"What a pretty face."
Scott snarled at the creature, pulling against his restraints. The metal clamps circling his wrists were drenched in wolfsbane, and he gritted his teeth in pain whenever his skin brushed against them. But he could handle it; the poisonous quantity was at such a low level that it was more of a nuisance than a deathblow.
But the creature—a shifter; he remembered Deaton cautioning him about them once—had adapted quickly. It knew of a better method of getting under Scott's skin.
The shifter rolled its neck, and instantly its features twisted, morphing into a new face. The previous one had been of some girl that Scott had no recollection of. Its features were still rippling into something new when it went to stand behind Stiles.
Quick, ragged breaths were escaping from Stiles' split and bloodied lips, and Scott noticed his eyes rolling under his eyelids. He was tied to a wooden chair (no doubt it was also drenched in wolfsbane), leaving angry red rope burns from when Stiles had struggled against them previous. Deep gashes were drawn across his forearms and shoulders, and the blood had finally ceased flowing. The steady drip drip of it had been like a thunderstorm in Scott's ears.
Now Stiles' form was slumped, his head lolling to one side.
Scott's eyes flashed yellow, baring his fangs as the shifter rested on its new form—Derek's. Its smile was vicious, and its eyes gleamed that triumphant Alpha red as it grabbed a fistful of Stiles' hair, exposing his throat.
"And such a pretty neck," smirked the shifter. He whipped out his knife, grinning as Scott strained himself against the chains. But it was no use; he couldn't get any farther than five feet from the wall.
The bastard was obviously enjoying this.
The shifter crouched down next to Stiles, pressing the flat of the blade against an exposed vein. "You'd be lying if you never thought of tapping this."
The thing had Derek's voice, his physique, but it was only when its eyes flashed that dead look that Scott was able to remind himself that it wasn't the Alpha. The mannerisms were all wrong too; they were too touchy and sensual, Scott thought as the Derek-shifter slowly drew the flat of the blade across Stiles' jugular.
"Leave him out of this," Scott demanded.
The shifter raised an eyebrow in his direction. He tilted the knife ever so subtly, nicking Stiles just under his chin. Blood welled up before streaming down and over his Adam's apple.
"Please," Scott pleaded, "just stop. He can't heal like me. You're going to bleed him out!" he screamed, just as the shifter plunged the knife in shoulder.
Instantly Stiles was awake, hissing and cursing in pain. He looked over at his captive, and his words faltered.
"Derek?"
"No," sneered the shifter. He wrenched the blade from Stiles' shoulder. Stiles gasped in pain, and Scott saw the wide-eyed panic on his face. He looked over at Scott, studying the poisoned chains, possibly calculating a plan in his head.
"You're better off worrying about yourself, sweetheart," purred the shifter, and Scott saw Stiles' startled look as he stared into Peter's face.
The creature was now just doing a game of Russian roulette of familiar—and unwanted—faces.
"Finally, a genuine reaction," sighed the Peter-shifter. He stood up, walking around Stiles' chair, ignoring the look of hatred on Scott's face. "I'll be honest, when I was conducting my study on you two," he began silkily, "I didn't go into much depth. Choosing faces of loved ones is always a first, but I prefer the ones that can cause this sort of reaction."
The Peter-shifter trailed lazily across Stiles' shoulder as he continued. "I also enjoy a witness to my extraordinary talents. But so far, Scotty, you didn't seem to appreciate them much."
"Let. Him. Go." Scott snarled. His body vibrated with anger when the shifter smiled, and shook his head.
"Oh no, not now," the shifter grinned. "I finally found the right face." He was directly behind Stiles now, gripping his shoulders. Scott heard the grinding of bones as he squeezed tightly. His nails dug into Stiles' bare flesh, causing fresh blood to bubble up. Stiles bit his lip, but Scott saw the tears well up in his eyes.
"Stop," Scott protested weakly. His throat was dry and beginning to turn raspy from the hours of screaming himself hoarse at the shifter.
You don't have to do this! He has nothing to do with this!
Oh, that's where you're wrong, Scotty. He's your best friend, right? And look how brave he is. Not so much as a whimper from his lips. I want both of you here to witness him when he finally breaks.
"Why?" smiled the shifter. His knife was now under Stiles' chin, and was just grazing the flesh. "He's about to break. There's something about this face that clearly terrifies him."
He moved the knife away from his victim's throat and circled around, positioning himself in front of Stiles, but while still giving Scott a clear view of his best friend's face. He leaned in close, and when Stiles tried to avert his eyes the shifter sighed impatiently. He grabbed Stiles' chin, forcing him to look into his eyes.
"You're living in a town of monsters, kiddo," he murmured. "But what is it about this face that's causing this fear?"
"Isn't it obvious?" Stiles spat out, but the effect was lost when his voice came out raspy and tired. "He killed people. Turned by best friend without his permission. Oh, and he mauled the girl of my dreams right in front of me. Wouldn't you be a little nervous too?"
"You're lying," the shifter hissed. "Come on, elaborate. It's story time, darling. Don't hold back on us."
Stiles shook his head, ever so slightly. The shifter growled, low and dangerous.
"I just needed you to scream," it said, just as it plunged the knife into Stiles' ribcage.
"STILES!" Scott screamed. The wound was frothing with dark blood. It poured down Stiles' front, darkening his T-shirt. Stiles eyes widened; his body convulsing as he began to cough loudly. Blood erupted from his mouth.
The shifter sighed, standing up to admire his work. "Still nothing?" he drawled out. He waved one of his hands in front of his face. "I had the right look, the weapon… Why won't you break?"
Scott had grabbed a fistful of the chains, and pulled desperately at them. His palms burned and hissed with pain from the wolfsbane, and Scott's heart leapt when he felt the bolts in the wall loosen somewhat.
By then the shifter had ripped out the knife from Stiles with a great wet, sucking noise, and was inspecting the blood on it in the dim lighting.
"I hate a toy that refuses to break properly," he mused, rolling his eyes as Scott attempted to free himself. "Oh, don't bother. He's most likely going to die from internal bleeding at this rate."
"Go fuck yourself!" Scott yelled.
"Tut, tut," scolded the Peter-shifter. "You kiss your girlfriend with that mouth?"
Scott nearly fell forward as the bolt's finally released themselves from the concrete. The chain dragged noisily across the ground as Scott rushed toward the shifter, pouncing on him. They both toppled to the floor, the shifter falling flat onto its back.
"Scott, wait!" it pleaded, and Scott's claws hovered over its throat. He hesitated, because the shifter had taken on Allison's face.
The Allison-shifter smiled maliciously and stabbed Scott in the stomach. It drove the blade in farther, twisting it for emphasis. It pushed Scott off of it, and leapt to its feet.
"So predictable, Scotty," it grinned. Scott winced; the warped expression looked so wrong and unnatural on Allison's face. It gave the werewolf a swift kick in the sternum before it turned tail and raced out of the room.
Scott pulled out the knife, and tossed it across the room. It bounced off of the wall, and scattered across the floor, skidding to a halt a few feet from Stiles. Scott grimaced as his wound forced itself to knit the flesh together. He stumbled over to the chair, and slashed the rope holding him down with a quick flick. Stiles fell forward, and Scott grabbed him, pressing his body against his own.
Stiles' heartbeat was slowly shuddering to a halt.