[ Derek's not offended by Tate's tone of voice, really. The kid's angry, justifiably so. He let Stiles lash out on him back home when he was worried about his dad, and he'll let Tate lash out on him now that he's worried about Peter. It's not a big deal. He doesn't mind being the sponge for people's anger, typically, it's just - hard, with Tate, who is so often limitless and quick to hurt himself when he's feeling too much. That's the only thing Derek's worried about right now.
He leads Tate through the window at the back of the loft, hopping onto the balcony outside, overlooking the long drop through the woods that snakes towards the beach. He's got a crate of empty bottles he cleaned out from the den sitting close to the wall, and he's propped up a new, wooden baseball bat beside it. His own - not Stiles'. He couldn't bring himself to touch Stiles'. That's still under his bed. ]
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He leads Tate through the window at the back of the loft, hopping onto the balcony outside, overlooking the long drop through the woods that snakes towards the beach. He's got a crate of empty bottles he cleaned out from the den sitting close to the wall, and he's propped up a new, wooden baseball bat beside it. His own - not Stiles'. He couldn't bring himself to touch Stiles'. That's still under his bed. ]
C'mere. Stand in front of me. Face the water.