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Stiles is sixteen and not stupid, and he knows he’s going to die. He’s never bought into the immortality myth that adults seem to perpetuate about teenagers — that they’re not aware that death is lurking around the corner. Teenagers do stupid things, and they do them often enough to tempt fate and the future of the human race, but in the end, teenagers do dumb things because they’re people, and people do dumb things all the time.
All of that is to say, of course, that Stiles is sixteen, and he’s been waiting for his final moment since his parents told him Han ran away and he didn’t believe them and they wound up telling him the truth anyway. He’s been waiting since he was six. He's been waiting since he was twelve and his mother died, over weeks and months that drained away the color from the world. He's been waiting since he was sixteen, when he helped put a man in the ground.
There’s a hunter, because of course there’s a hunter. There’s a gun, because of course there’s a gun. There’s a creepy backwoods cabin, because of fucking course there is. Stiles has blood on his face and his hands, and he thinks the guy did something bad to his knee, because he can’t bend his leg properly.
“A human fighting for those monsters,” the hunter sneers. Stiles wants to roll his eyes. He’s seen this movie a thousand times, knows exactly how this hate-ridden treatise will end, knows that this isn’t actually a movie and that the hero isn’t going to swoop in and stop the bullet before it shatters his skull and turns his brain to mush.
“Blah blah blah,” Stiles says haltingly. He smirks as best he can, but he’s not sure how much of the derision shows through the bruises and pain. “Save the standard villain speech and get it over with it.”
Stiles is sixteen and not stupid, and he knows he’s going to die, and he just wishes the hunter would get on with it. He’s not even after proper information; there was no target to his torture, no angle he wanted to work — he just saw a human with monsters, felt offended, and then beat the shit out of that human. No finesse.
“Man, the Argents have spoiled me,” Stiles mutters bitterly. At least Principal-Grandpa McCain had a goal and was clever about it, even if his haphazard attack plan left him wide open for counter measures.
At the sound of the Argents’ name, the hunter’s gun wavers. Stiles stares at it dully, watching as it drifts between his head and his torso. He hopes the guy goes for a headshot; it’s much more likely to kill him instantly than the other options. But wait a minute, the guy looks like his mind is struggling with something, and that’s Stiles's cue to do some fancy talking, isn’t it?
It usually is, so he starts talking anyway. What’s the worst this guy will do? Shoot him in the head?
Lock you in the basement and set the house on fire? Stiles’s mind whispers traitorously, but he pushes that aside. Freak outs can wait until after; they always do.
“Ah, yeah, the Argents? You know, the badass hunter clan, been at this for hundreds of years? They like crossbows and dangerous women?”
“How do you know them?” the hunter demands, and Whoa, Stiles notes, he looks like he’s going to have his own freak out.
“Well, they hunt werewolves,” Stiles says cautiously. “And as you mentioned earlier, I’m a human fighting for the monsters.” Stiles watches the way the gun steadies and then makes a gamble.
“And, you know, Allison Argent is my best friend.”
“Allison...Argent?” the hunter asks. He looks like he’s going to piss himself, even though he’s the one with the weapon, and Stiles is literally sitting useless and prone on the floor with a fucked up knee and a dozen squishy bruised parts.
He’s over thinking, Stiles sees. He thought Stiles was helping the monsters — and he is, he definitely is, right now humanity is kind of on his shit list, you know, as a whole — but now he thinks that Stiles might be a plant. A spy. Another Kate Argent in their midst.
Well, never let it be said that Stiles doesn’t take advantage of an opening.
“Yeah, we go to school together,” Stiles says, brightening up. “You know, funnily enough, I was supposed to go study at her place this evening.” A lie, but Stiles sells it with a smile that makes his lip bleed even more. “I bet she’s wondering where I am.”
“Shit,” the hunter says, and then he actually drops the gun. It skitters across the smooth wooden floor between them, stopping halfway. Stiles wonders how many werewolves he's murdered. Maybe he had help. “Shit, they’re going to kill me. Shit.”
“Maybe not,” Stiles says. He uses the tone only his dad and Scott can recognize, the one that gets him into the school files unsupervised, the one that gets him past the nurses who guard the interesting parts of the hospital. The one that the deputies still can’t fight against. “I mean, I could just tell them the truth — you thought I was on the other side. Hell,” Stiles continues with a shrug; it hurts, “it’ll probably just give me more points. I mean, I’m doing this so well another hunter thought I was legit.”
“Yeah,” the hunter says slowly, nodding. He shifts from foot to foot, and suddenly Stiles wonders how old he is. It’s impossible to tell in the darkness of the cabin. He sounds younger now then he did while he was kicking the crap out of Stiles.
Stiles watches the hunter consider his options, but his attention is split. That’s okay, though, because Stiles is used to multitasking.
“Yeah,” the hunter says again, relieved. “Yeah, that would work.” His shoulders relax and his body posture changes. “Hey, man, I’m really sorry about this. I mean, there’s no way I could have known—”
And then Stiles shoots him in the head with his own dropped gun.
Stiles is sixteen and not stupid, and he knows he’s going to die — but he’s not going to go easily. Not today, and not yet.