Title: Life's Downhill Plummets Are the Worst Kind Of Roller Coaster Rides
Disclaimer: Teen Wolf is owned by Jeff Davis, and other associated parties. I do not make any profit from this story and the plot is purely fiction.
Summary: AU- Future, pre-slash, D/S, It was just a normal day, until things decided to go downhill. Stiles really wishes he could catch a break half the time.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Alternate Universe – Future, violence, hostage situation, werewolves, Deputy Derek, werewolves are known
Pairings/Characters: Derek, Stiles, Sheriff Stilinski, OMC
Word Count:
Author's Note: The Hale fire happened, but no one died. Derek is a werewolf working for Stiles' father. He moved back to Beacon Hills after becoming a cop in NY.
xXx
Stiles swings into his father's office with a grin when the man himself looks up startled at his sudden appearance. "Stiles, what's up?" his dad asks, setting his newspaper aside, doubly blocking the fact that he's got a donut on his desk.
Letting his father's infracting of his diet slide, he grins and holds up the Sheriff's work phone. "Kind of hard to take calls when this is sitting on the table," Stiles says and tosses the electronic device to him.
"I thought it was quiet this morning," he admits. His brows shoot up at the number of missed calls and he gives a frustrated sigh.
"Go save the world, dad. One little old lady's complaint at a time," Stiles grins again.
"Oh, get out of here," the Sheriff says, but he smiles back at his son.
"Need anything while I'm out. I'm gonna stop and deposit my check at the bank on the way home from classes," Stiles offers.
"Oh, I forgot the barbeque sauce for this weekend. Mind picking up a few bottles for your old man?" he asks.
"Can do, daddy-o. I'll see you tonight," Stiles says with a mock salute.
Stiles turns around sharply and starts to walk away when he bumps into someone. He looks up and is met with dark brows and hazel eyes. "Oh, sorry about that," Stiles says, looking at Deputy Derek Hale, his father's second-in-command.
"It's fine," Derek grumbles, picking up the paper he dropped.
"Have a good day, Deputy Hale," Stiles calls out with a grin as he heads back outside to his jeep. Derek frowns after the man.
The call comes in a little after lunch of sneakily ordering one of the interns to buy him a burger and fries. The wonder of new interns is that Stiles has yet to get his hands on them to tell them about the Sheriff's diet.
He's just gotten into the rhythm of paper work when Sherri comes running in, eyes wide. "Sheriff, we just got a call. There's a hostage situation down at the bank. The caller heard gun fire. The guy's demanding your head on a silver platter," she says.
Jumping up, the Sheriff reaches for his gun and badge with one hand and his Kevlar vest with the other. "Gather the others and have them meet me up front," he says, strapping himself into the vest.
Stiles is humming happily as he pulls into the parking lot of the small bank. Classes had been good. He'd gotten his last test results in which were better than what he had panicked they would be. He's got bro time set aside tonight to game online with Scott and his girlfriend Allison. The barbeque sauce is sitting in the passenger seat ready for this weekend's barbeque. It's a huge affair his dad holds once a summer and invites all of his deputies to.
He's just stepped up to the counter when someone else walks into the bank. Stiles can see him in the reflection of the glass, but doesn't pay the man any mind as he fishes in his pocket for his paycheck from the coffee shop he works at.
He's reaching for his wallet when gunfire sounds behind and a man starts yelling at the top of his lungs for everybody to get down. Stiles reacts on instinct, falling to the floor on his knees, making himself as small as possible.
The few people at the bank are screaming in fright as the man continues yelling at them, telling them to "shut the fuck up and get down."
Eventually, the chaos dies down and only the occasional whimper can be heard. "Good, that's good. Now, slowly, take out all of your wallets and cell phones and slide them towards me, one at a time. I'll point at you," he says.
He points at each individual one at a time until he reaches Stiles. Cursing silently in his head, Stiles pulls out his wallet and phone and slides them towards the man. Keeping hold of his gun, he motions for the teller behind the desk to come around and do so as well, the woman shaking in fear. The security guard is last and he tells the man to slide his gun as well.
Once all the wallets and phones and gun are out, he starts leafing through them, looking at licenses. It's not until he gets to Stiles wallet that he stops and looks up, an ugly grin spreading across his face. "Oh, this is just too good to be true. I mean, how much luck I must have to be given this gift?" he asks and Stiles heart skips as his stomach sinks.
"So, here's what we're going to do," he says, eyes never leaving Stiles' face.
They've surrounded the bank and are talking to witnesses who saw the man walk in and heard gun shots firing. One of the people inside had managed to escape out the back from where she had hidden when the shots started up. So far, no demands have been made.
"Do you know how many people are in there?" the Sheriff asks the woman.
She shakes her head. "He just kept going on about how the Sheriff…about how you would pay for what you did," she tells him.
He's about to ask her another question when a signal goes up and he sees three people exit the bank, hands tied behind their backs and stripped down to their underwear. Cops surge forward, grabbing them and pulling them to safety.
"Is the sniper in place? Does he have a visual?" the Sheriff asks the man next to him.
"Not yet, sir," he answers.
There's another signal, and two more people exit the building in the same state, stumbling away in fright. The Sheriff's starting to think that this has been the easiest hostage situation ever when the man from before comes back, hand to his ear piece.
"Sir, the sniper has a visual," he says, frowning as the man on the roof across from the bank talks to him. "He says there's one hostage left. He's got him at gun point. He seems to be ranting and raving about something. Wait, hang on, repeat that," he says into the mic.
"What!" he yells into the mic and it seems every cop in a five foot radius turns to look at the man. The officer, Gordon on his name tag, looks at the Sheriff and pales. "Sir, it's your son," he says and the world seems to freeze and all the air leaves his lungs.
Stiles glares at the gunman as the last two people are let go, running from the doors. The man is pacing back and for, ranting about how the Sheriff was going to pay for what he did to his brother. Stiles, for his part, remains silent, going back through all his dad's old cases, trying to remember who this man's brother might be. He has a few he can choose from.
The man seems to be ignoring Stiles for the most part, pacing and ranting to himself. It's not like Stiles can do anything. After he had ordered them all to strip down and tie each other's hands behind their backs, he'd dragged Stiles towards the back of the bank, away from the windows.
Which meant there would be no way the sniper could get a shot. Stiles knew the drill when it came to these things. They had talked with his father about them. They always sent a sniper up, even if it was just to keep a bird's eye view on things happening.
The man is smart if he'd realized that. Stiles wonders if his father even knows it is him in here. The moment his cellphone starts to vibrate where he had slid it across the floor, he has his answer. The man stops, turning to flick his eyes between Stiles and the phone.
He walks over to it and bends down to pick it up. Stiles can make out "Dad" on the touch screen before he presses it and brings it up to his ear. "Hello again, Sheriff," he says with a lazy grin.
Derek's on the other side of town when the word comes in about the hostage situation. He makes a U-turn and starts to head for the bank, knowing where it is. He's about halfway there when word comes in about who's in the bank. The moment he hears Stiles' name, he floors it, turning his lights and sirens on to get people out of the way.
It's chaos outside the bank when he pulls up. People are standing around doing nothing or yelling at each other. In the center of it all, Derek can make out the Sheriff, eyes hard and face closed off, hiding any emotions he might be feeling about his son being in there with the gunman.
"Sheriff," Derek says as he gets close enough to talk. "Any news?" he asks the man softly.
"He's demanding we release his brother Jacob Gideon from prison and brought here and then wants a police escort to the coast where he wants a fast boat waiting for him to take them out into international waters," O'Brian, another deputy, says when the Sheriff remains silent, eyes never leaving the building.
"Jacob Gideon, serial rapist wasn't he?" Derek asks. O'Brian nods in answer.
The humans around him may not be able to notice it, but Derek can smell the fear and worry rolling off the Sheriff as he stands there unable to do a thing for his son. His wolf whines, understanding the man's plight. He's only been back in Beacon Hills after he and his family moved away and on the force for a year, but in that time, Stiles has wormed his way under his skin with his sharp silver tongue and his quick grins, words a constant barrage from his mouth. He can't stand the fact that Stiles is stuck in the building with this bastard.
"Can the sniper get a shot?" he asks but O'Brian shakes his head before he even finishes his thought.
"He's moved Stiles towards the back and side where it's just brick. There aren't any other buildings around where he can get a clear shot," O'Brian says and his hands clench into fists as his frustration mounts.
"Is there a back way in?" Derek asks.
"There is. It's a small bathroom window that one of the tellers escaped through. But she's a small thing and barely fit through. None of us are going to be able to fit," he says.
"You forget, O'Brian, I'm not like you humans," Derek says with a grin, eyes flashing red.
The Sheriff seems to finally come out of his stupor. "Do you think you can get in there?" he asks.
"I should. I'll need to see it first," Derek replies, already mentally preparing himself for the shift into his wolf form.
"We'll go around back to keep from being seen," O'Brian says, leading the way.
Stiles' cheek throbs with each beat of his heart. He can feel the heat rising from it as blood rushes to the abused area. He probably shouldn't have snarked at his captor, but he can't help it. It's like his brain is hardwired to release nothing but snark when he's in a stressful situation.
An example would be when he had first met Derek and the werewolf had nearly ripped his throat out with his teeth before he'd controlled himself. Of course, Derek had been dying from Wolfsbane poisoning and not in his right mind, but it was still a good example Stiles should keep in mind when things like this happen.
Stiles lick his lip in nervousness and winces as he touches where his lips split. Being hit with the butt of a semi-automatic rifle is not a fun experience he wants to go through again. It's definitely not something to add on his resume.
"Where are they? They should have called by now with news of my brother's arrival," he says pacing the short distance between the wall and the counter.
"Right, because they're really going to listen to the crazy psychopath with a gun," Stiles says and internally winces as the man stops and turns to glare are him. He braces for another hit from the gun and is completely unprepared for the kick to his gut. He bowls over, retching harshly, trying to curl up in a ball, even in the awkward position his arms are in.
"You think you're so high and mighty, just because you're the son if the Sheriff," he hisses, landing another kick to Stiles' side, making stars dance in his eyes briefly as he wheezes for breath. "You have no idea what it took me and my brother to crawl out of the slums, to make something of ourselves. We survived because we had each other's back and some spineless, sniveling brat will not keep me from saving him."
He's yelling by the end of his rant, hits punctuating his words and Stiles does his best to keep the worst of the blows away from his vulnerable stomach and sides. Except then his attacker strikes out, boot clipping him in the side of the head and the world spins, darkening and leaving him in a dazed stupor as he lies there, breathing shallowly through his throbbing ribs. He loses track of time soon after.
Derek stares at the window and frowns. It is tiny, maybe two feet by two feet. It'll be a tight squeeze in his wolf form, but it is possible. He nods to the Sheriff and starts to strip, piling his clothes in a pile in the little back alley behind the bank.
He's already started to shift by the time his last piece of clothing comes off and soon his laying on the ground, panting from the pain of shifting so fast. Struggling to wobbly paws, Derek shakes his body, getting rid of the lingering aches and pains.
He waits as the Sheriff and O'Brian forces the window to its widest point and crouching, he bunches his muscles and jumps, back legs scrabbling at the brick wall for purchase. A hand grabs his back leg and helps shove him through the rest of the ways, some fur coming away where it caught in the window frame.
Huffing as he lands hard on the tile floor of the bathroom, Derek staggers to his paws. Grunting softly, he starts to shift back, knowing that once this is over, he's going to regret the rushed shifting. He's just finished shifting when his clothing comes through the window, his gun wrapped in the material. A Kevlar vest follows as well, though he doesn't really need it. Normal bullets can't kill him unless it's directly to the brain or spinal cord and there no ways to protect those areas without hindering him even more.
Getting dressed, he whistles softly to let them know he's ready and silently slips from room. Straining his hearing, he can hear the sound of pacing a few rooms over. The only report is the one man, but he's not taking any chances and creeps through the back halls of the bank, checking for anyone else.
The bank is deserted. Creeping forward, he keeps his ear honed in on the pacing feet. As he gets closer, he can make out the sound of two heart beats and two sets of lungs, one labored, as if in pain. Sliding down to the floor, he crawls soundlessly across the floor to the corner where the hall exits into the main lobby of the bank.
He can't see either of them, the main counter cutting his view off. But just above it is a mirror, giving him a view over the desk. He can see Stiles lying on the ground, curled into as much as of a ball as possible with his arms bound with what looks like duct tape behind his back.
The gunman, Gideon's brother, is pacing, constantly glancing down at the phone in his hand as he waits for a call that won't be coming. He's getting more worked up by the minute. Derek needs to do something soon or who knows what the man might do.
Pulling back, he frowns down at the vest and sighs, undoing the Velcro as quietly as he can and stashing it to the side where he won't hit it. It will only hinder his movements and he needs to be at his best to get Stiles out of here.
Loosening his shoulders, he crawls back towards the lobby. He's blocked from view by the counter and creeps closer, pressing his back against the wood. He keeps an eye on the room with the mirror and hopes that the gunman won't look at the mirror where he could easily see Derek as easily as he sees him.
Gently, he pulls his gun out of its holders, already cocked and ready to fire beforehand. Taking a deep breath, Derek crouches and then jumps up, bringing his gun up and firing before the man can even register that he is even there.
His shot hits true, striking the man in the shoulder, sending him to the ground. The rifle falls from his grasp and slides away from him. Before the man can recover and go after the gun, Derek is around the counter and on him, cuffing him behind the back, wrenching the man's shoulder savagely with a twisted satisfaction.
Satisfied that he won't be getting up, Derek turns to Stiles. Derek sucks in a breath, taking in the damage on view across his skin. With as gentle a grip as possible, Derek lifts Stiles up slightly. Reaching a hand behind him, he extends a claw to cut through the duct tape.
Stiles whimpers as his arms come forward and cramp up after so long in an awkward position. "Shh," Derek soothes, massaging the cramps from his arms gently. "It's all right Stiles. I've got you."
Stiles' head wobbles on his neck, as if he can't properly hold it up, but he manages to move it so he can look up at Derek's face. "Derek," he croaks out.
"It's me," he answers. He can make out the bruise forming on Stiles' temple and can only guess how much of a concussion he has at the moment, accounting for his disorientation and trouble moving. "Come on, let's get you to an ambulance," Derek says.
Sliding his arms around Stiles' shoulders and under his legs, he lifts the man easily. Stiles curls into Derek, seeking comfort from Derek. The door slides open and he's swarmed by cops, most going passed to take care of the gunman.
The Sheriff stays with him the whole trip to the ambulance. Derek hands him over to the paramedics, laying him on the stretcher, but when Derek goes to pull away, Stiles grabs his wrist and won't let go, letting out little distressed noises whenever he tries to loosen his grip. He looks between Stiles and the Sheriff, unsure what to do.
The Sheriff finally answers the dilemma, "Go with him. I'll take care of things here. Keep me updated." Derek nods and climbs into the back of the ambulance. Stiles is barely conscious the whole trip to the hospital, but his grip remains firm.
Stiles wakes to the beeping of a heart monitor and people talking softly in the hall outside his room. He feels pleasantly warm and fuzzy which means they have him on painkillers. Blinking, Stiles tries to sit up and grunts in pain as his entire left side throbs.
"You should stay down," someone says and he looks up to see Derek Hale stepping in through the door with a frown.
"How…" Stiles coughs to clear his throat. "How long have I been out?" he asks.
"About half a day. It's nearly 10 at night. You're dad's terrorizing the nursing staff into letting him stay here after visiting hours," Derek informs him, settling into the chair by the bed.
"Did you put up a fuss as well?" Stiles ask.
"No. You uh, you wouldn't let go of my wrist so they figured I should stay until you woke up, just in case," Derek says, looking away with a cough.
"Oh, uh sorry," Stiles says, flushing and clutching the sheets beneath him in a tight grip. "I'm fine now, so if you want, you can go," Stiles says softly, looking away.
Derek eyes him and shrugs. "I'm already here, may as well stay. And besides, who else going to keep your father on his diet with you out of commission at the moment," Derek says with an easy grin and Stiles answers it with a small smile of gratitude.
Derek stands with a huff. "I'll go tell the doctor you're awake," he says and starts to walk away.
"Derek," Stiles calls and the werewolf turns, looking at Stiles. "Um, thanks, for you know, not letting the guy win," he says softly.
"You're welcome," Derek says and walks off to find the doctor. Stiles smiles to himself. Relaxing back against his pillow, he waits for the doctor to show up.
End.