Title: You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave
Genre: Het
Pairings: Don/Robin, Charlie/Amita, past Don/Terry, mentions of David/OFC, Ian/Nikki
Characters: Don, Robin, Colby, Alan, Charlie, Amita, Liz, Nikki, Gary Walker, Ian Edgerton
Spoilers: Entire series till the end of season 6. Set after the end of season 6.
Warnings: Violence, sexual themes, non-explicit sexual assault (off-screen non-consensual m/m touching, some thoughts/discussion/worry at the possibility of sexual assault), some coarse language
Prompt: hurt_don Clue Challenge 17: What: Baseball Bat Where: LA, and Alphabet meme: T is for Taken for ALEO.
Word count: 20,000 words total (3252 this part)
Disclaimer: Own nothing, not being paid.
A/N: Written as a present for ariestaurus Title from the song "Hotel California" by the Eagles. Thank you to krazykitkat for reading through as I was writing and doing some edits, and pixie_on_acid for the beta. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

Summary: While trying to be a good samaritan, Don gets abducted. Will he ever make his way back home?

Chapter 1

If there was one thing to come out of this, it was that Don knew he'd never stop to help someone who'd broken down again. It was a sad commentary on life that as a well-trained FBI agent he now had come to that conclusion.

Of course, being able to put that resolution into practice relied on two things.

One, that he lived long enough to be able to apply it, and/or two, that he escaped.

And he had no idea what the odds of either were.

It had been the first opportunity in a while that Don'd had to just take off; to grab his motorcycle and ride all that he wanted. Robin had understood the need, so she'd kissed him and pushed him out the door, telling him that she had some movies to catch up on. Ones that he wouldn't want to watch.

He'd gradually felt the tension in his gut uncoil as the hours passed on the road. He wasn't heading to any particular destination, just seeing where the roads and whim took him, releasing more of his stress at each mile. The day was starting to cool as he contemplated heading back to LA, cloud rolling in dimming the light and reducing the bite of the sun.

The roads he'd chosen had been virtually deserted, which had suited his mood perfectly. It was why, when he saw the broken down car, he decided to stop and see whether the driver needed any help. Cell reception could be a crapshoot out here, making it hard for the driver to call for assistance. Don knew that he'd hate to be stuck there without any way to get help.

Don pulled in behind the car, staying on his bike for a minute to make sure nothing felt off with the situation and checking his cell. He was right, he, at least, had no reception. The guy from the car—mid-40s maybe, with light brown hair, faded jeans and a Metallica t-shirt—approached Don as he brought his leg over the motorcycle and removed his helmet and gloves before resting them on the bike and running his fingers through his sweat-flattened hair.

"Car trouble?" Don asked.

"Yeah," the guy replied, sounding relieved. "I can't tell what's wrong with it. It made some really odd sounds and then just suddenly died. And I can't get any signal on my cell. I was starting to think that I was going to have to sleep in my car tonight. You wouldn't happen to know anything about cars, would you?"

"A bit," Don said. "I can take a look."

Don's gut feeling was that the guy was what he seemed to be: stranded and frustrated. He even stood a respectful distance behind and to the side of Don as he leant over the car, far enough back that the man wasn't in attacking distance. A quick look over the engine and Don couldn't spot anything obvious that might be causing the trouble. There was a sound behind him and a sudden sharp sting on the back of Don's neck.

Don's hand automatically went to his neck, feeling something sticking out of it. "What the—?" He whirled around in time to see the man holding a gun. But it didn't feel like he had been shot, the pain was all wrong. Instead he was starting to feel woozy. It was a tranquilliser, Don suddenly realised. The man had drugged him. He'd been wrong; the man had set him up.

Don knew that he had to do something before the drug took full effect. In a second, he'd thought through his options, looking for the one that give him the greatest chance of escaping. He'd left his gun at home and there was no way that he'd be able to run far enough to get away before he'd pass out. Even getting on his motorcycle and trying to make a break for it that way would probably be useless. He could pass out and come off the bike, seriously injuring or killing himself, and the man's car was undoubtedly perfectly drivable and would be able to catch up to him quickly. Going off road might give him a chance, but then he was still likely to pass out and be easy prey for the man, even if he did have to come after Don on foot. That only left trying to attack the man and knock him out. Don didn't think he had enough strength or coordination left to do much damage and all that the man would have to do would be stay out of Don's way until he collapsed, which would probably be easy, or shoot him with another dart. And then he'd pass out, leaving him still open to attack if he couldn't knock the man out at all or for long.

Deciding that it was the only real chance he had, Don ran to his motorcycle. He knocked the helmet and gloves to the ground, knowing that he didn't have enough time to put them on, got on and started the bike up. The man was only a couple of yards away when Don took off. He knew that his balance was off and he was having trouble driving in a straight line, but any distance he could put between them would give him a chance. Some chance was better than none. He rounded a curve in the road, out of sight of the man and headed off road. Getting off the motorcycle only a short distance in, knowing that he was getting very close to passing out, he staggered back and crossed to the other side of the road—why did the FBI agent cross the road?—heading into the trees on that side. Hopefully his pursuer wasn't a very good tracker and would look for him near his motorcycle. He'd only gotten a few yards in when he heard the man's car pull up on the road.

Don continued on, doggedly trying to ignore how heavy his legs had started to feel and how the world around him was starting to spin. A branch slapped him across the face, leaving behind a stinging pain. Knowing that he probably didn't stand a chance on the ground—no hollows or caves that he could hide in—he looked for a larger tree that he had a chance of climbing and lying on a branch without falling and breaking his neck. Most people would not look up. Spotting a good candidate, he headed for it. Not able to control his stop, he hit the trunk and slid down to the ground. His body didn't want to respond to the panicked thoughts telling it to get up and his eyes closed.

Maybe the man won't...

Before Don opened his eyes, he tried to take stock of how he felt and where he might be. Within a split second of regaining consciousness he'd remembered his encounter and knew that he needed to be careful.

He felt a little hungover, hungry and thirsty. That probably indicated that at least a few hours had passed. He also didn't feel like he was lying on the ground, instead it felt like cold concrete underneath him.

A bubble of panic swelled up in his chest. The man had found him. Don fought it down, knowing that he needed to try to stay calm.

His jacket, socks and shoes had been removed—his feet were a bit cold—and his torso and face ached, like he'd been subjected to a beating or kicking and was bruised. Probably pissed the man off, trying to escape.

There was no sound of somebody else breathing or movement around him, so Don opened his left eye, the one closest to the floor, to a slit. Wherever he was, it was dark. He tried opening both eyes, but the right resisted his attempt. It was swollen shut.

The darkness wasn't complete, after a few seconds he could make out that he was in a room. It wasn't large, and there was one box-like shape in it. Don stiffly sat up, pain shooting through his torso, and shuffled to lean back against a wall. It was time for an inventory on everything else. A feel of his wrist revealed that his watch was gone and his cell was missing too—he wouldn't be able to even tell how long he'd been unconscious. Keeping track of time in this sort of situation was important, and that ability had been taken away from him. His pockets were empty.

Don curled up, feet underneath him, and tried to cover as much of his feet as he could with his jeans.

Okay, he thought to himself. I've been ambushed and abducted instead of killed outright. Why?

The possible answers were depressing: ransom, torture, killing. Don knew which he'd prefer. Ransom gave the FBI a chance at trying to find him. But, it wasn't like the man could have known that the person he grabbed had money and was worth ransoming. And the fact that Don was an FBI agent could throw a wrench in the gears if that was his intention.

Which left the other options. Don was willing to bet he'd managed to encounter a serial killer. Only time would tell what the man he'd encountered was like, although Don guessed that his captor did have a temper that was fairly easily provoked, considering the beating he'd obviously endured.

Several hours, at least, had to have passed and Robin would be missing him and worrying. The problem was that he didn't know how long it would take before someone really thought something was wrong. Being late could be written off as his motorcycle having broken down and him having no cell reception to call to let her know. No real search was likely to be made until the following day, assuming it wasn't that day already. It would take time, a lot of it, for them to find his helmet, or motorcycle, assuming that the man had left them where they were. And there was always the possibility that they wouldn't be found, or that his captor had moved them somewhere else where they definitely would never be found.

Realistically, Don knew that he couldn't rely on rescue. His only chance would be to try to escape. Don uncurled and stood up, his legs a bit stiff and his chest complaining at the movement. He was most definitely bruised. Slowly he moved around the outside of the room, feeling the wall. It was rough against his fingertips—brick, he thought. On the third wall he found the door. There was no handle on the inside and it had no give when he tried to shove it. Taking a couple of steps back, he tried ramming it with his shoulder. All that did was add to the pain from his bruises. For completeness' sake he checked the fourth wall, but there was no additional door.

Approaching the box in the middle of the room, he started to get the feeling that it was his toilet. There was a smell of cleaning fluid that got stronger the closer he got and he could see that it was bucket-shaped. Sure that he was right, Don moved back to the wall, sliding down to sit against it. He wondered if there were cameras so that his captor could watch him. It would make using the bucket, when he was forced to by necessity, humiliating.

Don let his head fall back against the wall, taking deep breaths to try to keep the panic at bay. He couldn't let his imagination run away from him with possibilities, even if it was good to try to be prepared. There was an overwhelmingly large list of bad things that could happen to him, other than just dying. But he wasn't going to give in without a fight, he was going to do what he could to try to stay alive and relatively in one piece. To get back home to his family.

He must have dozed off, because all of a sudden he opened his eyes to find that the room was lit from a bulb on the roof. It took several seconds of rapid blinking before his eyes started adjusting. Looking around, he saw that he'd been right with his suspicion—there were two cameras high up on the walls. There were also some vents, so at least he shouldn't have to worry about fresh air.

"Write 'I'm sorry' on the paper that's in the middle of the room," his captor's voice said from outside the door. "Don't try to make it not look like your writing, I've got your wallet, remember."

"And if I don't?" Don asked, spotting the sheet of paper and seeing no good reason as to why the man would want him to write the note. Dump it with his wallet, ID, badge, cell and motorcycle somewhere and make it look like he'd committed suicide or taken off. It would be one way to make sure that the search was scaled down.

"Then I let you die of starvation and dehydration and take somebody else who will be more cooperative. Nobody has ever refused my offer."

Don's stomach sunk. He wasn't the man's first victim. As much as he'd like to tell his captor to go screw himself, he knew that he couldn't take the risk. The threat of letting him starve and dehydrate had sounded deadly serious.

"Fine," Don said shortly, getting up and grabbing the pen and paper. He scrawled the words. "Now what?"

"Put it in front of the door and then move to the back of the room."

Don silently obeyed. It sounded like his captor was going to open the door, giving a possibility for him to escape. He readied himself even as he tried to look non-threatening. There was no sound as the man unlocked the door and swung it open. It was well-oiled. There was a handgun trained on him as the man bent and picked the pen and paper up, putting it out of sight, watching him constantly. He was wearing gloves, so he wouldn't leave any prints on the paper. With the gun, Don couldn't take the risk of trying to attack. His captor was incredibly focussed on the threat that Don posed.

"Why are you doing this?" Don asked.

The man didn't answer, instead he placed a glass of water and a bowl of food just inside and to the side of the door, and then backed up, pulling the door closed again. There were fading footsteps and Don knew that he was alone. He crouched down back against the wall, rubbing his fingers over his lower lip, contemplating whether he should eat the food that his captor had left. It could be drugged...but he couldn't avoid eating or drinking indefinitely. And he was hungry and thirsty.

The only decision that he could make decided, he collected the food and settled against the wall. The water was luke-warm, which did less for his thirst than if it had been cold, but it was welcome. The bowl contained two slices of bread, slightly stale, some sliced tomato, broccoli and cold chicken. It wasn't enough to satisfy him completely, but it calmed the hunger pangs. As soon as he'd finished eating, like his captor was watching and waiting, the light went out.

Don waited as long as he could before using the bucket to relieve himself. At least, being dark, the humiliation was less.

Robin checked her watch again, before getting up and shifting the curtain aside to look out the window. The street was empty, no motorcycle on it. She pulled out her cell, tried Don's again, and growled when she got his voicemail. There was no point in leaving another message. It wasn't the first time that Don had been late home after a ride, but it was the latest he'd ever been.

At nine she couldn't wait any longer and ate dinner, putting Don's portion in the fridge. There was still no answer on Don's cell and she was starting to really worry. Sure, his motorcycle could have broken down somewhere with no cell reception, but there were other options, too. The main one that dominated her mind was the thought that he'd been in an accident, and was either on his way to the hospital or no one had found him, and he was lying unconscious and bleeding on the pavement somewhere.

Ten thirty rolled around with still no answer or sign of Don. Robin was now wondering whether he'd gotten called into the office and forgotten to let her know, and had turned off his cell because he was involved in some FBI operation. Even as the SAC, he sometimes still went out into the field. She called Andrew Toh's cell, Don's replacement as supervisor of violent crimes, knowing that even if he was still home he was often up late, and it was quickly answered by Luke, Andrew's husband. Andrew and Luke had gotten married in the brief time that same-sex marriage had been legal in California. They'd both very quickly fit in to the extended circle of Don's former team, their consultants, and family.

"Hi Robin, it's Luke. I'll get Andrew for you. Say hi to Don for me."

She hadn't realised that Andrew had her number saved in his phone as well as Don's, although considering the fact that she'd been called in by Andrew for cases, she probably should have.

A few seconds later, Andrew came on the line, his voice warm. "Hi, Robin, what can I do for you?"

She pushed away the feeling that she was being silly and explained. The fact that Andrew was at home meant that there was a good chance that there wasn't anything going on that would need Don, but she still needed to know.

"I'll check in and get back to you," Andrew said. He gave a short laugh. "He's probably just broken down somewhere, missing you and his dinner."

"You're probably right," Robin agreed. "Thanks."

Fifteen minutes later, Andrew phoned back to tell her that Don hadn't called in and there was no report of him in any local hospitals.

"If you haven't heard from him or he hasn't turned up by the time you go to work in the morning, call me," Andrew ordered. "I'm sure everything's fine."

She slept fitfully, waking regularly to check her phone. A few times she got up and checked the rest of the house, making sure Don hadn't come in and fallen asleep elsewhere, either too tired to make it to their bedroom or not wanting to wake her. Each time she was disappointed and it took longer to fall back asleep.

When there was still no news at midday the next day—if he'd broken down, he should have been found by someone in the morning traffic—she was sure that something bad had happened. Don had been in an accident, was lying dead in a ditch, out of sight of the road.

The FBI launched a search, although Colby kept on reassuring her that Don was probably fine and would be embarrassed at all the fuss he'd caused, when they found him.

She wished that she could believe that Colby was right, but she couldn't. In her gut, she knew that something had happened to Don.

TBC...