Derek gives a nod, huffing with amusement. "Fair enough. I'll keep an ear and an eye out, then, and I'll get you back to our room myself if I see it." His amusement falls away, though, when Buffy asks whether he'd ever been to a party. The smile falls into a frown. No. He hasn't been to a party long enough to notice that. By the time he was old enough to have been to a party where people might've been drinking, the fire had already happened and he and his older sister were holed up in a shitty loft out in Brooklyn, hiding. He went to school and he came home. He quit basketball. He didn't bother making friends at his new school. When he came back to Beacon Hills, it was with a huge chip on his shoulder, grief with which he had still been grappling, and a general hatred and distrust for others, not to mention being surrounded by teenagers rather than people his own age. This is the first party he's been to that wasn't at a bowling alley, unless you count him breaking up the rave that someone saw fit to throw in Derek's loft while he wasn't home. He hadn't been invited to that one, incidentally.
"No," he says shortly. "Not since I was thirteen. I'll just keep an eye out for stumbles and an ear for slurring and that'll have to do. No giving me a hard time," he says, trying to force a small smile in response to her compliment amongst her complaint. "Thanks. You look good, too, for what it's worth, whether we like it or not."
Derek finds a table and settles down into one of the chairs, taking another drink before setting the glass down on the table and shaking his head. "I asked it for fucking food, Buffy," he says with a huff that's caught somewhere between incredulity and amusement. "But no, I didn't promise anything. I don't have anything the Computer would want anyway." Which is a soft but clear implication that if he did, yeah. He would've if it meant food for everyone.
His brow creases and Derek gives a disapproving look at her question before lifting his glass again. "I don't read that garbage," he replies. He'd read the first post and rolled his eyes a lot and he'd read the second and decided that was the last one. Never again. Those people are insane. "I don't get why they give a shit, it's not like they know anything about us."
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"No," he says shortly. "Not since I was thirteen. I'll just keep an eye out for stumbles and an ear for slurring and that'll have to do. No giving me a hard time," he says, trying to force a small smile in response to her compliment amongst her complaint. "Thanks. You look good, too, for what it's worth, whether we like it or not."
Derek finds a table and settles down into one of the chairs, taking another drink before setting the glass down on the table and shaking his head. "I asked it for fucking food, Buffy," he says with a huff that's caught somewhere between incredulity and amusement. "But no, I didn't promise anything. I don't have anything the Computer would want anyway." Which is a soft but clear implication that if he did, yeah. He would've if it meant food for everyone.
His brow creases and Derek gives a disapproving look at her question before lifting his glass again. "I don't read that garbage," he replies. He'd read the first post and rolled his eyes a lot and he'd read the second and decided that was the last one. Never again. Those people are insane. "I don't get why they give a shit, it's not like they know anything about us."