[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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no subject
[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?
no subject
[ 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?
no subject
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.