, the whole one handed typing gig more effort than it's worth. The screen's fucked and he just lets his hand sit next to him, holding on to the screen until it dims. It's not that much later, he thinks, that Derek arrives in a flurry of coaxing red and Tate looks up at him like a moth to the flame. His lips part and he's entranced for a moment before looking down to Derek's extended arm and reaching out with his good hand to take it. Then, because he only did that on reflex, he lets go.]
I don't know. I just - One second I was up there the next I wasn't. I don't know how long I was out but, ah. My arm's fucked. If it's broken, I just need help setting it. It'll heal fast, I just... I just can't do it on my own.
[ Tate takes a hold of him and it makes Derek-- panic, just a little, when he lets go. His heart's beating too hard in his chest and making it hard to think clearly - this treehouse was a terrible idea, they need to take it down, they never should have made it, something was going to go wrong, something was always going to go wrong. Derek's hands are trembling a little, just - overwhelmed.
This is Tate. His Tate, all small and broken and fragile because Derek fucked up somehow. This shouldn't have happened. He should have been here. Derek doesn't know where to look, doesn't even know which arm to focus on, scattered as he is. He just keeps smelling blood and iron and feeling sick. ]
Alright. I can do that. Just-- hold onto me. I'm going to make you feel better, okay? Look at me.
[ First thing's first - sedation. Derek takes Tate's hand again, nodding through it, realizing that's his good arm. He laces their fingers together and holds on tight, setting his other hand on Tate's neck and maintaining eye contact. Slowly, Derek takes Tate's pain, bleeding it through his veins in sharp, black heartbeats. It hurts, but it's-- fine, he can deal with it. Derek doesn't let Tate go, smoothing his thumb down over his throat, like he's calming an injured animal. He repeats himself: ]
[He didn't know how much it hurt until it started to stop, and he lets out a soft grunt of realization - his brows furrow together and he looks down at Derek's arm, watching the veins slip black and steal away the pain. At first he's okay with it, stunned into a sense of relief, before then he starts to realize the pain's not disappearing. Now it's just Derek's to endure. So he pulls back a little, fruitless in his attempt to pull away his hand. Doesn't matter, he knows, because Derek's got him by the neck like a kitten as well.]
I don't want to make you hurt. Just - I'll be fine, if I can sort things out. I'm not even bleeding anymore.
[But fuck, he can't rotate his shoulder even in the absence of pain. Maybe it's worse than he thought?]
[ He's lying. He's lying, and he's not giving Tate a choice in this. Derek's going to be setting his fucking arm, and he's absolutely unwilling to let Tate feel the full scope of that pain all on his own. He's sweating in the dark and his entire body is rigid and tense, but he grips onto Tate's hand a little tighter, not letting him leave. He doesn't break the connection when he pulls his other arm from Tate's neck and sets it onto the same arm he's holding onto, feeling for any injury Tate might have.
The bone isn't broken, but that doesn't explain the steady rush of pain. Derek winces a little, moving his hand up, and it doesn't take long to realize Tate's shoulder is dislocated. Derek winces, knowing what's about to come next. ]
Okay. This... this is going to hurt, but just for a second. I promise.
[ Derek shifts forward and - without asking - tears Tate's shirt open with his claws, freeing his shoulder and the rest of his arm from his sleeve. He mumbles a quick apology that he doesn't really mean, then sets both hands on Tate's bicep, still gently siphoning away what pain he can. His hands are starting to sweat, and he grits his teeth. ]
Hold onto me.
[ And then - Derek twists, and with one hard, lurching, sickening snap, he pushes Tate's arm back into place. It connects with a sickening kind of accuracy, and Derek feels a sharp, gut-wrenching pain when he does it, but - Tate has to have felt it, too. Derek can dull pain, but he can't completely prevent it. Not when that pain comes along so suddenly. ]
[Liar fucking lying liar. Tate tries to stand steady when Derek's feeling his arm over, wincing through the pain that slips through the grates and back into him rather than Derek. It's a hot, knife-like pain and Tate's starting to break a sweat from suffering it, like threads wearing bare he can tell if it drags on he might start to lose it. He doesn't say anything when Derek shreds his shirt, looking down at it vaguely while his teeth click together.
He gets his hand onto Derek's chest - not sure where to put it to brace or hold but it doesn't matter because the second he twists his arm, Tate's got a vice like grip with a sudden shout. He's never felt that kind of pain before and it shows - even after it lessens with his arm back in place, Tate's dazed and still clinging to Derek's clothes. He sways, just slightly and closes his eyes, breathing heavy.]
Fuck.
[He should say thanks. He doesn't - he just looks back down at his arm, flexing his fingers and hissing when it still feels bad.]
[ Tate might not be able to hear him through the sharp, sick pops of pain blooming in his head, but Derek's whispering things beneath his breath as he helps him through the pain. Quiet, sweet little bursts of encouragement, telling him it's over, telling him he did so, so good, telling him he's brave. Derek is pained and sweating and terrified, but all that matters to him is seeing Tate through this.
He siphons most of his pain away, once he's sure his shoulder is set. Derek keeps one hand clasped over Tate's biceps and the other goes straight to the hand Tate set against his chest. He anchors him in, keeps him close, and takes away the raw, pinching agony through black, inky ichor bleeding through his veins. Even now, Derek pretends it doesn't hurt. ]
Do you...
[ Fuck, talking is hard. Derek touches Tate's knuckles for support and gets himself through this. He has to work hard to keep his breathing and his voice steady and level, but it's better to act tough than to let Tate deal with this pain on his own. He swallow like he's dehydrated and starts again. ]
[Tate's suddenly so, so tired. He'd been tired before all this started - standing up there on the platform looking up at the stars he could see through the trees, feeling serene and happy for a change. He was going to curl up and sleep, maybe read a bit by pocket light but then he fell. And the adrenaline kicked in, a burst of white hot alertness that's now slowly fading like the pain from his arm.
He starts to lean back again to pull away, touching his hand to Derek's before looking up at him - imploring him to let go. Tate'll heal fast enough - his head no longer rings, all the superficial cuts and bruises are ghosts of what they were. His arm hurts and maybe it'll take a bit longer, but he can work through that alone.]
I don't - I don't know? I wasn't stupid or fucking around, it doesn't make sense. Nobody was around, it was just me. And I'm - I haven't smoked or taken anything, I promise.
[ Derek needs another few minutes before he's willing to let Tate go. He doesn't answer him right away, and he pretends not to notice Tate willing him to stop taking away his pain; he brings as much of it into his own body as he can before it all gets to be too much for him, and only then does he gradually ease his hand away. He's sweaty and a little pale, but - Tate should feel better now, as long as he lets himself heal without aggravating his shoulder too much. ]
I believe you.
[ It's hard to believe that Tate could have just-- rolled out of bed when he's sure there are safety rails up there, but it's harder to believe someone would try to kill him and go undetected by both him and Derek. Derek smells the air for another scent and he doesn't find anything - just Tate's in the air, mixed with the overwhelming, residual energy of panicked chemosignals. Derek tilts his head back down to look at Tate and slowly, eyebrows meeting in the middle. He gingerly puts both hands on Tate's neck, just to hold him, reassuring him with gentle touches and firm eye contact. ]
Don't go home. Let me stay with you until morning. You can catch up on sleep, and I can watch over you.
[Tate closes his eyes for a beat, like a dog enjoying the feel of Derek's hands on his neck before blinking open his eyes to look up at him. He nods, casting a glance upward to the trees with wary tension in his face. Because, you know, he just fucking fell from there and he's not scared of going back up by any means however...]
All my shit's up there still. Can you... get it for me? We can stay down here, or whatever. But I just can't climb back up yet.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Tonight, he's asleep. Stiles is an octopus all tangled up in clothes and blankets and murmuring something in his sleep about someone having the right to remain sexy, and Derek is drooling on his pillow and kicking his foot like he's trying to run. His phone is on silent but the buzz is enough to jolt him awake in a panic, sitting up with one eye stuck closed as he smacks around on the floor by his mattress to check whoever's messaging him.
Derek staggers out of bed, feeling sleep-drunk and dizzy, stumbling over his own feet as he texts back as quickly as he can and autopilots to the bathroom. He's quiet enough not to wake Stiles up, but probably only barely. ]
yes
What
Im here
You broke your phone? Whats wrong
You hurt?
no subject
mighhtvee reeallyy fucckkedd itt upp
anndd myy armm
[No, he knows he definitely fucked his arm.]
ffell
a bbitt
inn thhe woodds
ggot anny bbanddaidds?
no subject
[ Okay. Okay, that's - fixable. Tate's conscious enough to talk to him, so that's. Fuck. Jesus. Okay. Okay okay okay. Derek finishes up in the bathroom, and he washes his hands, because he's not an animal (so to speak). He's not going to waste time getting dressed, really, but he throws on one of Stiles' shirts that are way too small for him and laces up his boots at the front door, heading out into the woods in his boxers. He keeps typing to Tate while he moves, rubbing his eyes and flashing them red so he can see more easily in the dark. ]
The safety guard isn't up? I thought we finished putting that together yesterday.
Did it come loose, or something?
no subject
[Tate tries to think but - again, head injury. He swears he wasn't even that close to the edge, and yet one second he's moving to light up a smoke and the next he's in free fall. He doesn't think he hit anything on the way down but can't be sure - it did take him a little while to get his bearings when he woke up. Shit, how long was he even out?
Takes a moment before he realizes he doesn't want Derek to see him as messed up as he is, and he tries to use his sleeve to smear away the blood down his temple. It's dark and sticky, and he wonders if it's a lost cause - he'll smell it on him anyway. The only upside is the wound's closed or just about. His arm though - he tries to move it again and only feels a shot of intense pain. He gasps, thudding his head back against the tree he's sat up against somewhere below the platform.]
ccantt mmovve myy arrm
ffuckkinngg oww
no subject
Stop typing. Just - rest. Don't move. I'll be there soon.
[ Any other night, Derek would be going out of his way to hide the sound of his boots crunching over dry leaves and dead branches, but he's impatient and anxious and these woods feel safe enough that he just - doesn't bother keeping an eye out for danger. He walks a little faster, and then he jogs, and then he runs, and when he finally, finally gets to the treehouse, he practically has to skid to a stop beside Tate's body, kicking up dirt and hurting his heels.
He drops to his hands and his knees and shuffles in close to Tate, wincing when he sees the state of him. His eyes are still red, and he's not really thinking about the effect it might have on Tate - he just needs to see him as closely as he can. He smells blood, and that's-- bad. Derek holds his hands out to Tate, gingerly, like he wants to hold him and doesn't know how to do it without making things worse. ]
Easy. Easy, I'm here. What-- what happened? Where does it hurt?
no subject
[Tate's happy to lower his phone, the whole one handed typing gig more effort than it's worth. The screen's fucked and he just lets his hand sit next to him, holding on to the screen until it dims. It's not that much later, he thinks, that Derek arrives in a flurry of coaxing red and Tate looks up at him like a moth to the flame. His lips part and he's entranced for a moment before looking down to Derek's extended arm and reaching out with his good hand to take it. Then, because he only did that on reflex, he lets go.]
I don't know. I just - One second I was up there the next I wasn't. I don't know how long I was out but, ah. My arm's fucked. If it's broken, I just need help setting it. It'll heal fast, I just... I just can't do it on my own.
no subject
This is Tate. His Tate, all small and broken and fragile because Derek fucked up somehow. This shouldn't have happened. He should have been here. Derek doesn't know where to look, doesn't even know which arm to focus on, scattered as he is. He just keeps smelling blood and iron and feeling sick. ]
Alright. I can do that. Just-- hold onto me. I'm going to make you feel better, okay? Look at me.
[ First thing's first - sedation. Derek takes Tate's hand again, nodding through it, realizing that's his good arm. He laces their fingers together and holds on tight, setting his other hand on Tate's neck and maintaining eye contact. Slowly, Derek takes Tate's pain, bleeding it through his veins in sharp, black heartbeats. It hurts, but it's-- fine, he can deal with it. Derek doesn't let Tate go, smoothing his thumb down over his throat, like he's calming an injured animal. He repeats himself: ]
Look at me.
no subject
I don't want to make you hurt. Just - I'll be fine, if I can sort things out. I'm not even bleeding anymore.
[But fuck, he can't rotate his shoulder even in the absence of pain. Maybe it's worse than he thought?]
Just help me with my arm. Please
no subject
[ He's lying. He's lying, and he's not giving Tate a choice in this. Derek's going to be setting his fucking arm, and he's absolutely unwilling to let Tate feel the full scope of that pain all on his own. He's sweating in the dark and his entire body is rigid and tense, but he grips onto Tate's hand a little tighter, not letting him leave. He doesn't break the connection when he pulls his other arm from Tate's neck and sets it onto the same arm he's holding onto, feeling for any injury Tate might have.
The bone isn't broken, but that doesn't explain the steady rush of pain. Derek winces a little, moving his hand up, and it doesn't take long to realize Tate's shoulder is dislocated. Derek winces, knowing what's about to come next. ]
Okay. This... this is going to hurt, but just for a second. I promise.
[ Derek shifts forward and - without asking - tears Tate's shirt open with his claws, freeing his shoulder and the rest of his arm from his sleeve. He mumbles a quick apology that he doesn't really mean, then sets both hands on Tate's bicep, still gently siphoning away what pain he can. His hands are starting to sweat, and he grits his teeth. ]
Hold onto me.
[ And then - Derek twists, and with one hard, lurching, sickening snap, he pushes Tate's arm back into place. It connects with a sickening kind of accuracy, and Derek feels a sharp, gut-wrenching pain when he does it, but - Tate has to have felt it, too. Derek can dull pain, but he can't completely prevent it. Not when that pain comes along so suddenly. ]
no subject
He gets his hand onto Derek's chest - not sure where to put it to brace or hold but it doesn't matter because the second he twists his arm, Tate's got a vice like grip with a sudden shout. He's never felt that kind of pain before and it shows - even after it lessens with his arm back in place, Tate's dazed and still clinging to Derek's clothes. He sways, just slightly and closes his eyes, breathing heavy.]
Fuck.
[He should say thanks. He doesn't - he just looks back down at his arm, flexing his fingers and hissing when it still feels bad.]
no subject
He siphons most of his pain away, once he's sure his shoulder is set. Derek keeps one hand clasped over Tate's biceps and the other goes straight to the hand Tate set against his chest. He anchors him in, keeps him close, and takes away the raw, pinching agony through black, inky ichor bleeding through his veins. Even now, Derek pretends it doesn't hurt. ]
Do you...
[ Fuck, talking is hard. Derek touches Tate's knuckles for support and gets himself through this. He has to work hard to keep his breathing and his voice steady and level, but it's better to act tough than to let Tate deal with this pain on his own. He swallow like he's dehydrated and starts again. ]
Do you remember what happened? You just... fell?
no subject
He starts to lean back again to pull away, touching his hand to Derek's before looking up at him - imploring him to let go. Tate'll heal fast enough - his head no longer rings, all the superficial cuts and bruises are ghosts of what they were. His arm hurts and maybe it'll take a bit longer, but he can work through that alone.]
I don't - I don't know? I wasn't stupid or fucking around, it doesn't make sense. Nobody was around, it was just me. And I'm - I haven't smoked or taken anything, I promise.
no subject
I believe you.
[ It's hard to believe that Tate could have just-- rolled out of bed when he's sure there are safety rails up there, but it's harder to believe someone would try to kill him and go undetected by both him and Derek. Derek smells the air for another scent and he doesn't find anything - just Tate's in the air, mixed with the overwhelming, residual energy of panicked chemosignals. Derek tilts his head back down to look at Tate and slowly, eyebrows meeting in the middle. He gingerly puts both hands on Tate's neck, just to hold him, reassuring him with gentle touches and firm eye contact. ]
Don't go home. Let me stay with you until morning. You can catch up on sleep, and I can watch over you.
no subject
All my shit's up there still. Can you... get it for me? We can stay down here, or whatever. But I just can't climb back up yet.
[And he's determined not to abandon the project.]
I'm okay.