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Summary
What good is the moonlight--
the silvery moonlight--that shines above?
I walk with my shadow, I talk with my echo, but where is the one I love?[excerpt]
Just like every other time Derek had managed to reach this point, Stiles stood uncharacteristically still in the doorway, wearing the same threadbare black tee and blue plaid sleep pants. Even his hair was mussed exactly the same, soft and rumpled and wavy without an abundance of product. And also just like every other time, he remained silent, wordlessly cocking the gun in his hands and wrapping his long fingers around to pull the trigger.
Derek only had enough time to let out the beginnings of a howl, the sound mournful and frustrated, nearly as deafening as the crack of the gun going off, and cut off just as fast by the bullet Stiles didn’t hesitate to fire.