Derek is yelling at Stiles again, shoving him back against the wall and pinning him there by his shoulders, almost-claws digging into the fabric of his jacket. The idiotic little shit has put himself in danger again, running into the middle of a confrontation between werewolves and hunters, and nearly getting shot in the process.
He’s practically growling in Stiles’ face, ignoring his increasingly frantic attempts to get away, and he tightens his grip in preparation to give him another good shove, for emphasis. “You stupid, little -
He doesn’t understand what happens next, can’t even follow the flow of movement, but the world spins, and when it settles, he’s the one against the wall, his feet dangling a good six inches off the floor, while Stiles holds him pinned with one hand around his throat.
Where Stiles’ eyes should have been, there’s nothing but two bottomless, black as pitch holes staring out at Derek.
“What the -” The hand on his throat tightens, cutting off his words and airflow.
“You…will have…some respect.” The voice is Stiles’, but the tone is nothing he’s ever heard from the kid, all venom and disdain. Derek scrabbles at the hand on this throat, kicks out with his legs, but he may as well be attacking a brick wall. Stiles doesn’t so much as flinch, and he’s so confused, so panicked at the lack of oxygen, that, for the first time in years, he can’t force the Shift.
“Stupid, mewling, Derek Hale. Can’t even muster the emotional maturity of a five year old to say thank you. Can’t be bothered to acknowledge this kid has been the only thing keeping you alive since you crawled your pathetic, self-loathing, useless ass back to Beacon Hills.”
The lack of air is becoming serious now, and Derek knows a blackout is just around the corner. “Stiles,” he manages to gasp out.
Stiles freezes, and then he gives himself a hard shake, like a dog coming out of water. When his eyes re-open, brown irises stare in horror at Derek, and he makes a tiny eep noise.
He drops Derek like he’s a hot coal and takes five rapid steps back as Derek slides to the floor. Derek gulps in huge gasps of air, scrambling to his feet and and hissing, fangs out.
Stiles’ expression is completely chagrined; he scrubs a hand over his buzzcut and ducks his head before speaking, his voice apologetic.
“Sorry about that. He gets a little over-protective sometimes.”