Telling Stiles not to look is asking for the impossible. He can't not. He
has to look, has to acknowledge what he in large part is responsible for.
This was his plan. This was his fault. These two deaths, more than any of
the others. He feels it, and he has to see it. And besides, Derek sounds so
worn and so broken and he can't not check to see if there are any more
wounds he's responsible for--visible ones, not the ones on Derek's psyche
that he knows are his fault too, because this was his plan--
Stiles turns in his chair, and his eyes immediately find Derek. It wouldn't
be exaggerating to say that he's covered in blood; his jeans are covered in
dark splashes and torn across one knee, his shirt ripped and clinging to
him wherever it's still intact with a stickiness that speaks of blood and
sweat. There's dark brown-red splattered across his face that brings out
that deep, violent red in his feral eyes, and his arms... Derek's arms are
covered from claw tips to past his elbows. He knows what it's from, and his
brain helpfully provides the sound to accompany it, and for a long moment
he fights to breathe past the smell of blood and violent death that fills
the room. His head's swimming, vision blurry enough that the bodies on the
floor are just swirls of red and white, and his hands clutch tight at the
back of the chair as he sways, dizzy and nauseated and guilt-stricken in a
way he hadn't expected. Fighting nausea and a scream that wants to never
stop, he can only stare at his hands and whisper "I'm sorry, I'm sorry"
over and over again. All his fault, all of this.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2014-09-01 12:07 am (UTC)Telling Stiles not to look is asking for the impossible. He can't not. He has to look, has to acknowledge what he in large part is responsible for. This was his plan. This was his fault. These two deaths, more than any of the others. He feels it, and he has to see it. And besides, Derek sounds so worn and so broken and he can't not check to see if there are any more wounds he's responsible for--visible ones, not the ones on Derek's psyche that he knows are his fault too, because this was his plan--
Stiles turns in his chair, and his eyes immediately find Derek. It wouldn't be exaggerating to say that he's covered in blood; his jeans are covered in dark splashes and torn across one knee, his shirt ripped and clinging to him wherever it's still intact with a stickiness that speaks of blood and sweat. There's dark brown-red splattered across his face that brings out that deep, violent red in his feral eyes, and his arms... Derek's arms are covered from claw tips to past his elbows. He knows what it's from, and his brain helpfully provides the sound to accompany it, and for a long moment he fights to breathe past the smell of blood and violent death that fills the room. His head's swimming, vision blurry enough that the bodies on the floor are just swirls of red and white, and his hands clutch tight at the back of the chair as he sways, dizzy and nauseated and guilt-stricken in a way he hadn't expected. Fighting nausea and a scream that wants to never stop, he can only stare at his hands and whisper "I'm sorry, I'm sorry" over and over again. All his fault, all of this.