Title: And blood-black nothingness began to spin
Rating: Teen for language, depression, drug use, implied sexuality
Warnings: Description of psychological torment; physical and psychological unwellness; character death
Spoilers: Through season three, and some of season four. I've muddied the timelines of three and four, and diverge from canon following season three part two. Mention of cannon character death. Eventually, use of Stiles's real name.
Title Credit: A line from the film Blade Runner 2049, which is also a quotation from Vladimir Nabokov's novel Pale Fire.
Author's Note: More than anything, this is a personal work in progress. Updates are likely to be erratic and/or "invisible" (for example, subtle changes within already published sections). As much as I love sharing and reading fanfiction, and while I appreciate any and all feedback, please note that this work is not necessarily written/designed for an audience. I am utilizing my favorite vague and dark style, although this is likely to shift into a more conventional narrative in later sections.
This piece is somewhat inspired by a Stiles-Lydia-Derek fic I read a while ago, which I have not been able to track down again [if that author ever reads this, thank you for your work]; somewhat inspired by my struggles with migraines and autoimmune disease; and heavily inspired by the magnificent score to the film Blade Runner 2049 [if I could make a sound a title, I so, so, so would have]. You may absolutely read Stydia, Dydia, Sterek, and what I suppose you could call Stydek into this first section, and will probably encounter each of these pairings and groupings in future sections.
Thank you for reading. - The PuffleHuff
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, plot, etc. are the property of the creators of Teen Wolf. Any original characters, settings and plots are the property of PuffleHuff. PuffleHuff is in no way associated with the TV show Teen Wolf or MTV, and no copyright infringement is intended. This work is an amateur fan effort and no profit is being made.
When he wakes up in a cold panic it isn't to the sound of his own voice, piercing the night and bringing the sheriff running. No. These days, these nights, these moments are silent to the world now. Only he hears the voices.
Only he and the red-headed death omen.
For all their sensitivities, the pack doesn't know what their mortal counterparts know. What he has been hearing in the dark. Seeing in the dark. Resisting.
The void.
"The Void," it corrects, an imperceptible voice dripping with self-aggrandizement.
He wrestles the bed sheets tangling his legs. Pulls the damp cotton over his head. Wraps his body up the way he can't wrap up his mind.
"We are waiting," it calls. Metallic fangs gnashing in the dark.
TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid
The sun comes up. The days progress. The shadow beneath his eyes grows deeper as he grows quieter.
TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid
Scott notices the change in volume, and finally picks up on darkened circles around his best friend's eyes. When he lays a gentle hand on Stiles's shoulder to ask how he can help, it is quickly brushed away. But not before the sting of pain rushes up his arm.
"Insomnia. Migraines," Stiles says, focus shifting everywhere but to Scott's face. "I'll be fine after finals."
He knows he isn't convincing, but his alpha has other things to worry about. Stiles won't call the hero off the battlefield for this.
TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid
Her hair, spun fire, is uncharacteristically oily and unkempt. A hazy halo.
He can almost smile at that thought.
She has always been an angel to him.
An angel, with perfect features contorted in frustration. Her hands sliding from his cheeks to his chest as she finally remembers to breathe again.
"He's just toying with me," she sighs. Then gasps, hazel eyes widening as she struggles with the air working back into her lungs.
"It won't let anyone else play the game," he responds, knowingly. In a way, he is relieved.
He may not be able to silence the voices for her, but he can protect her.
"The void…" she says.
Frustration becomes despair. Her arms snake around him.
They hold each other, braced. Loving. Fearing.
The symphony of the empty dark rises to a crescendo of madness.
And she can feel it. Crawling beneath his skin.
He can feel it, too. Feel the cry, the scream – the call – building in her chest.
"The Void," he agrees.
TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid
He stops going to school.
At first the sheriff doesn't notice. But when he does, another barrage of examinations and conversations with doctors occurs.
Sleeping pills. Meditation. Recommendations for bi-weekly counseling.
He takes the pills, but is never quite sure if he's managed to sleep.
He tries meditation with Lydia, once. For a few moments, there is calm. Then the wave of oblivion washes over him.
He sank through the levels of Hell. How many were there supposed to be? Seven?
He lost track.
When the angel – his beautiful angel, the angel of death – manages to rouse him, his ears ring with her scream for days.
And counseling. Who else could he possibly share his nightmares with and stay out of Eichen House now?
TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid
When the dark wolf returns to town, the stench of desperation nearly sends him running.
It doesn't take long for the banshee to arrive on his doorstep.
"You reek," he mutters, slowly backing away.
When she doesn't pursue him, doesn't offer any explanation, he comes forward again.
Curiosity kills wolves.
"It's Stiles, isn't it?"
She just nods. A pretty shell, a shiny wrapper around a well of death.
He flinches when he takes her hand, surprised by the waves of pain flowing into him. Almost nauseous. But it passes quickly. The scent dissipates.
The dark wolf smells only soap and himself on her skin.
TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid
"We are waiting," it croons, its mouth an evil gash in a featureless face.
The empty white room is dark now. The pieces have returned to the board.
"You'll have to keep waiting," he responds. Venom.
His hand darts out to wipe away the pieces, white and black, but never reach the game.
His arm is caught up by a dozen hands. The voices shriek all around him.
"Ah ah ah," it scolds, slipping into the shadows.
The arms, the voices, the void engulfs him.
He wills himself awake. Searching for his blankets. Groping for the light switch.
They bundle him up, bowl him over, and send him skidding across the inky blackness.
When he falls at its feet it has become two.
He stares up at himself. And he stares up at Her.
"Allison," he cries.
She grins a silver smile and her mouth runs with blood.
TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid
"Lydia, I'm sorry," he murmurs. His knees are weak while tears stain her cheeks.
"It wasn't you," she insists, lips pursed. The red gold main shakes.
"But it was."
"It wasn't you."
She can't stop crying. That's why he can't accept it.
For once, the voices are blissfully quiet, and she thanks the powers that be for that blessing. If she could hear her dead friend's voice, she knows she never would be able to forgive him.
She would never be able to help him.
Little though she can.
"It wasn't you," she insists. Until her eyes dry. Until the pleading goes out of his posture.
"I'm still sorry," he sobs.
He collapses into her. Lets go of trying to stay in control.
He feels her arms around him. Feels her body. Feels her breath.
His angel. For once, he almost feels heaven.
He'll take purgatory, though.
He'll take any quiet he can get.
TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid
She has to insist. She practically drags him there herself before he'll go see the former alpha.
The dark wolf.
He doesn't bother knocking. Just stumbles in. The expression of revulsion on the dark wolf's face is like vindication.
"Hell," the man spits. "Stiles… How can no one know?"
He feels his shoulders shrug, but his feet are still carrying him forward. Desperation.
The darkness. The psychological hell. The Void has laid him so low.
The man doesn't resist when the boy takes his arm in his hands.
It's only moments before his arm is black with pain and his body is on fire. Then he has to fight him off.
It hurts, too, to watch the relief shift back into agony once he's extricated himself.
But there are boundaries. There have to be lines. He won't be good to anyone dead.
TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid
"A thousand…" the boy mutters in his sleep.
They think it's sleep, but they also know they are usually wrong.
He's always on the edge of twilight. In limbo. On the precipice of hell.
"A thousand years," he repeats.
His eyes stay closed. His body, impossibly still.
Hazel and green eyes meet in the half-light. The dark wolf takes the boy's hand. The black immediately creeps up his arm.
A shaken head. A turn.
"Thousand years."
TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidAThousandYearsTheVoidTheVoid
There are small improvements.
He starts going to classes again. Not all of them. Not all the time. But he goes.
For a while, Scott pesters him. Apologizing. Making excuses.
They're good ones, but it's clear that the pack has become a more pressing obligation than human time.
When he finally, begrudgingly, accepts that Stiles doesn't need him, it's a relief all around.
A small flicker of light.
A lessening of weight.
TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid
When they're all there, it's best. Sometimes.
When all three of them are together, he almost touches normal again.
He doesn't like relying on them. Doesn't like seeing the black that snakes up the dark wolf's arm when he takes the angel's hand.
He tries to hide it, even knowing that she can hear the voices, too. Even as calm radiates from the wolf's human hands.
He wants to be strong enough on his own.
It's a while before he realizes none of them are.