Summary: It's not the end result that's up for debate; it's the manner and the method. But killing someone with kindness still means they end up dead. Fortunately Stiles won't have to live with his decision. Because, yeah, he'll be dead as well.
The first thirty minutes passed leaving Stiles drenched in sweat, wrists bloody and raw from his increasingly desperate efforts to wrench himself out of the restraints. It was no use. The hunters - and Stiles was absolutely sure that's what they were dealing with - had been too well educated in all forms of torture and in how to keep their victims secured while they were having 'fun'.
No werewolf, let alone a scrawny human boy, could escape them.
Stiles felt a panic attack hovering at the edges of his awareness, his chest constricted with terror, his heart beating an irregular staccato against his painful ribs. This wasn't how it was supposed to end. This wasn't how Derek was supposed to meet his end.
He went over every scenario, over every possibility, over every option.
There weren't any.
So he started thinking about the choice he'd been given.
"The mutt either dies at our hands, or yours."
That's what the man had said, crazy eyes almost gleaming with what seemed to be humor. What seemed to be glee! He'd been tapping the gun at his hip while holding Stiles' eyes captive.
"Trust me when I say that a bullet between the eyes - oh, and it's a wolfsbane bullet, so you can bet it will be almost instantaneous - will be the quicker, the kinder option. Because if you go for door #1, if you decide that you don't want to dirty your hands and leave ending that dog to us, it's going to be a long, drawn-out death. A very painful death. For you both!"
The full horror of the painted scenario had made him cringe.
How the hell was he expected to make a decision like that? Why did they think he would even be able to make a choice like that?! This wasn't a win-win scenario, or even a win-lose one. No either-or, no he lives-I die, or I live-he dies. Every scenario, every choice he'd make would still have the same outcome; would still result with both Derek and him ending up dead.
It was simply about choosing how they'd get there.
A quick look at the clock told him he had less than fifteen minutes to make up his mind. But how could he? How could he make a decision in the manner of Derek's death?
He knew that, no matter what he decided, they'd both end up dead anyway. Like the man said: they'd outlived their usefulness. He had no doubt in his mind the hunters were skilled in making their bodies disappear, and for a moment he could almost envision his father's grief-stricken face, could almost sense his anguish.
Tears started coursing down his face at the realization he'd never get to hug his father again, never get to irritate him again with his never-ceasing efforts of supervising his diet. Never get to hear his voice again, see his face again.
Another look at the clock.
Five minutes.
And just like that, he decided.
Knew that, despite there being no other option than their deaths, he could at least influence the way in which one of them would go. Could at least lessen the pain and the terror and reduce it to something almost acceptable.
A strange feeling of calm came over him, and when the door opened after the hour had passed, he looked up, determination in his eyes.
"I'll do it."