Chapter Text
Derek Morgan had been with the FBI for over ten years.
This – however – was not something he had any experience with.
“Put your hands on your head, sir” he says, aiming the gun at the man’s head. He looks young, even from behind, which surprises him.
“Can you give me another second?” he asks, the voice sounds familiar but he can’t quite place it.
“I have a gun aimed at your head, you sure you want to take another second?” he asks, the man sighs deeply, his back still directed towards Morgan.
“How about this? I put my hands on my head, but I finish talking. Words aren’t weapons – well – not towards you” he says, “And I will not move an inch, I swear.”
“You are currently holding a man hostage, and you are negotiating with me while I have a gun aimed at you?” he asks incredulously, “Are you kidding me?”
“In case you didn’t notice, Derek Morgan” he says, making it a point to call the man by name – showing he has an advantage - , “I do not have this man tied up in any way. The only thing holding him is a drawing on the floor. No rope, no weapons, nothing but my words.”
“It’s at your own risk” Morgan warns – although he wouldn’t really be able to justify shooting an unarmed man because he’s speaking. If that were the case, there’d be a lot more dead politicians.
“I’ll take that risk” he says, before continuing, “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio
infernalis adversarii, omnis legio,…”
He doesn’t hear the rest, because he’s too preoccupied looking at the man in the circle, and the cloud of black smoke shooting from his mouth.
The stranger stops talking, and the man in the circle drops to his knees, coughing loudly.
“Holy crap” Morgan looks at the hostage, gasping for air, and the stranger kneeling down and asking if he’s okay.
“Yeah” he replies, a shaky voice as he throws his arms around the stranger – his kidnapper? – and starts thanking him profusely.
“It’s okay, man” he smiles, “I’ll handle this. They can’t touch me.”
“And why is that?” Morgan asks, raising his arms again and pointing the gun at the man who is now slowly turning around.
“Cause, I’m one of them” he says, a smug grin on his face and a badge pinned to his belt, “Officer Stiles Stilinski, long time no see.”
[...]
“So - the kid from Beacon Hills, right?” Garcia asks as she types in the guy’s name, “You know that his story checked out, right?”
“Yeah, but - just to put my mind at ease” he explains, “It’s been driving me crazy.”
“Sure” she smiles, typing away at her computer, “Stiles is a nickname, right?”
“It is, but I assume it’s on file” he reassures her, “Besides, how many Stilinskis can there possibly be, right?”
She hums in agreement as several windows flash open on her screen.
“OKay, let’s see what we got here” she says, “Age twenty four. Engaged to Malia Tate. He - wow, impressive - he just made detective. Youngest in LAPD history. He worked as a sheriff in his hometown, replacing his dad because he was shot. That was only a temporary thing, though. Did some cases as a PI before taking a job at the LAPD, immediately on a fast track to become a detective. Six months after starting there he broke a major case, and that pretty much sealed the deal for his promotion.”
“Engaged to Malia Tate, have you got anything on her?” he asks, she nods, once again typing away.
“Malia Tate, age twenty four. She was in a car crash when she was nine, lost her sister and mother. She survived but - wow - she, they only found her when she was sixteen. So she survived in the woods, on her own, for almost seven years. She and Stiles bought a house together at college.”
“At college? How did she afford that?” he asks, peering at the screen.
“Ow - her biological father killed her adoptive father about two years after she came back. She sold her dad’s house to buy the place. Oh, get this. Stilinski and a girl named Lydia Martin were with her when she found her dad” she nods towards the screen, showing him a picture of the three people in question, “But there’s nothing iffy there, Derek.”
“You’re sure?” he asks, she nods.
“Yeah - even his former bosses and teachers say that, even though he can be an annoying little shit, he’s the best at what he does” she shrugs, “What were you expecting to find?”
“I’m not sure” he sighs, “Something you wouldn’t be able to explain?”
“There’s only one thing like that” she says, pulling up another file, “When he was seventeen he was diagnoses with dementia. The special kind that affects kids, apparently the same kind that killed his mom when he was eight? Well - he was cleared of it completely. He was in an institution for a while, at the same time as his girlfriend.”
“So he healed from a disease you can’t heal from?” he asks, she nods and he frowns, “Interesting.”
“I don’t know, man” she concludes, “He seemed like a nice guy when we met him. You’re probably just imagining things.”
“Yeah - probably” he says, “I just feel like I am missing something from last night.”
“Missing something like what?” she asks, he shakes his head.
“Something like memories.”