#sbdarkstiles

Isaac is broken. Lydia is brittle. Scott is destroyed. And Stiles… Well, Derek can see that in some ways, it’s worse for Stiles than it is for anyone. He’s the one whose mind, whose body, whose entire being was invaded and taken over. His mouth spoke the order to kill Allison, even if he wasn’t in control of it at the time. His hands held Lydia back as she screamed.

Derek doesn’t particularly like Stiles. He’s never particularly liked Stiles. But he remembers how it felt to hold Paige in his arms and feel responsible, and he wonders how Stiles is doing.

Maybe he notices because he’s so removed from the whole thing. He understands, intellectually, that the loss of Allison is wrecking Scott’s little pack, but he doesn’t feel it himself. His judgement isn’t clouded by misery the way everyone else’s is. He thinks Kira is in somewhat the same position; she didn’t really know Allison, and as kind-hearted as she is, there was always just the slightest sense of rivalry between them. How could there not be? They both loved Scott. But because of that, Kira is looking to Scott. She isn’t looking at Stiles.

The first time, it’s at the supermarket. Derek is pushing his cart around, in the strange alien position of not being the one who’s lost everything, and he sees Scott and Stiles hovering by the dairy products. They haven’t seen him, and Scott doesn’t seem to be in any frame of mind to smell him. He could just walk away. But he doesn’t.

He pushes his cart over to them. “Hey,” he says.

Scott turns around, his eyes heavy and tired. “Hey,” he replies.

“You two okay?” Derek asks. It’s an inane question, he knows it is, but what else can he say?

Scott nods wearily. “Yeah,” he says. Derek’s eyes flicker to Stiles.

Stiles lifts his head slowly, meeting Derek’s gaze. His eyes… they’re always clever, bright, perceptive, but today there’s something in them that Derek doesn’t recognise. He’s pale, but not defeated. He looks stronger than Derek expected. And unexpectedly, he feels it flash through him in a bolt of absolute, though surprised, certainty.

That’s not Stiles.

Scott flinches a little, and Derek realises it’s because he’s making a soft growling sound at the back of his throat. His defences have automatically been thrown up, because if that’s not Stiles – and it isn’t, he’s sure of it – then who is it? He thought they’d destroyed the Nogitsune, but what if it’s still in there, biding its time? What is that creature watching him from Stiles’ eyes?

Then there’s a flicker – just the tiniest little flicker – and Stiles frowns, and the moment passes. “Derek?” he says. “You okay?”

No, Derek isn’t okay, he’s fucking confused – because now it feels like Stiles again. He stops growling abruptly. Had he imagined it? Imagined that fleeting moment where Stiles didn’t feel like Stiles anymore?

“Yeah,” he says awkwardly. “Sorry.”

He walks away, because he’s made an ass of himself and there doesn’t seem to be anything else he can do, but all the way down the aisle it seems as though he can feel that alien gaze watching him from Stiles’ eyes, following the steps he’s taking until he’s finally, blissfully out of sight.

Derek has no fucking idea what happened, but he’s not about to sit around waiting to find out. He texts Isaac and tells him that he thinks the pack needs to get together and do something to distract themselves from the nightmare; Isaac takes the hint, and two days later Scott sends him a message to ask if he would mind hosting a movie night at the loft. The whole pack is coming, which means Stiles is coming; Derek will have plenty of time to watch him and see if he gets that strange alien sensation from him again.

He buys a shitload of food, because no matter how miserable they are it’s still a group of teenage werewolves, and tries to figure out how to use Netflix so that they can actually watch a movie. Erica set him up with an account when she was still living here – and fuck, that hurts to think about – but he’s not sure what his password is, so it’s mostly a case of guesswork until he remembers how narcissistic she was and types in her own name.

There’s no steady trickle – all the pack arrives at the same time, and Derek suspects they’ve coordinated it because they don’t want to be stuck alone with him. He doesn’t care, particularly. He knows that in a lot of ways, he’s only in the pack through convenience. They’re a pretty broken bunch these days.

Derek opens the sliding door when Scott raps hesitantly on it. “Come in,” he says. It seems oddly unfair that he’s the least wrecked person in the room, although also just a little bit… nice. God, that’s a terrible thing to think, but Derek is used to being so completely fucked up that everyone knows it. There’s something nice about feeling responsible, about being clear-headed enough to look after someone else for a change.

“Hey,” Scott says heavily. Kira is holding his hand, a twisted expression on her face like she’s not sure if she’s supposed to smile or not. What do you do, after all, when your boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend is dead and he’s a wreck over it?

“Hey,” Derek says, trying to keep his voice as light as possible. He’s not particularly good at it. “Hi, Kira.”

She does smile then, a wide happy smile that’s almost infectious. Almost. “Hi, Derek,” she says, her cheerful voice at odds with the general mood of the group.

Isaac and Stiles troop in after Scott and Kira, and Derek is immediately on his guard. “Hey,” he says cautiously to them. Isaac nods at him, but Stiles raises his head, meeting his eyes.

He’s smiling. It’s a strange, twisted smile, and it doesn’t reach his eyes. And Derek knows.

That’s not Stiles.

Before he can say anything – and what can he say, anyway? – Lydia comes in, and beside her… Malia? The coyote girl? Derek frowns at the pair of them, and Lydia lifts her chin and looks defiantly back at him. Derek rolls his eyes, because everything is always a battle with Lydia, when it so, so doesn’t have to be. “Come in,” he says. “Malia,” he adds, just to show that he remembers her name.

“Hi,” she says, her voice abrupt. “Lydia invited me.”

“Malia is pack,” Lydia says in a voice that dares him to disagree.

Derek, who hadn’t been about to anyway, shrugs. “Okay.”

“What movie are we watching?” Stiles asks, and it strikes Derek how odd it is that that’s the first time he’s spoken. He’s Stiles. Talking is what he does.

They sit down around the TV, and Kira fiddles with the remote, and Derek watches Stiles. Or, at least, the thing in his loft pretending to be Stiles, because that’s not Stiles. That is not Stiles.

It’s not even particularly good at pretending to be Stiles. It sits beside Scott, and it is still and quiet, like a shadow. Where Stiles is jittery, a constant mess of motion, it is unmoving, poised and careful, silent where Stiles speaks, watchful where Stiles is heedless. In fact, Derek has the oddest impression that it isn’t particularly trying to be Stiles. It’s not pretending. It just happens to look like him, and no one has noticed the difference. No one except Derek.

He’s barely concentrating on the movie – he thinks it might be one of The Hobbit trilogy, but he’s not sure, it’s just that there are a lot of dragons – because all he can focus on is Stiles. Not Stiles. The thing sitting in Stiles’ seat, wearing Stiles’ clothes, looking at the world through Stiles’ eyes. He tries pinpoint exactly how he knows that it isn’t Stiles – is it a look? A scent? – but he can’t. There’s nothing specific he can put his finger on. He just knows.

He thinks the thing knows he’s seen it. Every now and again, it flicks its dark, hooded eyes at him, watching him as though fascinated by him. There’s a certain sly darkness in the curve of its mouth, the knowing look in its eyes. But it doesn’t say anything, and neither does Derek.

Derek knows for sure that it’s onto him – or at least, aware that he’s onto it – when, at the end of the movie, it excuses itself to go to the bathroom just as everyone is saying their goodbyes. Other than Stiles, there’s a certain lightness in the air; Scott is actually smiling, and Isaac looks slightly less like he wants to tear his own skin off. Derek realises, with a little jolt of shock, that suggesting the pack night was actually a good idea. They needed this.

“We should do it again,” Scott says to him. Derek puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he says, and finds that he means it. “Anytime. You can always come here.”

“Bye,” Malia says, and then they all go, clattering out of the loft and sliding the door shut behind them. Derek waves them off, and then he waits. Because the thing that isn’t Stiles is still here, and there must be a reason for that.

Slowly, he sees Stiles’ trainers start to descend the curling staircase, followed by the rest of his body. He’s too still, too quiet, and Derek wonders if the real Stiles is ever coming back. In the supermarket, there had been a definite switch, but tonight it’s been the imposter the entire time. He’s certain of it.

“Have they all gone?” the thing asks, coming to a halt in front of Derek. Stiles’ skin is pale, wan, but Derek is unexpectedly struck by how pretty it is. How pretty Stiles is.

He gulps back the sensation, filing it away to deal with later or possibly never. “Yes,” he says, and he can hear his own voice rasping. “It’s just you and me.”

The thing tilts its head slowly to one side. “Okay,” it says, and raises its eyebrows expectantly. Yeah, it knows. It’s waiting.

Well, Derek isn’t going to miss his chance. “Who are you?” he asks roughly. “Where’s Stiles?”

It’s out there now, and almost – almost – sounds ridiculous. The creature bites Stiles’ lower lip, and for a moment looks so much like him that Derek doubts himself, doubts his own judgement, but he shakes that off. He doesn’t know how he knows it, but he knows.

“I’m Stiles,” the thing says carefully, but Derek is already shaking his head.

“You’re not Stiles,” he says. “Who are you?”

The creature looks as though he’s thinking about it. “You can call me Void, I suppose,” he says pensively. His voice – God, he sounds like Stiles, but it isn’t him. It isn’t him. “That’s what I am, I guess.”

“Void,” Derek repeats. “You’re… you’re the Nogitsune?” He can hear his own hesitancy; somehow; the thing doesn’t feel like the Nogitsune.

Void laughs scornfully. “Scott killed the Nogitsune. Don’t be stupid, Der.”

“Don’t call me that!” Derek says fiercely. “What are you, then?”

Void takes a step closer. “Dude, chill,” he says, sounding so much like Stiles, like the real Stiles, that Derek blinks in shock. “It’s me. It’s still me.”

“I don’t understand,” Derek says carefully.

It bites its lip again, eyes roving around the loft. There’s something very small about it, something that makes Derek’s wolf – against all his human instincts – relax, just a little. This thing, whatever it is, doesn’t feel like a threat. That doesn’t mean he’s going to stop treating it like one – he’s been burned enough times not to make that mistake again – but somehow he feels calmer. He doesn’t think that Void is his enemy. Not really.

“I’m part of him,” Void says quietly. “Part of Stiles. I haven’t… taken him over, or whatever it is you’re afraid of. We’re two halves of the same person.”

Derek is watching him closely. “I’ve never seen you before,” he says evenly.

“I never was, before,” Void counters. “This isn’t… supernatural, Derek. This is human. Stiles knows it’s happening. He did some research.”

Derek rolls his eyes, because of course he did. “What did he find out?”

“We think we have Dissociative Identity Disorder,” Void says, and it’s there in his words: the use of the word we. “It can be caused by trauma. Stiles isn’t… coping well with what the Nogitsune did to him. Made him do. He created me to protect him.”

“You protect him?” Derek repeats sceptically. He’s having some trouble wrapping his head around what the thing is telling him, because it really, really doesn’t make sense. “How?”

“I do life for him,” Void says simply.

Derek closes his eyes for a moment, because that doesn’t need explaining. He gets it. He lost Paige, he lost his entire family, he lost Kate – or at least, what he thought Kate was – he lost Laura, his betas, everyone he’s ever cared about, everyone he’s ever loved. He’s lost them all, and it’s killed him every time, again and again, over and over, chipping away little pieces of him until there’s almost nothing left. He gets not being able to do life. He gets it.

“Do you know – were you there—?” he begins, opening his eyes. He’s not quite sure what he’s trying to say, but Void seems to understand anyway.

“I know what Stiles knows,” he says. “I’ve felt a ghost of how he feels. He’s screaming, Derek. Every minute of every day, he’s screaming, and he’s drowning in it all. That’s why I’m here.”

“I saw him before,” Derek says hesitantly. “In the store. That was him.”

“We thought you were going to attack us,” Void explains. “I figured it was best I retreat for a while.”

“But then – tonight—”

“He wouldn’t have been able to be here,” Void says. “He couldn’t have done it. He can’t do it. I knew you would corner us. I figured we should get it out of the way.”

Derek’s chest tightens with a sudden constricting rush of pity and pain for Stiles, because he hadn’t known. None of them had realised how bad it was for him. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry it’s like that.”

Void is looking at him in a considering sort of way. “Not for me,” he says, his voice like a snake slithering between them. “Stiles is safe here. I don’t feel the pain.”

“What do you feel?” Derek asks.

“I’ll hurt anyone who touches him,” Void says, the simple truth frightening because Derek can feel how much he means it. “I am part of him, Derek, but I am not him. You’ve felt it, haven’t you? I’m not Stiles. I’m not weak.”

Derek looks at him. He’s standing tall, his body strong and imposing, his head carried high and his eyes blazing. “No, you’re not,” he says. “You’re not weak.”

Void smiles, and his face – his face becomes lighter, but not in the way someone else’s might. He’s not gentle in his lightness. He’s like the sun, burning and fiery. He’s fucking beautiful. He says: “I’m glad you know, Derek. Out of everyone, I’m glad it’s you.”

“Why?” Derek asks, but Void doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. Derek knows why.

For a moment, he thinks about it – really thinks about it. Thinks about Stiles’ body, lithe and smooth, with its unexpected edges and curves. Thinks about that mole, the one right at the base of his jaw, that shows when he tilts his head so that you can see the long line of his neck. Thinks about his hands, with his long, clever fingers and crisp knuckles.

He’s thought about it before. And Void is obviously clever enough to know it. Which means…

“Stiles knew.” It’s not a question.

Void smiles, his eyes glittering. “Stiles always knows,” he says. “It’s why he feels so much.”

“He never said anything,” Derek says stupidly.

“He doesn’t trust himself,” Void says. “He convinced himself that he must be wrong. That you could never feel that way about him. Poor, spastic, flailing Stiles.” He grins mockingly. “What was it you said? Skinny, defenceless Stiles.”

Derek feels a lump in his throat. “How did you…”

“I told you,” Void says, his voice dark with quiet. “Stiles always knows. You said it to Aiden, Aiden said it to Lydia, Lydia said it to Scott… He knows how you think of him.”

“That’s not—” Derek says, and then stops, because it is. It is true. He did say those things about Stiles, and he meant them.

“You think he’s pretty,” Void goes on. “You think he’s pretty, and weak. You think he’s a child.” That smile… it glints in the cheap lighting of Derek’s loft. “I’m pretty,” he says softly. “Don’t you think I’m pretty?”

If ever there was a doubt in Derek’s mind, it’s gone for good, because there’s no way that’s Stiles. It’s nothing like Stiles. Barely on the same plane of existence. And God, Derek fucking likes it. “No,” he says, voice rough. “You’re more.” He swallows. “You’re beautiful.”

Void grins at him. “Yeah,” he says, his voice gaining strength. “I am. And I’m strong. I’m strong, Der. Look at me.”

“I can see you,” Derek says huskily.

“I’m everything he isn’t,” Void whispers, his voice like silk. “I’m the brightest parts of him. I’m the best of him.”

Without quite knowing how he got there, Derek finds himself standing with just a few centimetres of air separating them. He’s so close, he can feel the murmur of Void’s breath on his face, feel his soft heartbeat thudding just inches away. “Yes,” he says, without really knowing what he’s agreeing to. “Yes.”

“I’m going to kiss you,” Void says, and for a moment, an odd, disjointed moment, he sounds like Stiles. “Stop me if you don’t want it.”

But Derek does want it, more than he’s ever wanted anything, so he just closes his eyes and presses in, feels Stiles’ mouth warm on his, his skin smooth and soft but the kiss – Void’s kiss – anything but. He kisses hard, bruising Derek’s mouth with the pressure of his lips, pressing up against him as his hands snake around Derek’s neck. He kisses smoothly, his tongue sliding between Derek’s lips as though he’s done it a thousand times before, and Derek finds himself shaking at the touch.

“Fuck me,” he says roughly into Void’s mouth, and Void chuckles against his neck.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, Derek, I want that. You want that. You want me.”

“Yes,” Derek says breathlessly, fumbling with Stiles’ shirt. “I want you. Fuck, I want you.”

Void hums with pleasure, reaching down to Derek’s belt. “Say that again,” he says. “Tell me you want me. Tell me I’m beautiful.”

“You are,” Derek says. He’s pushing at Void’s hips now, pushing him back against the wall. “You are beautiful. You are strong. And I want you.”

Void shudders underneath him, hips thrusting into Derek’s hands. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Oh God, fuck, Derek, Derek—” He stops talking abruptly, and his body stills. There’s a sudden, very palpable silence.

His head lifts, and his eyes meet Derek’s, and Derek’s heart plummets to the ground, because that’s not Void.

That’s Stiles. Stiles, looking back at him with soft confused eyes and his mouth hanging slightly open. Stiles, whose heart is suddenly beating at a mile a minute, his breath coming in short laboured gasps. Skinny, defenceless Stiles, who isn’t doing life right now.

Derek doesn’t move a muscle, his hands frozen on Stiles’ hips, his breath ghosting on Stiles’ cheek. He says, his voice stilted and too quick: “Stiles—”

Stiles shrinks, and Derek steps back. His cheeks are reddening. “You – Derek – you and him—”

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, even though he isn’t sure if that’s true, or if it should be true.

“He’s the best of me,” Stiles whispers, echoing Void’s words. “He’s the brightest parts of me. You should—” He shakes, closing his eyes. “I can’t bring him back. Normally he just – I don’t know—”

“Stiles,” Derek says softly, because whatever he might think, whatever he might feel, Stiles is breaking in front of him. “Stiles, it’s okay.”

“No,” Stiles says. “It’s really not.”

“You should tell Scott,” Derek says, and Stiles gives a short, derisive laugh. “I mean it,” Derek presses. “It’s not right that he’s all you have.”

“I can’t,” Stiles says quietly. “Scott’s got enough to deal with right now.”

Derek swallows, because he’s got to address it, he’s got to, but it’s so fucking difficult. “Stiles – about what happened – I didn’t – I didn’t know—”

“I know, Der,” Stiles says, and his voice… God, Derek has never heard exhaustion like it. “It’s okay. He’s… good, I guess. He’s the strong one. I get it.”

Derek finds himself frowning. “But you… you feel—”

“Too much,” Stiles says bracingly. “I feel too much. And the fact that you even like a part of me, that – well, that’s more than I ever thought I’d get. That’s enough, believe me.” He sighs. “I’m a fucking mess, Derek.”

“It’s okay to be,” Derek says gently. He looks at Stiles, really looks at him, and is horrified to see that there are tears in his eyes. He says, quickly: “Trust me. This is normal.”

Stiles scrubs fiercely at his face. “This is not fucking normal, Derek,” he says thickly.

“You need to talk to someone,” Derek says. “Scott, or your dad.”

“That’s what he’s for,” Stiles says firmly. “Void. That’s why I need him. He does it for me, when it’s too hard.” He bites his lip, the motion almost the mirror of the way Void did. “I’m not strong enough, Derek,” he says, the words bitingly honest. “I can’t do it.”

“Stiles…” Derek starts, and then trails off. He has no fucking idea what to say.

Stiles wipes his eyes again. “I should go,” he says. “I can’t get him back for you. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Derek says. Hesitantly, he reaches out, putting a hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “It’s okay, Stiles.”

Stiles gives him a watery smile, and suddenly, Derek wants to kiss him. Not Void, not that clever twisting thing that was in Stiles’ body, but this Stiles, the real Stiles. He doesn’t second-guess it; just leans forward and brushes his lips against Stiles’ mouth. It’s so soft that it’s barely there, but it sends something rushing through him that wasn’t there with Void. Something more like a feeling, and less like the thrill of sex.

“Derek,” Stiles says. “I’m not him.”

“I know,” Derek says. There’s a silence. And then Stiles leaves.

Derek doesn’t move for a long time after he’s gone. It’s difficult to know what to think, what to do, because for all his experience with the supernatural, with strange creatures trying to kill them, he doesn’t know what to do about this small human mind cracking into two. He doesn’t know how to even try to understand the way he feels about both of them, both the Stiles that’s he’s admired from afar for longer than he cares to admit, and the Void who says and does the things he’s always wished Stiles could say and do.

Eventually, he calls Scott, because Scott is the Alpha, and he’s also Stiles’ best friend. He may have just lost Allison, but he’ll want to know this. Derek is certain he’ll want to know this.

Scott answers on the first ring. “Derek?” he says, sounding concerned and wary at the same time. Derek’s not sure he’s ever called Scott before.

He has to say it straight away, because otherwise he won’t be able to get it out. “Stiles isn’t Stiles,” he says.

There’s a long, long pause on the other end of the line. Then, Scott sighs. “Are you talking about Void?” he asks.

Derek’s mouth falls open. “You know?”

“Yeah, Derek,” Scott says, just a trace of impatience in his voice. “He’s my best friend. Of course I know.”

“He told me no one knew,” Derek says lamely.

“We haven’t talked about it,” Scott says. “I just know. You can tell, when you get close enough. Is that why you were watching him all night?”

“Yes,” Derek says. “He doesn’t know you know.”

“I figure he’ll talk to me when he’s ready,” Scott says. He sounds so tired. “When it’s the right time.”

“No,” Derek says immediately. “He needs you to talk to him now. He’s drowning in there.”

“I kind of thought, like… Void is protecting him,” Scott says. “He helps.”

“I don’t trust Void,” Derek says.

Scott sighs, a crackle down the line. “Why not?” he says. “It’s just Stiles.”

“He’s too… confident,” Derek says. “He’s insightful. And way, way too clever.”

“Derek,” Scott says patiently. “That’s Stiles.”

“No,” Derek says obstinately. “Void is different.”

“Of course he’s different,” Scott says. “He’s Stiles without a heart. But he’s still Stiles. Everything he is comes from Stiles.”

“Oh,” Derek says.

“Yeah,” Scott agrees.

“Oh,” Derek breathes, because he gets it, suddenly. “Oh, shit.”

“What?” Scott says quickly. “What? Derek, what happened?”

“I have to go,” Derek says, and he does, snapping the phone closed with a satisfying click. His head is whirling, because suddenly a lot of things are making more sense. And his heart is aching for Stiles, because it’s not all the Nogitsune. He was walking around thinking those things already, and it’s not right.

It’s not right, and Derek has inadvertently made it worse. He’s not going to let it stand.

The sky is dark through the trees outside, the air cool in a way that Derek likes when he’s running. He does run, feeling the wind against his face, the earth cold and firm underneath his hands, his face twisted into its wolf form, his teeth bared. When he runs, he’s more wolf than man, and he gets it. He gets what it’s like to be two different creatures in the same body, because that’s what he is too. That’s what every werewolf is, and they’re not broken, and they’re not separate.

Stiles’ bedroom window is closed, but unless he’s suddenly taken to locking it, Derek knows that a quick vault up the nearby tree will get him inside. He wouldn’t blame Stiles if he has locked it; he’s been thrust into a darker world than the one he’s used to, and he needs all the protection he can get. Maybe that’s from a locked window. Maybe it’s from Void. And maybe, just maybe, it might be from Derek as well.

Out of courtesy, he taps softly on the glass; the curtains are drawn, so he can’t see Stiles, but he can hear the thump of his heartbeat, too irregular for him to be sleeping. At least, he hopes it’s Stiles; it’s Stiles he needs to see, needs to talk to. He doesn’t need Void right now.

There’s a shuffle of movement in the room, a pause – and then a hand appears around the edge of the curtain, slowly pulling it back. Stiles looks very young through the glass.

Derek opens the window. “Hey,” he says.

Stiles blinks at him. “Hey,” he says cautiously. “Um… come in, I guess?”

He does come in, vaulting through the window and landing effortlessly on Stiles’ carpet. Stiles snorts, but he doesn’t comment. It’s been a while since Derek was in Stiles’ room; he’s used to seeing pins, long strands of red wool attaching all his various ideas together, but today there’s nothing like that here. It’s just an ordinary teenage boy’s bedroom, slightly untidy but with nothing unusual, nothing untoward, nothing Stiles in it at all. Derek doesn’t like it.

“Is there a reason you’re here, Der?” Stiles asks, and something about his voice makes Derek whirl around.

“No,” he says sharply. “I don’t want him. I want to talk to you.”

Stiles blinks, and returns. His eyes are creased and unhappy. “Why?”

“I figured it out,” Derek says. “I figured out who Void is.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. His feet are bare, fidgeting on the carpet. “So?”

“He’s you,” Derek says. It sounds kind of ridiculous out loud, hanging lamely in the air. He presses on: “You believe that you’re weak and he’s strong. But that’s not true, Stiles.”

Stiles’ face twists in a horrible unhappy way that Derek is sure means he’s trying not to cry. “Yeah, it is,” he says thickly. “That’s why I need him.”

“No,” Derek says in a strong voice. “You’re not weak. Everything that is, you are too. He’s you. He’s the one that’s lacking, because he’s you minus some of the stuff that makes you up. But if he’s strong, that means you are too.”

Stiles is shaking his head. “I’m not strong, Der, I—”

Derek takes a step forward. “Who was ready to cut my arm off to save my life? Who kidnapped a kanima in a police van just to keep everyone safe? Who held me up for hours in a pool? That wasn’t Void, Stiles. That was you.”

He gets a weak smile in return for his efforts. “You bitched at me for most of those things,” Stiles says feebly.

“Yeah, well, I have anger issues,” Derek says. He takes another step toward Stiles. “Stiles, I swear to God, you’re the strongest member of this entire fucking pack.”

“What?” Stiles stares at him. “That’s… that doesn’t…”

“You’re human,” Derek says insistently. “You’re the only one that doesn’t have anything extra to protect you, and yet you’re always right in the middle of things trying to save everyone. If that’s not strength, Stiles… I have no fucking idea what your definition is if that’s not strength.”

Stiles is blinking very rapidly. “You’re totally going to make me cry, and we’ll both be embarrassed,” he warns.

“I don’t care,” Derek says, and he takes the final step forward and kisses him.

Stiles’ mouth is warm, damp from his tears, soft under Derek’s lips. For a moment, he’s still, like he’s not sure whether or not he wants to respond, but then he kisses him back. And that’s when Derek knows it for sure: Void is just the smallest part of everything that Stiles is. Still valid, still important, maybe, but Stiles – Stiles is more than Void. This kiss, this touch, is everything Void’s kiss was and more. More intensity, more passion, more heat, more of everything. This is the kiss of someone who feels.

Stiles breaks away, just for a moment, panting against Derek’s neck. “I’m still a mess,” he says haltingly.