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Erica is stooped over the too-small sink in the too-small train car bathroom, dabbing concealer under her eyes. Her velvet, leopard spotted makeup bag sits open on the closed lid of the toilet, a toilet Derek desperately needs to learn how to properly clean. The man used to live in a burnt out house with no plumbing at all, so this is actually a step up.
"You almost ready?" Isaac calls from the front, shrugging on his new leather jacket. He doesn’t say it, but he misses soft, warm fabrics. Sweaters, scarves, and cardigans.
"Hold on!" Erica hollers back, tone tight with frustration. She sees her eyes flare golden in the mirror and has to pause for them to return to brown before continuing with her eyelash curler. With werewolf hearing she can hear Isaac heave an impatient sigh. She doesn’t have the time to straighten her long blonde hair today like she wanted to and she’s already a little bit peeved because of it. The outlets in this bathroom don’t work anyway.
She’s dabbing the apples of her cheeks with a fluffy brush, watching the contours of her face grow more apparent, more adult, more perfect when Isaac starts tapping his foot. 1,2,3 - 1,2,3 - 1,2,3.
"We’re going to be late," he grouses, frowning at Boyd who sits across from him, book open on his lap.
"I thought you liked being a delinquent,” Erica calls back. “You didn’t have a problem when you slashed the lockers up.”
"At least we were at school. Which we’re not right now, where we should have been twenty minutes ago," the first Beta complains. "Derek said he wanted us to keep an eye on Lydia."
"Well Derek can wait until I finish.” She leans forward closer to the mirror, pulling the skin around her eye taut so she can apply her eyeliner. She has to make the wing sharp, sharp enough to stab her classmates in the throat.
"Do you have to put all that on?” Isaac asks, coming to lean against the door frame like her cosmetics are personally offending him.
"Yes, Isaac," she says between gritted teeth.
"Is this still for Stiles?"
Erica, out of the three Betas, has the hardest time controlling her emotions, particularly her hot-temper and she snarls when her eyes flare yellow again, making her draw the line unevenly. No this is not about a stupid boy.
"You know what," she angrily tells Isaac’s reflection. "Just go! Be a good boy and do what Daddy tells you.”
Isaac goes pale at that, all the color draining out of his sharp-angled, cherubic face. Erica realizes what she said before the words have a chance to hang in the air between them. She might have been referring to Derek but that hit far too close to home in a way she didn’t intend.
"Shit!" she curses, looking at how his gaze closes off and he turns away to head for the front of the car. "Isaac, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that!"
But he’s already gone down the steps and out the door. Erica grips the edge of the sink, feeling cold regret rushing through her veins faster than it had taken the Bite to take effect. Her hair hangs in front of her face and she sighs, brushing it back. She feels terrible.
"Fuck it all," she murmurs, straightening up and reaching for her bag, which unceremoniously falls and spills its contents across the filthy train-car bathroom floor. She snarls again and punches at the wall beside the mirror, leaving a dent in the wall and her knuckles bleeding, but the skin is already starting to heal as she bends down to pick up the mess, shaking it off. She looks up when she notices a pair of black shoes on the other side of the clutter.
"Hey, it’s okay." Boyd kneels down and begins picking up the variety of products.
"I shouldn’t have said that," she tells him, picking up a small palette of eye shadow. "I know better. I was stupid."
Boyd looks at her, his dark eyes wise and kind. “You didn’t mean it. We’re all having a hard time adjusting.” He picks up a sparkly gel-liner with a curious expression, the look one might give to a piece of medical equipment. “Isaac is a tough kid. You should apologize later, though.”
"I will," she mumbles, feeling worse, feeling a prickling at the back of her eyes. She hides behind the golden curtain of her hair and sniffs mightily, continuing to pick everything up. This is not who she is anymore.
"Erica…" Boyd begins, concern evident in the timbre of his voice.
"I’m fine," she tells him in a strong voice. She starts picking things up more quickly.
"Erica."
Cautiously, she raises her head to look at him. He’s watching her not with pity or glee, not like how her classmates usually look at her. Last time she was on a dirty bathroom floor like this was because she seized in the girls’ room and neither of the two girls in there with her had the good sense to get a teacher, letting her spasm for a few minutes while they panicked.
"You’re okay," he tells her, which is the opposite of what she always hears - ‘are you okay?’.
She sits back with a sigh, rear meeting her heels. “It’s just…everything. There’s so much to worry about. School, Derek, the full moon, that kanima thing running around. And now…”
"And now?" Boyd asks, patient, zipping up the cosmetic bag and placing it back for her.
She toys with her lip, slightly too-sharp canines pricking at the pink flesh. “Do I wear too much makeup?” she asks in a small voice, a voice she hates.
Boyd raises his brows at that, blinks at her. “Do you think you wear too much makeup?”
She shrugs, rotating her shoulders and fingers her hair. “I don’t know. I like wearing it. It makes me feel-“
"Powerful."
Erica meets his gaze now. “Yeah. It does.”
Boyd nods. “If you like it, then you should do what you want. Who cares what anyone else thinks?”
She smiles, a grim laugh coming out of her. “Before, you know, I used to sit in my room and apply makeup all day. Learn how to do it right, so when I wasn’t such a mess I could do it and people would forget that I’m a freak.”
"You’re not a freak, Erica." Boyd frowns. "You had a medical condition."
She laughs, feeling both shy and empowered by his words. “You’re really gonna tell a real-life werewolf she’s not a freak?”
Boyd chuckles and his smile is warm and kind, the kind of smile that makes her feel safe, comfortable.
"I just didn’t think I’d still worry about it," she continues. "I thought it would go away like all the other shit. So sometimes I…"
"Second guess yourself?"
"Exactly."
Boyd makes a thoughtful noise and gets to his feet, powerful muscles flexing with the movement. “Well,” he begins and offers her his hand to help her back to her feet as well. She takes it, his hand is warm, so much larger than her own, and she’s starting to find she likes the feeling of his touch. “I think you’re beautiful with or without makeup. And you should wear it if that’s what you want. Anyone who thinks less of you for it is an asshole.”
Erica can feel her cheeks heat up, like someone ignited a sun in her skin that burnt out all the worry and all the fear because he was right. She wasn’t in the business of caring what others thought of her anymore.
"Thanks, Boyd."
He smiles, and she likes the way it takes up most of his face, makes the corners of his eyes pinch together with the force of it. Her hand is still in his, she realizes. “Um.” Her fingers twitch against his. They both let go at the same time and almost instantly she feels the desire to take his hand again.
"Should we go?" he asked, clearing his throat like it took effort to do so.
"Let me put my lipstick on."
"Okay."
- - - -
A few days later, when Erica comes back to the train car after sneaking into Stiles’ house under some obscure order, she finds a post-it on the table next to a golden tube of lipstick and a receipt. Picking up the tube, she removes the top and twists the bottom, looking at the nice peachy-pink shade of it. Her eyes drop to the post-it, where in Boyd’s neat handwriting it said: "Erica, was at CVS and thought you might like this. I don’t know anything about makeup so if it’s not a good color I left the receipt for you. -Boyd"
Erica beams. She has a new favorite shade of lipstick.