A/N: This section was written to the piece "Memories of Green," by Vangelis, from the Blade Runner (1982) soundtrack, if you are interested in the "mood music." This section also uses Stiles's Polish real name. There is a good pronunciation video for it on youtube if you google it. I'm not sure how FF will handle the L with slash, but that is how it would traditionally be spelled. Thank you for reading.
TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid
The scream that wakes her never makes it to her throat. Lydia is on her feet in an instant, searching the space, but finding only the dark wolf curled in on himself at the foot of the bed.
She finds the body slumped against a door frame. Cold to the touch. Eyes shut.
She knows he is too still. Sees that his chest doesn't rise or fall, or shudder. Her fingers around his throat find no thread of life.
"Derek," she shouts, and the wolf immediately wakes. Bounds through the grey light with hackles raised.
She pulls the boy all the way to the floor, laying him out flat. Preparing.
"He isn't breathing," she rasps, kneeling beside him. Even in panic, she recalls the steps. Aligns her palms over his chest. Anticipates the cracking and presses hard. The sound of his ribs giving way beneath her still startles.
There is no time to hesitate, to draw comparisons, to wonder. Her lips cover his as she forces him to share her air.
The wolf is a man again. Firmly pushes her arms away to take up the job of the boy's heart.
"Breathe," he orders. Is it for her or the boy?
She hovers over the pale face. Counts his freckles with her breaths, eyes swimming.
TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid
A part of his human memory knows that light comprises all color. Here, though, in this new place, he is surprised when the bright white light recedes into deep violets, bathing him in warmth. Transforming him.
He remembers shattering, as the Void collapsed. When he recalls, the moment plays over and over in an instant, and the once horrendous pain is an ache in his center.
The shifting light pulls him back together. Not only is he whole, he is transformed. Full. The gaunt tension goes. He is more than before.
He also remembers his anchors. He saw their faces in the moment of death.
This moment, too, replays.
She flashes a vibrant gold. She is illuminated. A saint. A Madonna.
A holy angel, a dark wolf at her feet. He swallows the moon upon which she stands.
And then they're gone again.
There are others in the light. Eyes and faces. Some smile, real, loving smiles. Some shift past, expressionless, silent. Others are like prisms, taking in the already impossible color and reflecting back an even stronger light. Their hands replace all the pieces. Scrub out the dark blood on his soul.
Cells, interlinked. His body is light, and whole. Interlinked.
The ache in his center grows like hunger would grow if he had a body anymore. It feels incongruous to feel such a thing in a place as infinite and opposite of what he's lived these last weeks.
What were once his hands slide over what was once his chest. Searching for cracks he knows he won't find.
"Mieczysław," a voice calls. "Stiles." The sound is familiar.
Equally whole and equally beautiful, Allison appears before him. Draped in warm golden light.
"Stiles, it isn't time," she says. The words fly out of her mouth on glimmering wings. Impossibly still yet constantly shifting, her eyes pierce him as he struggles to comprehend.
"Stiles, you are whole," she says. "Stiles, you are forgiven."
The warm violet light begins to lighten to a cool white once more.
"Stiles, it isn't time."
Her hands rest against him like a crown.
"Why do you keep using that name?" his thoughts find a voice. Her smile is coral and pink and blue, like the sun setting against a starry sky.
"Stiles, they are waiting," the words flutter towards him.
She disappears into the light, searing white. The ache in his chest.
He is the light.
TheLightTheLightTheLightTheLightTheLight
"Stiles," the wolf growls, eyes a fierce blue.
"Stiles," the banshee whispers between breaths. Dark specks begin to dance in her vision. "I can't keep this up much longer."
"Stiles," the wolf turns the full force of his roar on the boy beneath him. The body shutters and is still. "Call him," he tells her.
She forces a last breath between his lips, hesitantly pulls away. She breathes for herself, once, twice.
She feels the scream still twisting inside her, pulls his name up into her throat.
"Stiles," she says it, tastes it. Her throat aches.
"Stiles!" The name explodes from her, straining, loud, tasting of blood. The sound sends the wolf scrambling back. Dust drifts from the lintels.
She finds herself standing over him, looking down.
The body twitches, shutters, rattles against the floor.
"Mieczysław?" she rasps, not daring to hope. Her tears fall against his broken ribs.
The wolf is beside her, tail curled around her ankles. Every hair trembling.
The boy's eyes open.
TheLightTheLightTheLightTheLightTheLight
"Eighteen-year-old male presented as cardiac arrest. Probable cracked ribs as result of administration of CPR. ROSC at approximately 0500 hours. Paramedics on scene at 0509. Epinephrine pushed on three minute cycles. Oxygen administered. Backboard used, although no initial sign of spinal – "
"Mieczysław."
"Mischief-what?"
"M-I-E-C-Z-"
"Z?"
"Stiles. Just write down 'Stiles.' S-T-I-L-E-S. Stilinski."
"Stilinski? The sheriff's kid?"
"Yeah. The sheriff's kid…"
"X-ray confirmation of rib damage required. Pulse remains – "