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The day had started off routinely. Or rather, it had been as close to routinely as was possible when your most of your friends and your boyfriend were all supernaturally inclined and you all worked for an FBI taskforce. Stiles had woken up and had gotten ready for work, as usual. There had been traffic in, as usual, and he’d had to remind himself that using his limited stores of energy to perform a spell to clear the roadway was not proper allocation of resources. When he’d gotten to work, he’d said hello to some co-workers, had joked around with Scott and Isaac, and had then gotten to work on the case of the week. A standard Wednesday if he ever saw one.
Until, as was starting to also become standard, his boss wanted something investigated further. Stiles knew that precedent had shown everyone on the force that he really shouldn’t go investigate things on his own, but he also knew that Lydia and Isaac were busy interviewing people, and Scott had gone with Deaton to the lab, and honestly it had seemed like a good idea at the time. It always did. After all, there had to be a cap on the amount of times the universe would let someone get abducted by an unsub within a year. And it wasn’t like Stiles was defenseless—he’d had all of the training that the others had, and more; he had magic for fucks’ sake. He’d thought that since it’d be an easy re-visit to the crime scene, it’d be fine. Again, it had started out as a standard Wednesday morning.
And yet, he now found himself shackled to a wall in some basement with the cliché flickering bare lightbulb and his pockets empty. Because this was his life apparently. Stiles didn’t know what it was about him, whether it was his boyish looks or inability to keep his mouth shut for more than a few seconds, that made him the constant target, but he was getting tired of it. Moreso, he was very fucking done with goddamn basements. Especially the old ones, which seemed to be perpetually damp and musty and were killer on his allergies. Plus, something about being below ground messed with his powers. There was only so many times a guy could get kidnapped before the novelty of it all wore off. At the very least, his abductors could invest in some carpeting, or heat (since it was fucking December), but apparently that would interfere with the menacing shackles and overall atmosphere.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Agent Stilinski. Are you comfortable? Do you need anything?”
The voice of the unsub was low and had a surprisingly soothing quality to it. Still when Stiles looked up to see the man standing halfway down the steps that served as the main entrance into the room, the only thing that voice served to do was piss him off even more.
“Really? That’s what you’re going with? ‘Am I comfortable,’ are you fucking kidding me, of course I’m not comfortable. Maybe if you added some decorations, a pool table over there” he nodded his head in the direction of the opposite corner, “it’d be better, but no. I’m not comfortable.”
“That’s quite a mouth you’ve got there, Agent.” At this, the unsub finished descending the stairs and stepped forward until he was directly under the flickering lightbulb.
“So I’ve been told. Numerous times.” In fact, Derek had said the same thing the night before, albeit with an extremely different tone, in a very not condescending or creepy way. Thinking about Derek made Stiles sigh—his boyfriend was going to kill him at the end of all of this. That would definitely put a damper on Christmas Eve dinner.
“I’m sure you have. What made you decide to join the FBI, I wonder?”
Stiles wasn’t sure how one connected to the other, but shrugged inwardly as he stared at the man in front of him. The unsub was pretty much exactly as they’d pictured him: mid-height, small of the weight side of the things, a calm outward appearance despite the large scar marring the side of his neck and cheek. From a childhood incident he remembered Deaton guessing as the team had contemplated what might have caused the insecurities driving the man to murder.
“Captain America,” Stiles answered after a few seconds. “I just love having rousing discussions about truth and justice.”
The unsub seemed confused, but did not visibly let Stiles’ words faze him.
“There had to be something else. Why else would such an interesting boy like yourself join such a harrowing line of work.”
“You’ve got me. I just really enjoy people—getting to know them and all. Plus, I like the badge.”
“I’m sure.” The man before him seemed distinctly unimpressed with Stiles’ answers. He was also stalling, Stiles knew, or else he would have gotten to his point at the beginning of the conversation. “It is a rather nice badge. But I noticed you don’t carry a gun. Why is that?”
For a moment, Stiles considered not answering. But then the unsub took another step forward and that was just a little too threatening for Stiles’ tastes.
“I don’t need one. My talents lie elsewhere.” Like in keeping track of time while sitting shackled in someone’s basement (3 hours and 26 minutes), or in carefully magicking himself out of said shackles without his captor noticing (almost there).
“Ah yes. You’re the one they keep around because of your brain, is that it?”
His brain? Was there a more creepy way to say that, because Stiles wasn’t sure. Yeah, he was the one on his team who was great at research and who acted as half of the walking encyclopedia on his team (Lydia was the other half), but really there were better ways of putting that. With those last few seconds, however, he felt the successful click of the shackle’s mechanisms coming apart through the reverberations of his magic. Finally.
“If that’s how you want to put it, sure. Do they keep you around for your good looks or?” Stiles knew it was a rude thing to say, and that it was probably taking things somewhat far, but sometimes the answer was to rile the unsub up. Deaton had taught him that.
“You little—” The man stalked forward angrily, his face turning a light shade of red. On that note, Stiles stood up quickly and punched the man in his face. And then again once he was on the ground, just to be sure.
A small groan escaped the man’s lips as he went down, but then he lay still. Stiles took that opportunity to cinch the thick metal shackle around the man’s wrists and then went upstairs in search for a phone. Hopefully he wouldn’t be in too much trouble over the whole ordeal. He let out a quiet aha! when he found a phone hanging on a wall in the kitchen, and then dialed 911 quickly.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Uh, hi. My name is Stiles Stilinski, I’m an Agent with the FBI. I’ve been kidnapped.”
“Sir? Where are you?”
“I’m not actually sure? I’ve secured my kidnapper, who I suspect is actually the perpetrator of the crimes my team was investigating, but I don’t actually know my location. Can you send a squad or two to come pick me up, as well as notify Alan Deaton with the BAU task force? Thanks.”
“Okay, sir. A squad’s on their way, as are your team. Can you stay on the phone?”
“Awesome, thanks. And actually, I kind of need to make one more phone call. Sorry!” With that, he hung up, knowing he was going to get an earful for that as well, and then dialed one of the few numbers he knew by heart.
“Stiles? Where the hell are you?” Derek growled out instead of a greeting.
“About that. Before you get mad, know that my calling means I’ve got everything under control, alright?”
“You’ve been abducted again? Are you serious? I thought I told you to be more careful!”
“Look, can you save that whole victim-blaming thing for when you get here?” Stiles cut in, not wanting a lecture over the phone. Yes, he knew he should have taken another squad member with him when he went back to the crime scene, but really this wasn’t entirely his fault.
There was a sigh on the other side. “Yeah. I’ll follow the train of cops to you.”
“Thanks.” Stiles hung up, and then sat down to wait.
* * *
“I swear to god, if you pull this shit again I’ll—” Derek mumbled into Stiles’ shoulder, gun safely in its holster once more.
“I know, Der.”
“Sorry. I just hate the idea that this keeps happening. What if one day you don’t get out, or I can’t find you? What if you meet an unsub who decides to kill you on the spot instead of taking you in?” Derek’s voice sounded choked, and Stiles felt his heart clench.
“Hey, hey. It’s me—it won’t happen. I’m too awesome.”
Derek’s chuckle was lost slightly in the thickness of Stiles’ sweater, but he was okay with it. After a few more moments, the wolf finally raised his head, only to kiss Stiles roughly.
“Do you think Deaton will give me a few days off because of this? Get to have an actual Christmas for once?”
“I don’t know, he’d probably have to talk to his boss.” Derek grinned.
“Oh really? So, Captain, can I have the next few days off, to recover from this very harrowing experience?” Stiles asked, crowding back into Derek’s space as some cops pushed the unsub into a cruiser behind them.
“We’ll see.”