From the moment it saw you, the Shapeshifter had taken a liking to you.

You and it were not so different. You were lonely, too. It had sat, watching you, doing its best not to be caught. You had no lover it could wear the skin of, nothing that would be familiar enough to lure you into a sense of security.

All it wanted was for someone to love it. It couldn’t wear its own skin — it was aware enough to know its own skin was a hideous, disfigured thing. It wouldn’t mind if you could only love it when it wore somebody else’s. You had been so kind when it’d shown up in the skin of one of the brothers. It kept showing up. It had thought you’d enjoyed having the company. It had felt the same.

They were hunting it. It couldn’t understand why. When you’d been so kind to it, it had stopped hurting others. It didn’t want to ruin what it had found with you by giving you another reason to be scared of it. It didn’t know how much time it had, but it didn’t want to hide anymore.

You let it in, and it starts to speak. It explains the shifter, not yet telling you the truth of it being right there with you — it couldn’t, not until it saw how you took the information. If you freaked out, it’d have to hurt you. It didn’t want to hurt you.

“It’s funny,” it says, watching you closely. Too closely. It turns away as it continues to speak. “I kind of understand him. He’s all alone, close to no one. All he wants is for someone to love him. He’s like me. Y’know, everybody needs a little human touch, now and then.”

A deep breath, and then it’s looking at you again. Its hand — borrowed, not its own wretched skin — reaches out to touch you. “It’s hard to be different.”

Another harsh breath, and its eyes flicker, retinas glaring inhumanly.