There were no last words. No more pleas, no more screaming. Just the sound of Stiles squeezing the trigger, the explosion of a second shot rocketing out of the revolver, and the hunters bursting through the open doorway just in time to see the bullet slam squarely into the center of Derek’s chest.
“Fine,” Stiles spits back, “We’ll die together, it’ll be dandy.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Derek snaps, “I’ll get some peace and quiet for once.”
Stiles grins suddenly, blindingly. There’s blood on his teeth, and his eyes are dark and desperate as he looks up at Derek, but he’s never looked more stupidly, infuriatingly beautiful.
Stiles wants to say he’s like Rogue from X-Men, but really he’s more of a reverse Sleeping Beauty.
(Or: In which Stiles is a cursed A-list actor who can’t articulate the feelings he may or may not have for his costar, Derek Hale.)