Derek's known, on some level, that Tate's always been dangerous. More than once, he's been made aware of that, and there's always been a deftly silenced voice in the back of his mind telling him not to toe too close to certain lines; don't set him off, don't say the wrong thing, be careful. He's always ignored that voice. Shot it and buried it and believing against every bit of evidence thrown his way that Tate wouldn't hurt anybody, that Tate's stable. Easily heartbroken and quick to hurt himself, quick to panic and cry and lose himself to his feelings, but - stable.
For a second, Derek remembers Fort Harmony. The razorblade. A second later, Derek's killing that voice again, pretending that everything's okay, and seeing Tate entirely through the lens of the narrative Derek's been building in his head for him for months - Tate's just sad, and he needs help, and he's a soft, sweet victim without a single bad bone in his body. Derek takes a breath and steps forward, leaving his sense of danger behind him. ]
He did this to you?
[ The blood. The hurt. Derek steps forward, and he knows being tactile could backfire on him, but - that voice is dead. He hesitates for barely a second before he's putting one hand on Tate's neck and the other on his shoulder, gripping down and stopping him from moving. Wrangling him in. If Tate will let him, Derek will take his hand from Tate's shoulder and put it on his jaw, tilting his head to get a better look at the damage. Blood down his nose, barely smeared away into his cheek. Little purple marks, here and there. Derek's heart breaks. His eyes haven't changed, but he still sees red. ]
Tell me-- tell me.
[ Tell him what happened, tell him-- how, tell him anything. ]
[Tate almost pulls away when Derek draws close, not because he fears him or wants to escape him but he's not yet ready to calm down. Derek plants his hand on him and Tate's still thrumming with energy, lips pulled tight into a grimace and his heels dug into the sand. He pulls back just a little, still wanting to move and shift, but Derek's second palm grounds him and keeps him in place. Tate struggles with whether or not he wants this.
He turns his head to dissuade Derek from tipping his jaw up and examining him, but after a moment he willingly obliges; nostrils flared as he looks up and away at the dark sky and stormy gray waters of the beach. He feels like the unsteady crash of the waves, hitting the rocks nearby with a heavy slap and crash. He's unsteady and unstable and he knows. His hands are balled into fists so tight he might make his palms bleed.]
I pissed him off and - we got into it.
[Not the most elaborate answer, but Tate turns his dark eyes slowly up to Derek's and stares into them - looking for his anchor. Not in the red of his headlights, but in Derek himself. He stares and he stares, and he seems to start to calm. Just barely, in tiny fractions.]
I don't want to go back I just-
[Tate's hit with another wave of hot fury, but it doesn't cripple him; he hunches forward, squinting his eyes closed and grimacing. He doesn't want to go back but in that same breath - he does. The addict that sits in his brain tells him that's the only way he's going to stay as high as he wants. It's in their fucking contract, so... if he just plays nice? Maybe...]
[ Derek presses Tate immediately, digging his teeth into the tip of his tongue when he's done, biting down to stop himself from raising his voice or storming off the beach to track this piece of shit down. Fuck, though, that's not a question he should ask - there's no reasonable excuse for this, nothing that Tate could have done that would paint Kavinsky in anything less than a fucked up, brutal light. Doesn't matter what started this. Derek silently makes it clear that Tate doesn't have to answer.
Tate feels sweaty and hot and cold at the same time, almost feverish to the touch. Derek leaves his hand slack on his jaw, easy and limp so that Tate can pull away if he needs to. There's a but behind Tate's I don't want to go back, and it doesn't take Derek long to realize what Tate means. What he needs. The reason why he signed with Kavinsky in the first fucking place. ]
Okay. Okay, I-- I should be able to help you with that. I can get you to a hospital, or... or take away any... any pain, if you want me to. I can sedate you, if you'll let me.
[ Derek swallows, dropping his eyes over every inch of Tate's face. He breathes in, feeling sick, the hand on his shoulder squeezing down, trying to stay tough and stable and concrete. He wants to be a pillar for Tate to lean on, and he thinks of a thousand different ways he can help him. The bite crosses his mind. Going to Kavinsky's fucking house and getting Tate what he needs, that gets to him, too. But.
Taking away his pain is the only thing that'll work. Derek just... doesn't know if it'll work. ]
You're not going back. You're staying with me, and I'm going to help you, okay? Look me in the eye and tell me you understand.
[Tate doesn't want to get into it, not now - not yet. He wouldn't do the story justice with how worked up he is, blindly forgetting the smaller details and more prone to blurting out facts without putting them through a strategic filter in his own head. He grapples with this before feeling relief when it's apparent he doesn't need to yet elaborate and instead just - grimaces at the idea of a hospital, almost ready to pull back against Derek's hand and walk away.
One long exhale and he comes back around to focusing on Derek, swallowing hard against the feeling of Derek's palm against the side of his neck and letting the harsher and more corrosive feelings that have conquered his head start to ebb away. It only opens the floodgates for the other feelings, the pressed feeling - the sad, emotional spark of tears to his eyes. He shakes his head, but ultimately:]
I know. I will, I don't want to go back.
[Not yet. He knows he has to, regardless of what happens tonight. Where he stays for a day or seven, he'll ultimately end up back there where his belongings are. Where his bed is. Where Kavinsky's hoard of drugs is ensnared in a web designed to catch him too. He's Kavinsky's property until July.]
I don't want to go back.
[He reiterates before starting to hunch forward, pressing his forehead against Derek's chest and - allowing that defense to fall. He lets him in, tension still in his neck but his fingers curl against Derek's shirt and he exhales hard with his head bowed - putting trust in Derek, for now.]
[ Honestly, the hospital would never have worked. It's a knee-jerk option thrown pointlessly into the air between them because Derek doesn't know how to fucking help Tate through something like this. A part of him knows he needs help, knows he's not a good enough Alpha to fix this incredibly, incredibly human problem on his own - and he's scared. Scared that he'll fuck up and send Tate crawling back on his hands and knees through glass to Kavinsky to apologize when he's done nothing wrong.
But Derek doesn't trust the people who run this place. Doesn't trust that each falsely sympathetic doctor and nurse wouldn't unanimously agree to cart Tate straight back to Kavinsky after fixing him up, out of respect for his contract, even as Derek begged them to let him stay with him in the Den. Derek wants to call Stiles, but - Christ, human problem or not, this is still a pack thing, and if a Beta comes to their Alpha alone, that has to be respected. Derek thinks he's going to throw up.
Fuck, fuck, okay. The most important thing is keeping Tate safe and warm. Derek can provide him that, and he has enough options to tackle everything else as time goes on - for now, he just. Needs to get Tate to calm down. Derek drops his hand away from Tate when he presses in, resting his head against his chest. He holds him there, but - not for long.
Derek, without warning, tugs Tate away from the bonfire. He grabs his arm and marches straight straight to the water lapping choppily against the sand, grey and thick and dull. He walks until foamy waves are crashing against his shins, bringing Tate down into the water with him, and he turns his back to the sea, facing Tate. ]
Here. Look at this. All of this.
[ Derek pushes one arm out towards the ocean, holding eye contact. It's getting windy, and Derek has to raise his voice to be heard. Tate doesn't want blood to save him - but the ocean, what it represents, that's always mattered to him. If Derek can just remind him of that, maybe that'll help. Derek's nails bite into Tate's wrist from how hard he's holding on, but he doesn't seem to realize he might be hurting him, his fingers kissing little crescent moons into his skin. ]
This is your fucking home. This beach, the woods, even the den, eventually - this is your home. This view? This horizon? This sea? That's yours. Come July, you'll be able to sit on the sand and just-- watch the tide come in. You'll be able to write, you'll be able to read, and you'll...
[ Derek swallows, feeling his throat itch. This isn't-- helping, this isn't stopping Kavinsky, this is just-- asking Tate to stay strong until July, but he's just trying, desperately, to give him something good to think of. Another anchor. The ocean. Him. Anything that doesn't hurt. ]
You'll be able to know that this is the life you've been waiting for. Every night you spent looking out over the ocean back home, thinking of a better life - this is the other side you wanted to reach. I can be that for you.
[Tate doesn't protest to being pulled along, showing no signs of resistance until his heels are sinking into the wet sand and water's washing up and threatening to lick at his shoes. But after that beat of hesitation he continues forward, letting the cool water soak into his jeans and wrap around his feet in a way that makes him feel solid again. He looks up to Derek while this goes on, following his gesture with his eyes and staring off at the darkening waters.
That beautiful, limitless expanse. He swallows hard - staring in silence. His hand shakes but it's not from the pain or the cold, he's jittery for a thousand other reasons but his fingers relax and his shoulders slowly slump. He looks out at the horizon line, the divider of the water and sky and then he closes his eyes. Just listens to Derek, while tilting up his chin.
It's what he wants, to be taken care of. To be given this gift of freedom and while it may not scratch the same itches Kavinsky can... Derek's promises make him want all the same. He blinks open his eyes and then wipes at them hastily with his free hand, wiping away tears that fell loose all on their own.
It's never going to work. But he smiles, just weakly, for the thought.]
I should've asked you first. I'm sorry. If... you get frustrated with that still, I'm sorry.
[ Derek won't take his eyes off of Tate. He's watching him in silence, absorbing every minute shift of his expression, shallow waves crashing against his legs and drenching his jeans all the way through. There's a part of him - a small, unrealistic part of him - that just wants Tate to say something magic and easy that'll fix everything, make it all better.
But he won't. He can't. Can't break his contract, can't turn back time. Derek learned, after the fire, that hoping for easy outs is just - cowardly. Tate looks at him like he doesn't believe him, and that breaks Derek's heart, but - again - he knows there's no easy way to convince him that this could work. That this will work.
He doesn't push it. ]
I don't get frustrated. I get scared.
[ But it's - fine. This is a dead horse. Derek shakes his head, stepping forward, treading water as he walks. Again, this is such a human fucking problem, and he doesn't know if he'll be able to help Tate the way he wants to, but if trying is all he has, then - trying is all he has. Derek reaches his hands out, tugging lightly on Tate's wrists. ]
[Tate turns his wrist around so their palms brush, and then extends his other hand as requested to match. He's still not sure standing out here in the water's what he wants to do but it'd be a lie to say it isn't somehow distracting him from the bigger picture, clearing his head. Hard to stay focused on bitter black tar in your chest when water's licking at your legs, and the thrumming urge in your chest wishes to just completely submerge you in that refreshing rock of the waves.
Derek says he's scared not frustrated, and Tate frowns but keeps nodding.]
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no subject
Derek's known, on some level, that Tate's always been dangerous. More than once, he's been made aware of that, and there's always been a deftly silenced voice in the back of his mind telling him not to toe too close to certain lines; don't set him off, don't say the wrong thing, be careful. He's always ignored that voice. Shot it and buried it and believing against every bit of evidence thrown his way that Tate wouldn't hurt anybody, that Tate's stable. Easily heartbroken and quick to hurt himself, quick to panic and cry and lose himself to his feelings, but - stable.
For a second, Derek remembers Fort Harmony. The razorblade. A second later, Derek's killing that voice again, pretending that everything's okay, and seeing Tate entirely through the lens of the narrative Derek's been building in his head for him for months - Tate's just sad, and he needs help, and he's a soft, sweet victim without a single bad bone in his body. Derek takes a breath and steps forward, leaving his sense of danger behind him. ]
He did this to you?
[ The blood. The hurt. Derek steps forward, and he knows being tactile could backfire on him, but - that voice is dead. He hesitates for barely a second before he's putting one hand on Tate's neck and the other on his shoulder, gripping down and stopping him from moving. Wrangling him in. If Tate will let him, Derek will take his hand from Tate's shoulder and put it on his jaw, tilting his head to get a better look at the damage. Blood down his nose, barely smeared away into his cheek. Little purple marks, here and there. Derek's heart breaks. His eyes haven't changed, but he still sees red. ]
Tell me-- tell me.
[ Tell him what happened, tell him-- how, tell him anything. ]
no subject
He turns his head to dissuade Derek from tipping his jaw up and examining him, but after a moment he willingly obliges; nostrils flared as he looks up and away at the dark sky and stormy gray waters of the beach. He feels like the unsteady crash of the waves, hitting the rocks nearby with a heavy slap and crash. He's unsteady and unstable and he knows. His hands are balled into fists so tight he might make his palms bleed.]
I pissed him off and - we got into it.
[Not the most elaborate answer, but Tate turns his dark eyes slowly up to Derek's and stares into them - looking for his anchor. Not in the red of his headlights, but in Derek himself. He stares and he stares, and he seems to start to calm. Just barely, in tiny fractions.]
I don't want to go back I just-
[Tate's hit with another wave of hot fury, but it doesn't cripple him; he hunches forward, squinting his eyes closed and grimacing. He doesn't want to go back but in that same breath - he does. The addict that sits in his brain tells him that's the only way he's going to stay as high as he wants. It's in their fucking contract, so... if he just plays nice? Maybe...]
I'm all out. I'm out.
no subject
[ Derek presses Tate immediately, digging his teeth into the tip of his tongue when he's done, biting down to stop himself from raising his voice or storming off the beach to track this piece of shit down. Fuck, though, that's not a question he should ask - there's no reasonable excuse for this, nothing that Tate could have done that would paint Kavinsky in anything less than a fucked up, brutal light. Doesn't matter what started this. Derek silently makes it clear that Tate doesn't have to answer.
Tate feels sweaty and hot and cold at the same time, almost feverish to the touch. Derek leaves his hand slack on his jaw, easy and limp so that Tate can pull away if he needs to. There's a but behind Tate's I don't want to go back, and it doesn't take Derek long to realize what Tate means. What he needs. The reason why he signed with Kavinsky in the first fucking place. ]
Okay. Okay, I-- I should be able to help you with that. I can get you to a hospital, or... or take away any... any pain, if you want me to. I can sedate you, if you'll let me.
[ Derek swallows, dropping his eyes over every inch of Tate's face. He breathes in, feeling sick, the hand on his shoulder squeezing down, trying to stay tough and stable and concrete. He wants to be a pillar for Tate to lean on, and he thinks of a thousand different ways he can help him. The bite crosses his mind. Going to Kavinsky's fucking house and getting Tate what he needs, that gets to him, too. But.
Taking away his pain is the only thing that'll work. Derek just... doesn't know if it'll work. ]
You're not going back. You're staying with me, and I'm going to help you, okay? Look me in the eye and tell me you understand.
no subject
One long exhale and he comes back around to focusing on Derek, swallowing hard against the feeling of Derek's palm against the side of his neck and letting the harsher and more corrosive feelings that have conquered his head start to ebb away. It only opens the floodgates for the other feelings, the pressed feeling - the sad, emotional spark of tears to his eyes. He shakes his head, but ultimately:]
I know. I will, I don't want to go back.
[Not yet. He knows he has to, regardless of what happens tonight. Where he stays for a day or seven, he'll ultimately end up back there where his belongings are. Where his bed is. Where Kavinsky's hoard of drugs is ensnared in a web designed to catch him too. He's Kavinsky's property until July.]
I don't want to go back.
[He reiterates before starting to hunch forward, pressing his forehead against Derek's chest and - allowing that defense to fall. He lets him in, tension still in his neck but his fingers curl against Derek's shirt and he exhales hard with his head bowed - putting trust in Derek, for now.]
no subject
But Derek doesn't trust the people who run this place. Doesn't trust that each falsely sympathetic doctor and nurse wouldn't unanimously agree to cart Tate straight back to Kavinsky after fixing him up, out of respect for his contract, even as Derek begged them to let him stay with him in the Den. Derek wants to call Stiles, but - Christ, human problem or not, this is still a pack thing, and if a Beta comes to their Alpha alone, that has to be respected. Derek thinks he's going to throw up.
Fuck, fuck, okay. The most important thing is keeping Tate safe and warm. Derek can provide him that, and he has enough options to tackle everything else as time goes on - for now, he just. Needs to get Tate to calm down. Derek drops his hand away from Tate when he presses in, resting his head against his chest. He holds him there, but - not for long.
Derek, without warning, tugs Tate away from the bonfire. He grabs his arm and marches straight straight to the water lapping choppily against the sand, grey and thick and dull. He walks until foamy waves are crashing against his shins, bringing Tate down into the water with him, and he turns his back to the sea, facing Tate. ]
Here. Look at this. All of this.
[ Derek pushes one arm out towards the ocean, holding eye contact. It's getting windy, and Derek has to raise his voice to be heard. Tate doesn't want blood to save him - but the ocean, what it represents, that's always mattered to him. If Derek can just remind him of that, maybe that'll help. Derek's nails bite into Tate's wrist from how hard he's holding on, but he doesn't seem to realize he might be hurting him, his fingers kissing little crescent moons into his skin. ]
This is your fucking home. This beach, the woods, even the den, eventually - this is your home. This view? This horizon? This sea? That's yours. Come July, you'll be able to sit on the sand and just-- watch the tide come in. You'll be able to write, you'll be able to read, and you'll...
[ Derek swallows, feeling his throat itch. This isn't-- helping, this isn't stopping Kavinsky, this is just-- asking Tate to stay strong until July, but he's just trying, desperately, to give him something good to think of. Another anchor. The ocean. Him. Anything that doesn't hurt. ]
You'll be able to know that this is the life you've been waiting for. Every night you spent looking out over the ocean back home, thinking of a better life - this is the other side you wanted to reach. I can be that for you.
no subject
That beautiful, limitless expanse. He swallows hard - staring in silence. His hand shakes but it's not from the pain or the cold, he's jittery for a thousand other reasons but his fingers relax and his shoulders slowly slump. He looks out at the horizon line, the divider of the water and sky and then he closes his eyes. Just listens to Derek, while tilting up his chin.
It's what he wants, to be taken care of. To be given this gift of freedom and while it may not scratch the same itches Kavinsky can... Derek's promises make him want all the same. He blinks open his eyes and then wipes at them hastily with his free hand, wiping away tears that fell loose all on their own.
It's never going to work. But he smiles, just weakly, for the thought.]
I should've asked you first. I'm sorry. If... you get frustrated with that still, I'm sorry.
no subject
But he won't. He can't. Can't break his contract, can't turn back time. Derek learned, after the fire, that hoping for easy outs is just - cowardly. Tate looks at him like he doesn't believe him, and that breaks Derek's heart, but - again - he knows there's no easy way to convince him that this could work. That this will work.
He doesn't push it. ]
I don't get frustrated. I get scared.
[ But it's - fine. This is a dead horse. Derek shakes his head, stepping forward, treading water as he walks. Again, this is such a human fucking problem, and he doesn't know if he'll be able to help Tate the way he wants to, but if trying is all he has, then - trying is all he has. Derek reaches his hands out, tugging lightly on Tate's wrists. ]
Give me your hands.
no subject
Derek says he's scared not frustrated, and Tate frowns but keeps nodding.]
I don't want to make you scared.