So I'd been wanting to write the first scene for a long time, and this week's ep (s5e5) inspired me to do so. Enjoy a Stiles-angst novelization!
"Ow ow ow!" Stiles complained as he was roughly maneuvered through the Argent's mansion. One of the men opened a door and Stiles was shoved down a set of stairs.
"OW!" He yelled angrily as he crashed at the bottom, his knees and elbows throbbing from the fall. His agitated complaints were met with the slamming of the door, drowning him in the basement's darkness.
Nervously, he pushed himself up and quickly adjusted himself. He couldn't see anything in the blackness but he could hear he wasn't alone. He backed away from the sound and into the wall, running his hand along searching for a light switch.
His heart skipped a beat when his fingers ran over the familiar mechanism and he hastily flicked the lever up.
The sudden illumination revealed a distressed Erica and Boyd strung up and gagged in the middle of the room.
"Oh my gosh…" he mumbles with a shocked recoil. "How did you guys get here?"
Erica's tear stained eyes narrowed angrily and she kicked a few times, evidently wanting down, while Boyd tried speaking only to come out as upset mumbles through the duct-tape gag.
"Okay, okay," Stiles replies as if he understood what the captive werewolves were saying, "I'm going to get you guys down." He looked anxiously back at the staircase and door, wondering how much time he had before the hunters returned. "Then maybe you guys can use your werewolf skills to get us out of here."
"Nmm, mhmh mmm mhmmmh!" Erica stated, shaking her head her head as Stiles reached up to unite the wire bonds.
"Yeah, okay," He replied with a tight smile, this might take a second. "Please don't kill me after you're free."
A series of snapping pops ran through the air as his fingers met the wires, sending a jolt of pain through the tips all the way up his arm.
"Ow, dammit!" He gasped, pulling his arm away and shaking it vigorously. The bindings had shocked him. Erica and Boyd wined again, clearly still feeling the pain.
"They were trying to warn you," a gravelly voice grumbled from behind, "it's electrified."
Stiles whirled around, eyes wide and heart racing upon being caught. He clenched his jaw in anger when he saw the voice's source.
Gerard Argent.
He should've figured the bloodthirsty grandpa would show up sooner or later, considering who his abductors were and where he'd wound up.
"What are you doing with them?" Stiles demanded, struggling to keep his voice from quavering. Erica and Boyd hadn't been the nicest of friends, hell, they hadn't been nice or friends at all, but he was not going to just let Gerard and the other hunters kidnap and torture them like this.
His heart pounded faster as the veteran hunter continued his descent down the stairs, eyes tracking every twitch Stiles made.
"At the moment just keeping them comfortable," Gerard said tiredly, a cruel smirk playing on his face. He leaned against the railing for support. "There's no point in torturing them. They won't give Derrick up, the instinct to protect their alpha is too strong."
"Okay." Stiles clenched his jaw harder, heart racing and brain-gears turning as the all too familiar panic began to set in. "So what are you doing with me? Because Scott can find me, alight? He knows my scent. It's pungent, you know, more like a stench. He can find me even if I'm in the bottom of a sewer, buried in fecal matter, and urine…"
"You have a knack for imagination, Mr. Stilinski." Gerard mused, shaking his head and interrupting the boy's nervous rambling. He pushed himself from the rail and stepped down the remaining stairs, heading straight for the frightened Stiles. "Let me paint one of my own. Scott McCall finds his best friend bloodied and beaten to a pulp. How does that sound, now?" He leers over Stiles, mere inches from his face, bearing his decaying, human teeth.
"I think I might prefer more of a still life, or landscape, you know?" Stiles stammered, swallowing uneasily. His eyes flicked around the room, searching for a way out. There was none but the stairs he'd been kindly thrown down. "What are you like ninety?" He blurted suddenly, finding the conviction to fight his way out.
Gerard was a tough bastard, but he lumbered around, wheezed when he breathed, and had breath that even Stiles's human nose could detect was sickly. He could fight his way out, he could get help, he could—"I could probably kick your ass up and down this room!"
Gerard's bare knuckled fist slammed into his jaw, sending Stiles flying to the ground. The old man was on top of him before he could even process what happened, grabbing him by the collar of his grass stained jersey and forcing his face back towards his fist.
"Wait, okay," Stiles pleaded, cringing, trying to shield the blow, "wait, just—!"
The fist connected again, sending black dots swimming across his vision and his brain pounded against the back of his skull. Erica and Boyd's muffled cries reached his ringing ears. They went silent, however, after another chain of electrical snaps.
"Wait," Stiles breathed restlessly, the left side of his face throbbing to the bone and tasting blood from fiery split in his bottom lip. "Wait, okay, just—!"
The fist connected again, crushing his cheek bone and leaving a wet sting. Stiles yelped and tears of pain sprang in his eyes. He tried to squirm away, but Gerard's weight and position overpowered his lanky, teen body.
Wincing and blinking the tears away, he saw a red stain on Gerard's knuckles right before they slammed into his face again.
And again.
And again.
Stiles grunted in pain with each blow, his vision going dizzy and blood roaring in his ears. He grabbed at Gerard, trying to push the heavy man away, trying to kick his way out, only to feel himself lifted from the ground and slammed back down.
The back of his head bounced painfully off the basement's cement floor, leaving a sharp, smarting wound and his brain feeling like jelly.
He gasped and let go of Gerard's arms, reflexively bringing his own towards his wounded head. Gerard pulled away, sneering above as Stiles looked at his hands and saw them stained with blood. His blood.
Then Gerard's foot met Stile's stomach.
Stiles balked, gasping as the air left his lungs and his insides exploded, threatening to come up his throat. Gathering his bearings, he feebly tried to scoot away, only for the hard shoe to connect with his gut again.
A small cry escaped with the coughs this time and he tasted bile in the back of his throat. Gerard dropped back down, battering his face. He smiled with satisfaction when Stiles cringed fetally.
"That mouth of yours is really going to get you in trouble someday, Mr. Stilinski." He growled, ruffling Stiles's short, sweaty hair. Gerard stood up and wiped the blood smears from his hands. "A human who throws his lot in with the wolves is just another dog."
"You should really find a new pack to tag along with," the old man continued, stiffly walking back to the stairs. "But do us all a favor and don't take this personally. Our little chat wasn't even meant for you. Just a message for your friends. Now, please be a good boy and deliver it for me."
Stiles wiped his face with the back of his sleeve, sniffing painfully through his throbbing nose. A fresh blood stain was on the under armor sleeve when he pulled it away. Groaning, he tried pushed himself up only to find a pair of rough arms loop under his and haul him to his feet.
He felt himself being dragged up the stairs, the hard wood ramming against his leaden knees and further jostling his reeling head. His groggy gaze drifted back toward his two friends, still strung up by the electrical cords, their eyes wide in fear and despair as their only source of hope vanished.
Their prison went dark once again.
The brutes tossed his tired, battered body onto the front lawn, laughing at his pathetic state as they headed back into the house.
"You owe me twenty," one said to the other, "You said he'd last more than five minutes, I said less."
"Kid hangs with werewolves, thought he'd be able to handle more." The other grumbled, pulling out his wallet. Their voices disappeared as the mansion's front door slammed shut, drowning Stiles once again in the night's darkness.
Tears of shame filled Stiles's eyes as he finally pushed his sore body up from the grass. Scott, Derrick, and Allison, hell even Jackson, were all so strong and could take so much. He was rendered useless in a matter of minutes and considered no more a threat to the enemy than a pet dog.
He wiped the tears from his eyes and walked towards the street, his steps heavy and chest and head still dull with pain. He was weak. He was pathetic. He was a useless pawn the enemy was trying to use to manipulate his friends.
He sniffed, shivering in the cold night air. He needed to tell his friends, warn them about Gerard and get help for Erica and Boyd. He felt for his phone then sighed when he realized it was in his bag. Which, if hadn't been stolen, was still at the lacrosse field, a little over a mile away.
Wincing as his face stung again, he touched the searing wound. He pulled his shaking fingers back and saw they were spotted with new blood.
Bloodied and beaten to a pulp. Send them a message.
That was exactly what Gerard wanted, for Stiles to run for help, for them to know how powerful Gerard was, for them to know how helpless they were, for them to give up and stay out of Gerard's way.
He couldn't let Gerard win.
So Stiles wouldn't tell anyone what really happened that night.
Ever.
Not even Scott.
Especially not Scott.
It was the least a weak little human like him could do.