[ By the time Tate's done outside, Derek's migrated a few inches up. He's laying down in bed, facing the wall he was supposed to be fixing, ears strained and listening for footsteps. He hears the yowling, the quiet, distressed meows. Twenty minutes is more than enough time for Derek to beat himself up and feel even worse than he already does. He doesn't have the energy for You Should've Told Mes, when Tate comes back. He just kind of wants to sleep this off.
Tate joins him on the bed, sinking the mattress down and making Derek uncomfortable. He rolls onto his back and looks up at Tate, listening and very, very visibly apologetic, despite any bad mood he might still be in under all the guilt. He's a dog that snapped at someone's hand and Tate's sadness and worry and disappointment in him is the newspaper to the nose that keeps him quiet.
Derek's not going to apologize, because Tate should have told him, but. Again. He doesn't have the energy to pick a fight. He just lays here, feeling bad, wrinkling his nose at the smell of peaches. ]
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Tate joins him on the bed, sinking the mattress down and making Derek uncomfortable. He rolls onto his back and looks up at Tate, listening and very, very visibly apologetic, despite any bad mood he might still be in under all the guilt. He's a dog that snapped at someone's hand and Tate's sadness and worry and disappointment in him is the newspaper to the nose that keeps him quiet.
Derek's not going to apologize, because Tate should have told him, but. Again. He doesn't have the energy to pick a fight. He just lays here, feeling bad, wrinkling his nose at the smell of peaches. ]
I wanted to... not be attacked by a cat. So.
[ So. They're. Even? ]