[Tate doesn't just hear that roar, he feels it - and he's not as affected by it as the cat is, freezing up with another garbled hiss before her wild thrashing wiggles her out of his arms. He tries to catch her but he feels oddly... wooden, clumsy and startled into losing his grip. His heart's sitting at the base of his throat, throbbing there when the silence rings in his ears and his protests are silenced too.
He just stands there, turning slowly around to look at Derek with - wide eyes and a quickened heartbeat. He wants to go after the cat but just stares instead, feeling like his ears have just popped and the world's not a frozen mess after a handful of seconds more. He rubs his hand over his arm, feeling scratches itch and remind him of something half-buried in his subconscious. But that's gone as quickly as it pipes up. Tate hates the way his voice sounds when he speaks - quieted and stifled:]
Her name's Cobain.
[He feels like his voice warbles, a child just scolded trying to speak.]
[ Cat Cobain. Derek looks at Tate for a good few seconds, trying to think of something to say to that. He can only think of shit that's-- negative, or else depressing. How is he going to take care of her? Does he expect her to just obediently live up here on her own? Is he going to take her back to fucking Kavinsky? This is just like Stiles' cat all over again, only worse, because this one is fucking violent.
He can't think of anything nice to say, so - he doesn't say anything at all. Derek pushes past Tate and goes looking for Cobain, guilt weighing heavy on his chest. It doesn't take long to find her - she's huddled up on the edge of the platform, her back to a very long drop. Derek's stomach flips and he kneels, holding one hand out, trying to show some kind of-- submission, or something, but all she does is make sad, murmuring noises, visibly shaking. Derek feels like a scumbag. ]
[Tate still feels shaken, left standing there for a second - brows pinching together at something he perceives as rejection from Derek but is trying not to let rub raw the wounds already settled into his skin. His lungs feel the way they would after a hard cry, breaths deep and wet, salty on the exhale. He watches Derek move by him and bites his lip, trying not to let that feeling of rejection fester.
He's not in the wrong here, he told Derek to wait. Derek didn't, and it escalated from there. Still, heat burns under Tate's skin and he feels swells of emotion he might not be able to handle if they peak. He exhales hard, following Derek sullenly and frowning at the sight of the cat.]
You're scaring her. Move, just - go back in there.
[Leave her to him, just - don't scare the fucking cat over the literal edge. 'She doesn't like you' is too bitterly tinged to spit out, even though he wants to. He's - angry now, maybe, but it's the honest truth. She hated Derek until he put the fear of God knows what inside her.]
[ Derek wants to resist. He's the one who scared her, getting all-- stupid and impatient and animal, so he needs to be the one to fix this. Tate ushers him away and for a second, Derek pretends like he doesn't hear him, holding his hand out a little further - but when Cobain cries out and scratches at his finger, drawing more blood, he pulls back with a hiss that makes her hiss back.
He stands up, looking at Tate for-- one second, maybe two, then heads back into the treehouse. He could leave. Go back to the den and finish talking to that shithead Stanley about restocking inventory, even though that's not supposed to be Derek's job. Instead, he just - makes a beeline for the bed and sits on the edge of it, rubbing at his cheek and smearing away a little less red than he thought there'd be. He's already healing.
[Tate takes his time outside, not in a rush to go back in and get a death glare or another You Should've Told Me. He sits down with his back to the wall of this little ledge that might one day become a balcony if they finish this damn thing and he just sits. Cobain makes marble-sounding noises, yowling like she's complaining after Derek leaves. Her ears are pinned back and her eyes wide, claws out against the wood. He rubs his fingers together to get her attention a few times, and it's no miraculous process. It takes maybe twenty minutes for him to get her to come close, but she won't let him scoop her up.
He decides to leave her, for the time being, and goes back inside - solemn and subdued as he leaves the makeshift door open incase she gets ballsy. He just looks at Derek, on the bed, and wets his lips before walking over to to the stash of snacks. He takes a few fuzzy peaches in his hand and silently joins Derek on the bed, chewing on slightly stale candy. His cuts have healed too, smears of blood over his hands from fidgeting with the wounds while sitting with the cat outside.]
She's spooked. I don't think she's gonna come in, not for a while.
[ 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. ]
I just wanted to get her dinner. Thought she might be less of a bitch on a full stomach.
[He doesn't need to explain himself but it fills the silence anyway, and he feels down still too. They're just mellow and recovering from their own (literal) wounds. Tate eats another peach before reaching out, running his pinky over a scratch on Derek's bicep. It's just a line of blood, trickled down from something now healed. He retracts his hand, if only to take another candy and this time offer it to Derek.
Tate'll still have to go get tuna, or cat food - or whatever it is he can feed Cobain to try and keep her around. He hears a scrabbling noise outside and figures she's fucked off again. He's been luring her around for a while, up off the beach and into the security of the woods. And he really, really wants to keep up taking care of her but doesn't want to face the scrutinizing conversation of voicing that fact right now.
If Derek doesn't take the candy or refuses it, Tate'll still flick it at him.]
She's like a solid ninety percent bitch, but that other ten percent's really sweet when you get to see it. Which you might never do now, after... that - whatever that was. I didn't know you could do that.
[ Derek doesn't want to eat. Tate offers him something and Derek just stares up at him, neutral and purposefully quiet, only dropping his eyes when Tate starts smoothing some of the blood away from his arm. It makes Derek feel worse, if possible. He shouldn't have... raised his voice, to put it delicately. Shouldn't have lost control, least of all because of a fucking cat.
Tate flicks the candy at him and Derek blinks rapidly but ultimately just lets it hit his face and rest against his neck, tense and staring up at Tate like he's been betrayed. He doesn't say anything, for a second. Just stares until his shoulders relax again. ]
I... didn't mean to scare you. You weren't supposed to know I could do that.
[ Another werewolf thing he was trying to shield Tate from until they were both ready for the bite. Derek's proud of being a wolf, but it's still hard showing it so openly around humans, especially a human he cares about. Derek raises his hand, flicks the candy off his throat, and he's not sure if he can explain this properly, but he's going to use the words that sit right with him anyway. ]
Didn't mean to scare her, either. Thought she might... submit, if I did that. [ you know - because he's the alpha. sick guitar riff. ]
[Tate might think the roaring thing was cooler if he hadn't been caught in that first blast - it makes him aware of how powerful it is, though. Useful, too. Derek could've had him submitting too if he kept it up - but he wonders what it says about Cobain that she did cower but is still holding true to her colors. She's just... the feistiest cat he's ever seen.
Derek wastes the fuzzy peach and Tate stares at it, finishing the ones in his palm by knocking them back. He then reaches for the spare one, picking it up off the bed and sticking it in his mouth as well. He's eating more food in this fucking tree house than he's eaten in weeks, just because of the casual access. He replies after he swallows, laying down next to Derek with a thumb against the bed.]
I've seen her for a couple weeks. Just hanging out around the beach, under the pier. She was farther down the boardwalk but I've been coaxing her to follow me - finally got her kinda used to this place. Nobody else seems to take care of her. It's a miracle she's still so fat.
[Tate stares up at the trees, squinting when he thinks he sees a sway of an orange tail somewhere up, up above.]
If she didn't submit, does that make her an Alpha too? D'you got competition now?
[ A couple weeks. Stiles kept his cat in the down for... quite a bit longer than that, but the only reason they ended up adopting her officially is because Derek gave the okay and kind of insisted that they shelter her from the life of being a stray. He'd projected pretty hard onto ol' Nameless, empathizing with her in a way that made him want to keep her, but - he doesn't really need to project his own bullshit onto Cobain to care about her. The guilt did enough of a number on him already.
D'you got competition, Tate asks, and Derek levels him with the most unimpressed stare imaginable. ]
No. Only thing I'm going to have to compete with her for is your attention.
[ And, like, the bed. He's already been kicked out of his own by Stiles' stupid thing. Derek drags his eyes from Tate to the open roof, looking for signs of Cobain. He breathes in, then out. ]
If you had told me about her sooner, I could have helped. Brought some blankets out from the den, or... something. I've literally got cat food in my kitchen going uneaten.
[ Because his cat only likes fish, the cliche little thing. Stiles' cat, he means, not his cat. Definitely not his cat. Derek looks back to Tate. ]
Keep her. She can stay in the treehouse, if I haven't scared her off. I don't mind.
[Tate's - amused, just for a beat, trying to bring some levity into the moment again. He could've been a little more forthcoming with the details but he wanted that introduction to go better - and it says a lot about how much Derek trusts his requests when he barreled in anyway, without respecting his wishes. But Tate's quietly not thinking about that, because Derek says keep her and it snags his attention happily.
He looks at Derek, head tilted against the bed to flick over his figure like he's suspicious of the agreement. He is, really, but he's also not going to jeopardize it. He was going to keep her regardless of what he said, but now it just means Cobain can wild it out in the woods.]
You really have catfood I can swipe? I was gonna get some, but this saves me wasting my five finger discount.
[ Regardless of whether or not Derek feels like he's in the wrong for going over Tate's head the way he did, it's obvious he feels pretty shitty about how things turned out. He rolls over, putting his back to the wall so he can stay on his side and see Tate better. He frowns, clearly unimpressed with Tate for wanting to steal things after the citations he just got, but. Maybe it's a testament to his mood, the way he presses his lips together and says nothing. ]
Stiles has a cat. So.
[ So. Yeah. He's got catfood. Derek draws his arm back, using the fold of his bicep and his forearm as a pillow. He's not saying much now that he's established Tate isn't upset with him for scaring her, but. That's mostly because he doesn't know how to bring up the roar, or... how to bring up the fact that he busted that door down without asking, or how to bring up the fact that it sucks Tate kept this from him for so long. It's easier to just stare and will Tate to speak first. ]
[Gourmet taste or - shitty food? Tate arches his brows and stays laying on his back, face turned toward Derek. It starts to put a crick in his neck but he pushes through, dark eyes skimming over Derek's firm lipped expression. Tate doesn't know what to take the initiative on in terms of holding up the conversation when Derek's like this. Is he mad? Fed up and disappointed? Tate doesn't know. But Tate's - still suffering that ding to his confidence from when Derek walked by him moments ago, so he frowns gently.
Then he turns on to his side, figuring - he can navigate this along the lines of what he knows for sure. Appeal to the alpha side of Derek, stop teasing him. If he's surly, he's going to bark and snap. Feed the ego. Appease the ego. And, well, failing all that - Tate knows how to shift this physical as a distraction now. He starts that, just lightly, by reaching out to trace his fingers down Derek's arm.]
[ There's a reason - a whole backstory, actually - behind Stiles' furball's taste in food. Derek could answer Tate's question, but it seems like such a pointless and small conversation to have, so he just... shrugs his shoulders, letting things lay. He sinks further into the bed, watching Tate watch him, offering very little back. Just silence.
The touch on his arm doesn't read as a proposition, or... anything even vaguely sexual. It just feels like Tate's bridging the distance that Derek's put between them, thanks to his shitty attitude and the things that he's done. There's a spike of guilt in his chest when Tate asks if he's mad, and Derek just presses his lips together for a second, weighing the question. He slowly shakes his head. ]
No. Just... I thought you'd brought a girl here. It kind of freaked me out.
[ Derek chews his words, taking a second. Trying to figure out how to apologize. Ultimately, he doesn't. ]
[Nonanswer, Tate just - lets that slide with a swipe of his tongue along the backs of his teeth, trying not to let something so insignificant have any weight on him. But the little nosy part of him inside just wants to know the answer anyway, because he wants to know everything about Derek - about Stiles - about these people that are in his life. He wants to know for the sake of knowing and yet he can't. His fingers stop tracing just for a beat, but then they resume. Down his arm to his wrist, then back up to his bicep. Rinse, repeat.
Tate has a habit of not thinking things through and he's guilty of that, so he's guilty of being about fifty percent the cause of this misunderstanding if not a slight bit more. But Derek's reaction is always to snap like a dog disturbed from a nap - Tate can lay the blame on him but by now he should know kinder ways of rousing him.]
No. I mean, I think you were stupid overreacting but... I could have told you she was a feral bitch. And maybe also a cat.
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He just stands there, turning slowly around to look at Derek with - wide eyes and a quickened heartbeat. He wants to go after the cat but just stares instead, feeling like his ears have just popped and the world's not a frozen mess after a handful of seconds more. He rubs his hand over his arm, feeling scratches itch and remind him of something half-buried in his subconscious. But that's gone as quickly as it pipes up. Tate hates the way his voice sounds when he speaks - quieted and stifled:]
Her name's Cobain.
[He feels like his voice warbles, a child just scolded trying to speak.]
Cat... Cat Cobain.
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He can't think of anything nice to say, so - he doesn't say anything at all. Derek pushes past Tate and goes looking for Cobain, guilt weighing heavy on his chest. It doesn't take long to find her - she's huddled up on the edge of the platform, her back to a very long drop. Derek's stomach flips and he kneels, holding one hand out, trying to show some kind of-- submission, or something, but all she does is make sad, murmuring noises, visibly shaking. Derek feels like a scumbag. ]
C'mere.
[ She doesn't c'mere. ]
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He's not in the wrong here, he told Derek to wait. Derek didn't, and it escalated from there. Still, heat burns under Tate's skin and he feels swells of emotion he might not be able to handle if they peak. He exhales hard, following Derek sullenly and frowning at the sight of the cat.]
You're scaring her. Move, just - go back in there.
[Leave her to him, just - don't scare the fucking cat over the literal edge. 'She doesn't like you' is too bitterly tinged to spit out, even though he wants to. He's - angry now, maybe, but it's the honest truth. She hated Derek until he put the fear of God knows what inside her.]
J-Just go.
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He stands up, looking at Tate for-- one second, maybe two, then heads back into the treehouse. He could leave. Go back to the den and finish talking to that shithead Stanley about restocking inventory, even though that's not supposed to be Derek's job. Instead, he just - makes a beeline for the bed and sits on the edge of it, rubbing at his cheek and smearing away a little less red than he thought there'd be. He's already healing.
Derek just - sits inside, and he waits. ]
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He decides to leave her, for the time being, and goes back inside - solemn and subdued as he leaves the makeshift door open incase she gets ballsy. He just looks at Derek, on the bed, and wets his lips before walking over to to the stash of snacks. He takes a few fuzzy peaches in his hand and silently joins Derek on the bed, chewing on slightly stale candy. His cuts have healed too, smears of blood over his hands from fidgeting with the wounds while sitting with the cat outside.]
She's spooked. I don't think she's gonna come in, not for a while.
[Happy, you stupid dog?]
I wanted that introduction to go better.
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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? ]
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[He doesn't need to explain himself but it fills the silence anyway, and he feels down still too. They're just mellow and recovering from their own (literal) wounds. Tate eats another peach before reaching out, running his pinky over a scratch on Derek's bicep. It's just a line of blood, trickled down from something now healed. He retracts his hand, if only to take another candy and this time offer it to Derek.
Tate'll still have to go get tuna, or cat food - or whatever it is he can feed Cobain to try and keep her around. He hears a scrabbling noise outside and figures she's fucked off again. He's been luring her around for a while, up off the beach and into the security of the woods. And he really, really wants to keep up taking care of her but doesn't want to face the scrutinizing conversation of voicing that fact right now.
If Derek doesn't take the candy or refuses it, Tate'll still flick it at him.]
She's like a solid ninety percent bitch, but that other ten percent's really sweet when you get to see it. Which you might never do now, after... that - whatever that was. I didn't know you could do that.
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Tate flicks the candy at him and Derek blinks rapidly but ultimately just lets it hit his face and rest against his neck, tense and staring up at Tate like he's been betrayed. He doesn't say anything, for a second. Just stares until his shoulders relax again. ]
I... didn't mean to scare you. You weren't supposed to know I could do that.
[ Another werewolf thing he was trying to shield Tate from until they were both ready for the bite. Derek's proud of being a wolf, but it's still hard showing it so openly around humans, especially a human he cares about. Derek raises his hand, flicks the candy off his throat, and he's not sure if he can explain this properly, but he's going to use the words that sit right with him anyway. ]
Didn't mean to scare her, either. Thought she might... submit, if I did that. [ you know - because he's the alpha. sick guitar riff. ]
How long have you been looking after her?
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Derek wastes the fuzzy peach and Tate stares at it, finishing the ones in his palm by knocking them back. He then reaches for the spare one, picking it up off the bed and sticking it in his mouth as well. He's eating more food in this fucking tree house than he's eaten in weeks, just because of the casual access. He replies after he swallows, laying down next to Derek with a thumb against the bed.]
I've seen her for a couple weeks. Just hanging out around the beach, under the pier. She was farther down the boardwalk but I've been coaxing her to follow me - finally got her kinda used to this place. Nobody else seems to take care of her. It's a miracle she's still so fat.
[Tate stares up at the trees, squinting when he thinks he sees a sway of an orange tail somewhere up, up above.]
If she didn't submit, does that make her an Alpha too? D'you got competition now?
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D'you got competition, Tate asks, and Derek levels him with the most unimpressed stare imaginable. ]
No. Only thing I'm going to have to compete with her for is your attention.
[ And, like, the bed. He's already been kicked out of his own by Stiles' stupid thing. Derek drags his eyes from Tate to the open roof, looking for signs of Cobain. He breathes in, then out. ]
If you had told me about her sooner, I could have helped. Brought some blankets out from the den, or... something. I've literally got cat food in my kitchen going uneaten.
[ Because his cat only likes fish, the cliche little thing. Stiles' cat, he means, not his cat. Definitely not his cat. Derek looks back to Tate. ]
Keep her. She can stay in the treehouse, if I haven't scared her off. I don't mind.
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[Tate's - amused, just for a beat, trying to bring some levity into the moment again. He could've been a little more forthcoming with the details but he wanted that introduction to go better - and it says a lot about how much Derek trusts his requests when he barreled in anyway, without respecting his wishes. But Tate's quietly not thinking about that, because Derek says keep her and it snags his attention happily.
He looks at Derek, head tilted against the bed to flick over his figure like he's suspicious of the agreement. He is, really, but he's also not going to jeopardize it. He was going to keep her regardless of what he said, but now it just means Cobain can wild it out in the woods.]
You really have catfood I can swipe? I was gonna get some, but this saves me wasting my five finger discount.
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[ Regardless of whether or not Derek feels like he's in the wrong for going over Tate's head the way he did, it's obvious he feels pretty shitty about how things turned out. He rolls over, putting his back to the wall so he can stay on his side and see Tate better. He frowns, clearly unimpressed with Tate for wanting to steal things after the citations he just got, but. Maybe it's a testament to his mood, the way he presses his lips together and says nothing. ]
Stiles has a cat. So.
[ So. Yeah. He's got catfood. Derek draws his arm back, using the fold of his bicep and his forearm as a pillow. He's not saying much now that he's established Tate isn't upset with him for scaring her, but. That's mostly because he doesn't know how to bring up the roar, or... how to bring up the fact that he busted that door down without asking, or how to bring up the fact that it sucks Tate kept this from him for so long. It's easier to just stare and will Tate to speak first. ]
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[Gourmet taste or - shitty food? Tate arches his brows and stays laying on his back, face turned toward Derek. It starts to put a crick in his neck but he pushes through, dark eyes skimming over Derek's firm lipped expression. Tate doesn't know what to take the initiative on in terms of holding up the conversation when Derek's like this. Is he mad? Fed up and disappointed? Tate doesn't know. But Tate's - still suffering that ding to his confidence from when Derek walked by him moments ago, so he frowns gently.
Then he turns on to his side, figuring - he can navigate this along the lines of what he knows for sure. Appeal to the alpha side of Derek, stop teasing him. If he's surly, he's going to bark and snap. Feed the ego. Appease the ego. And, well, failing all that - Tate knows how to shift this physical as a distraction now. He starts that, just lightly, by reaching out to trace his fingers down Derek's arm.]
Are you mad?
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[ There's a reason - a whole backstory, actually - behind Stiles' furball's taste in food. Derek could answer Tate's question, but it seems like such a pointless and small conversation to have, so he just... shrugs his shoulders, letting things lay. He sinks further into the bed, watching Tate watch him, offering very little back. Just silence.
The touch on his arm doesn't read as a proposition, or... anything even vaguely sexual. It just feels like Tate's bridging the distance that Derek's put between them, thanks to his shitty attitude and the things that he's done. There's a spike of guilt in his chest when Tate asks if he's mad, and Derek just presses his lips together for a second, weighing the question. He slowly shakes his head. ]
No. Just... I thought you'd brought a girl here. It kind of freaked me out.
[ Derek chews his words, taking a second. Trying to figure out how to apologize. Ultimately, he doesn't. ]
Are you mad?
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Tate has a habit of not thinking things through and he's guilty of that, so he's guilty of being about fifty percent the cause of this misunderstanding if not a slight bit more. But Derek's reaction is always to snap like a dog disturbed from a nap - Tate can lay the blame on him but by now he should know kinder ways of rousing him.]
No. I mean, I think you were stupid overreacting but... I could have told you she was a feral bitch. And maybe also a cat.