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Saturday Night Special

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Stiles is not sedate. Stiles is a man of action, an event in and of himself. He runs at 110% all of the time and pardon the cliches but really Stiles gets shit done. Of course, he supposes, that may be how he ended up in this position. ‘This position’ being fetal in the corner of a small concrete room. He’s trying to decide if his best option is to fight or just to be as obnoxious as possible when his captors return. But he certainly wont just sit there, man of action that he is. He can hear Derek’s voice in his head telling him to shut up for the love of God and not to make this any worse than it already is. You’d be surprised though, how much information being excessively irritating can get you. Surely, any intel he can get on these hunters is worth a bit of a thumping? Besides, he isn’t stupid. If they wanted him dead his corpse would already be trussed up in front of the old Hale house like a scrawny scarecrow. Which means they want him as bait. It’s something he’s gotten quite good at, being bait. And if he has any kind of luck at all he’s going to be able to use it against the hunters without them catching on. At least for a little while. For now though, he has to wait so he uses the time to go over all his options again.

He’s gotten all the way to plan ‘L’ by the time the hunters come back. Admittedly, L along with I, J and K are pretty awful, but he’s still irritated by the interruption. He puts on his most winning smile and says, “I’m so glad you haven’t forgotten me. You have no idea what that means to a kid.”

He counts the eye twitch as a point for him and keeps grinning. It doesn’t matter that the stress has finally built enough that he’d like to puke.

“You know, I’m gonna be really glad when we don’t need you any more.”

This comes from the second man. It’s not the level of irritation Stiles was looking for but he IS just getting started.

“Sorry, but I’m indispensable. Elementary even. You’re stuck with me.”

The first man moves across the room and hauls Stiles up without any finesse. He almost face plants and has to throw a hand out to catch himself. Unfortunately, he catches himself on the man’s face. It’s not his fault the dude is stupidly short. Stiles gets a quick jab to the stomach in exchange which almost sends him back to the floor. Seriously, this guy needs to get his act together. A hand fists in the back of his t-shirt and he’s steered out of the room and down the hall via near suffocation. He does his best to keep up the banter though. By the time they’ve made it to another room and he’s tied with his hands pulled around the back of a chair, he’s starting to get a little hoarse and more than a little nervous. Whatever’s coming it’s probably going to hurt but he can’t get distracted. If he lives through this little impromptu reconnaissance mission he’s going to be able to hand these assholes over to the pack on a silver platter. Even if being kidnapped hadn’t been on his agenda for the day, he can still make use of it.

“So, what is it you guys need from me? Money? Fashion advice? ‘Cuz I gotta tell you, I don’t have any of either. Maybe you should go back to that coffee shop you snatched me from. The barista looked like she knew what was what. Plus, she has a day job and a paycheck so really you took the wrong person. I can’t even fix your hideous lack of social skills. Which is sad because that’s something we could all benefit from.”

The slap isn’t a surprise so Stiles just shakes his head a bit and keeps going.

“See, this is what I’m talking about. You can’t just go around slapping people in the face. It’s bad manners, like, atrocious. Of course, some people are into that kind of thing but I’m pretty sure you need permission first or dinner at the very least and I have seen no sign of a nice meal.”

The man jerks Stiles forward by his shirt.

“Kid, I swear to God, if you don’t shut up I’m gonna cut out your tongue.”

This gives Stiles pause. Would they? If they didn’t need information from him they just might. But surely he’s got a little room to negotiate. He plows on.

“Hey, no, I get it. Inappropriate subject. My friends tell me all the time so don’t worry. We’ll try it. The shutting up I mean. Not that I wouldn’t be flattered bu—“

This time it’s a punch to the side of the head and Stiles slumps forward, out cold.


When he comes to, Stiles is very confused. Everything is fuzzy and his head is pounding. Migraine? Fuck, when was the last time he took his meds? No that’s not it. The pain is localized. Right, beefcake and his fists. Gotta wake up. Once he’s compartmentalized the pain in his skull, he realizes there are people talking and it’s not just his head that hurts. His shoulders are burning from having supported his weight when he lost consciousness. He slowly tries to sit up to relieve the pressure only to let out a gasp as the blood flow returns to his hands which had been tied to tightly and oh God does that hurt. When he finally pries his eyes open there’s a man standing over him he hasn’t seen yet. He’s older, hair beginning to grey. His button down and slacks are well pressed. Clearly, this is not your standard issue henchman. He might even be running the show. Stiles struggles to get a grip on the panic that’s flashing through the white noise in his head. He has to use this to his advantage.

The man reaches out and grasps Stiles chin, tilting he head back at a sharp angle that makes Stiles flinch.

“Sorry about the concussion, but really you should learn not to antagonize people.”

The man’s accent is odd and lilting, like maybe he learned English from someone who wasn’t familiar with it. Stiles own voice sounds odd in his ears as he says,

“Just trying to make conversation. No antagonism here. I’m an easy going guy.”

The man leans forward and digs a thumb into Stiles aching shoulder. He can’t help it; he whimpers.

“You may be Mr. Stilinski, I however, am not.” He releases Stiles’ shoulder and walks over to a work bench that Stiles can only assume is full of things he doesn’t want to think about.

“Though, don’t misunderstand me. I want you to talk. I just want you to have a little more focus.”

Stiles ignores the desperate repetition of ‘Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit’ that is building in the back of his mind. Jesus, he hopes he can talk his way out of this or else Scott is going to have a severely damaged vegetable for a best friend. His laugh is slightly hysterical.

“Yeah, ok, I mean focus has never really been my strong suit but you know I can totally try.”

“Good. In return I’ll try to keep this as friendly as possible but really that’s going to be down to you. First, I must say I’m a bit curious. What’s a boy like you doing running with a pack of filthy wolves?”

“Ah teenage rebellion and all that. I mean, my dad’s the Sheriff I can’t just be disruptive the normal way. Though, to be honest, I’m starting to rethink that life decision.”

“Mmm, not quite. But we’ll come back to that. For now, we’ll stick to the important things. Where is Derek Hale hiding his pack of rabid dogs?”

Stiles tries to go for incredulous.

“You think he would tell me that? No way man. I’m not even pack, just a tagalong really. He wouldn’t le— arrrgh!”

Sweet fuck, what was it with hunters and cattle prods? Stiles is panting trying to convince his heart not to burst as sweat starts to bead on his body.

“Mr. Stilinski, please, let’s not start this way. I know for a fact that even if Derek Hale hadn’t told you one of your other little friends would have. So let’s aim for honesty. Surely the Sheriff taught you the importance to respecting your elder.”

It touches a nerve in Stiles. He’s been lying so much lately it’s almost become easy, and even though it’s been for a good cause the words still sting.

“Fine, honesty. The honest answer is that I’m not going to tell you.”

“Good. See, not so hard.”

This time when the cattle prod hits it stays for longer.

“I think you know now, how this is going to go. But remember, honesty is important.”

Stiles is drifting on the edge of consciousness. He wishes his brain would give up and let him pass out. It might dull the pain a little bit. But he’s afraid of what will happen if he does. He forces his eyes open again and he’s greeted by the sight of the patch of blood that has been slowly spreading through his jeans. There must have been something on the blade that had been shoved into his thigh because the blood isn’t slowing. It just keeps seeping out with every pulse. Soon, it would probably be dripping on the floor. Oh God, Stiles needed to stop thinking about it. At least when the man had cracked a couple of his ribs he’d managed to turn his head before he vomited. That would have been begging for an infection. The smell of bile is still in the air and it’s tugging at his gag reflex.

“I have to say I’m impressed. Associating with werewolves has certainly done wonders for your constitution. Though maybe you’ve always been stubborn. Why do you insist on protecting them though? They’re not human, though I suppose they might fake it for you well enough. But you’re just a funny little pet to them and eventually they will put you down.”

“Fuck. You.”

The man sighs and draws his arm back again and when the piece of pipe hits his wounded thigh Stiles screams before he finally blacks out.