[ Reggie's rattled, but for all his interest in wanting to gauge and dissect his reaction, Derek actually can't make heads nor tails of it. He tilts his head and watches Reggie like a bird trying to figure out how to snag a bug from the knot of a particularly shitty tree; on the one hand, he thinks Reggie's humiliation could stem strictly from the whole "having his dirty laundry dragged out and aired in front of him by basically a complete stranger" thing, but on the other, it just as easily could have something specifically to do with Tate. Worthless. He sighs. ]
Nothing, really.
[ It's the truth, for the most part. Derek knows about what happened because Tate had needed to talk about it, but there was no mention of anything, in Derek's mind, that seemed particularly egregious. But he was spoken to in confidence; even now, it hasn't really sunk in that it's an asshole move to take something that had been confided in him over Tate's head in order to confront the source. Derek had slowed his roll enough to listen to what Reggie was saying, and he acted like he was mulling it over, eyes down and lost in thought in the stagnating silence punctured only by Moose's lil noises. But. Seems he's unsatisfied. ]
"Lice or whatever the hell it is he's probably infested with." That doesn't sound like something someone would say if they really didn't give a shit.
[ Reggie's on his knee and Derek, kind of pissed, takes it as a prompt to move forward, heavy boots thudding over the floor with each step. It's a power thing, all dumb and masculine and oppressive, when Derek slows to a stop and stands too close, using his height to intimidate. He just wants to know what was going through Reggie's head, the night of the concert. He decides to lean on being direct, because firing straight shots and dealing with the fallout if they hit is easier than blindly taking stabs in the dark. Casting his eyes briefly over Moose and still feeling like an asshole for ruining his afternoon, Derek gets the dumbest question out of the way first. ]
no subject
Nothing, really.
[ It's the truth, for the most part. Derek knows about what happened because Tate had needed to talk about it, but there was no mention of anything, in Derek's mind, that seemed particularly egregious. But he was spoken to in confidence; even now, it hasn't really sunk in that it's an asshole move to take something that had been confided in him over Tate's head in order to confront the source. Derek had slowed his roll enough to listen to what Reggie was saying, and he acted like he was mulling it over, eyes down and lost in thought in the stagnating silence punctured only by Moose's lil noises. But. Seems he's unsatisfied. ]
"Lice or whatever the hell it is he's probably infested with." That doesn't sound like something someone would say if they really didn't give a shit.
[ Reggie's on his knee and Derek, kind of pissed, takes it as a prompt to move forward, heavy boots thudding over the floor with each step. It's a power thing, all dumb and masculine and oppressive, when Derek slows to a stop and stands too close, using his height to intimidate. He just wants to know what was going through Reggie's head, the night of the concert. He decides to lean on being direct, because firing straight shots and dealing with the fallout if they hit is easier than blindly taking stabs in the dark. Casting his eyes briefly over Moose and still feeling like an asshole for ruining his afternoon, Derek gets the dumbest question out of the way first. ]
You in love with him?