"You don't need his help," She said in his ear, but it was in his voice, and the words were I don't need your help, and it took him a moment to realize he had raised his voice at Derek - backed himself into a corner that felt too encasing. His arm stretched out along one wall, fingers spread and hands flat - hands that he wanted to use and shake Derek's neck until it clicked and flopped -
His nose spurted, and the noise made him gag, made him pitch forward, stumbling for the bathroom. The carpet would stain but whatever, he never really cared for it before, it was there when they bought it - old and grey and yellow-stained at the edges from someone's smoking habits.
Pit, pit, patter. Bright little drops of things that might've been blood all across the once-white of their tile, of their sink, and his hand slipped, smeared it all around and Stiles - might not have been able to breathe. To suck in the air he needed. It was an overwhelming joke and he swallowed hard - found the taste of copper there, like when his father used to handle his bleeds wrong as a kid. Tip him back as opposed to forward.
"He was always angry at you. After all: you took me away from him."
And she's there in the mirror but she wasn't when he looked back over his shoulder. Just Derek, with white eyes suited for a scared deer than a wolf who claimed pride in his pack.
Stiles wanted to rip them out --
"What's wrong with me?" The question was tired - in use and in tone. Briefly, he remembered being too young with too much of him and being sat down; told to calm down and control himself, kids with their pushy hands and shoulders that skinned his knees in result and what's wrong with me, mom, why am I like this --
everything, sweetie, you're just not right.
But that wasn't how it had been.
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