A/N: So this fic came to me a couple days ago, and it was one of those that basically wrote itself. I don't know why, I don't know where the inspiration came from, but it happened. I also can't really say it's all that great or that it makes much logical sense, but I kinda like it. So I'll share it. Be ye warned, it does have a sympathetic Rafe McCall in it, so if you hate him, maybe this one isn't for you.
Also, this assumes that Rafe is in the know about all the supernatural stuff, which... I dunno. Did they ever tell that guy anything?
Disclaimer: If I owned Teen Wolf, it would have a lot more weird crap like this in it and no one would watch it. So it's a good thing I don't.
Second Shot
By Minnicoops
It had to be the freaking shipping yard.
Stiles slithers along the brick wall of the warehouse, keeping to the dark shadows where the streetlights don't shine as much as possible as he keeps an eye out for his target, who he'd lost sight of on his long walk into this place. He'd parked the Jeep a half a mile away, because it's about the most conspicuous car in existence, and he can't afford to get caught out here. Like, if his dad finds out he's in this shady-ass place tailing an FBI agent… Well, he's pretty sure his dad will move him straight home and he'll be forced to transfer to community college.
But it's not his fault his best friend's dad is being a super-sketchy douchebag again, and he'll be damned if he's not going to get to the bottom of it. For Scott. Because as much as Scott wants to pretend he's not hurt by his dad coming back into his life three years ago, only to go completely off the grid a two-and-a-half years later, Stiles doesn't buy it. He doesn't need super werewolf hearing to know Scott's lying when he says he's fine with it.
For God's sake, the man has broken enough promises over the years. Stiles sure as hell isn't letting him off easy for this one.
Which is why he'd spent the last two months obsessively tracking him down. Like a deranged stalker. He had a secret stalker shrine under his bed and everything.
It hadn't been easy, but then, Stiles has never been one to shy away from a challenge. The only clue they'd had was a birthday card McCall had mailed to Scott, no return address. And it explained nothing. Simply had a "sorry I missed it" note inside. Not a lot to go on.
But it was enough.
Stiles is actually ridiculously proud of his detective work. Sure, it was a lot of random guesses and leads that took him nowhere, but eventually, eventually he'd gotten a breakthrough. His stubborn persistence had won out, as it always did. He'd pulled off some serious CSI shit, and he's actually pretty upset that he can't brag about it to anyone because it was pretty damn impressive.
But no one can know.
Because he might have kinda used his dad's password to hack into police records, and that might not have been the only felony he committed. Allegedly.
But, the results are worth it, because he'd managed to track down one Rafael McCall. Who is supposedly taking a "leave of absence" from work. Who is holed up in a sleazy motel in a nearby town. Why? Because he's a lowlife coward who can't handle seeing that his wife is happily in a relationship with Chris Argent (a sentence Stiles still finds very weird to say out loud) or that his son is successful and thriving without him in his life? Probably.
Stiles drives the two hours on Tuesday (because everyone else is busy on Tuesday nights and its easy to sneak away), intent on confronting him once and for all. To tell him that his best friend deserves more than an impersonal birthday card, and he better man up and make things right because Stiles can't see Scott get his hopes up only to be crushed again by this bastard of a man.
But, unfortunately, when he gets there, he's just in time to see McCall pull out of the motel parking lot. So what is he to do but follow? He's not going to waste a two hour drive, and who knows when the guy will be back. Plus, Stiles is a little curious about what he's up to.
Lo and behold, where do they end up? A creepy ass shipping yard.
Nothing good ever happens at shipping yards. Especially at night.
Part of Stiles tells him that he should just go home. That whatever's going down here isn't worth him getting murdered over (because, seriously, how many times has an episode of CSI started with finding a body at a shipping yard). But, unfortunately, the louder, more impulsive, more irrational side tells him that he's about to catch Scott's dad red-handed, knee deep in some nefarious shit that's going to give him all the proof he needs to take the sucker down. Stop him from pretending he's "trying harder" to "be a good dad." Oh yeah? Good dads don't disconnect their freaking cell phones and fail to leave a forwarding address to their own kids.
Okay. He should probably calm down a little bit. Keep a clear head. That's what they'd taught him in his FBI internship. He had to keep an eye out for—
"Stiles?!"
He nearly jumps out of his skin as a hand lands on his shoulder. Spinning around, he yelps in terror and throws out an arm blindly to hit whoever's attacking him, but they easily catch his hand.
"Oh God, don't kill me! I didn't see anything, I swear!" he cries, panicked.
"Stiles," the person hisses. "Shut. Up."
Stiles cracks open his eyes to see McCall standing in front of him, a look of pure rage on his face.
"Oh. Heh. Sorry," Stiles says bashfully, dropping his voice to a whisper. Damn, he'd come out of nowhere. "I thought you were…" Apparently Stiles underestimated his competency as an FBI agent. He looks around nonchalantly. "Nice night for a stroll around a shipping yard, wouldn't you say?"
"What the hell are you doing here?!" McCall whisper-yells, and, oh boy, Stiles always forgets just how tall the guy is. "Were you following me?"
"Well, if you would just remember to give your son a call every now and again, I wouldn't have to, would I?" Stiles whisper-yells back.
"Stiles—" McCall clenches his jaw, cutting off whatever he was going to say. "Go home. Right now. I don't have time for this."
He lets go of Stiles' wrist and starts to walk away, sneakily through the shadows, like Stiles was doing. Mouth open in protest, Stiles follows him. "Don't have time for this, huh? Just like you don't have time for Scott?"
"Stiles, I'm serious," McCall tells him firmly. He's scanning around like he's looking for something. "You don't know what you're doing. Go home. Before you get hurt."
"Before I…" Stiles' eyes go wide in sudden understanding. "Oh. My God. You're on an op, aren't you?"
McCall stops and glares at him.
"But… You're by yourself. Where's your partner? You guys always have a partner. And you're not wearing your sweet FBI jacket, and it doesn't even look like you've got your gun—"
This time it's McCall's turn to go wide-eyed as he clamps a hand over Stiles' mouth. "Shh! Stop! You don't—" He looks around again, this time with a distinct sense of paranoia about him. Leaning in close, he whispers, "I am undercover, okay?!"
Oooohhh. Undercover. Okay. Yep. That tracks. The pieces are all starting to click now.
"So, please, Stiles," McCall begs quietly. "Would you just go home?"
He nods, mostly because he's incredibly uncomfortable with his best friend's dad holding his hand over his mouth and he'd really like that removed ASAP. Thankfully, the nodding does the trick, and McCall takes the hand away. Slowly, with a look that says Stiles better not make another peep or else.
That's actually what Stiles fully intends to do—to turn around without another word and head out, because they did a short segment on uncover work during his internship and so he knows all about how important it is to maintain cover—except as he's doing that, he catches a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye.
A red laser dot, right over McCall's heart.
He doesn't even think about it. Obviously, because if he would have thought about it, he would never in a million years have pushed McCall out of the way. Not Rafael McCall, of all people. Maybe somebody a little more worth it, like the president or one of his friends or a nun or something. But evidently he's watched too many action movies, because he finds himself doing just that. Flinging himself at his best friend's asshole dad to push him out of the line of fire.
He realizes about 0.25 seconds later that it was a terrible decision.
He'd thought the pain had been unbearable when he got shot in the toe last summer, but this… Nope. He totally gets why the paramedics were rolling their eyes at him now. Because this is way worse. Like, someone just tore his arm off and filled the gaping wound it left with hot ashes, worse.
It's not helping that someone is pulling on him, making him move when all he wants to do is curl up in a little ball and scream. He manages to crack open his eyes and identify the offender as McCall. Of course. Save the guy's life and instead of thanking him, he's making Stiles run the five hundred meter dash like he's trying out for the Olympics or something. Rude.
"Get down!" McCall hisses much too close to his ear, yanking him into an open shipping container behind some large crates. "And be quiet!"
Quiet?! He's one to talk! Did he just get shot through the shoulder? Is he experiencing a level of pain that completely redefines the definition of the word?
The dreaded hand clamps back over his mouth, startling Stiles into the silence McCall so desired. His friend's dad is crouched beside him, and, oh look, he does have a gun after all.
"He's still out there," McCall whispers, the pure, unadulterated fear in his voice enough to stop the pathetic whimpering coming out of Stiles' throat.
Shit. He's still out there with his sniper rifle or whatever the hell he'd just tried to kill McCall with. Waiting for them. McCall's little handgun isn't going to do much against that.
Oh, God, they're gonna die.
It takes every ounce of willpower Stiles has to keep himself quiet. He tenses every muscle in his screaming body, squeezes his eyes shut, holds his breath with the effort to just be goddamn quiet. But he's not good at it, has never been good at it. As silent as he's being, he can still hear his heart beating wildly in his chest, and he prays that whoever's out there isn't a werewolf, because if he is, they're dead for sure.
Why had he chased McCall out here all on his own? Why hadn't he brought Scott along to protect him? How stupid is he?!
A deafening screech and metallic clank send Stiles jumping again. The hand over his mouth disappears as McCall releases him with a curse, getting up and sliding away in the darkness. The shipping container they're in was already almost pitch black, but now Stiles can't see anything.
"Shit," he hears, followed by some thumping. "Shit, shit, shit."
Stiles is still trying to catch his breath, trying to get the fiery pain in his shoulder under control, so he doesn't have a lot of spare bandwidth to ascertain what McCall is cursing at over there. He just knows that he is freaked the hell out and would like for this all to be over so he can go home and curse the day he ever decided to give a fuck about Rafael McCall.
A flashlight flickers on, and suddenly McCall is back, kneeling in front of him with his phone held up and far too much worry on his face for Stiles' liking.
"What is it?" Stiles groans, holding a protective hand over the agony in his shoulder.
McCall is already tugging at his hand irritably, trying to get a look at the wound beneath. "Bastard locked us in here," he growls. "We're stuck."
Oh. Well. Fuck.
Rafe McCall likes to think he's a fairly reasonable man.
Sure, he's made plenty of mistakes in the past. Including one big one he will never forgive himself for, no matter what Scott says. But for the most part, he thinks he's learned his lessons. Grown as a human being. Has a pretty accurate moral compass.
But right now, he's seriously considering strangling Stiles Stilinski.
"What the hell were you thinking?" he spits, not even trying to mask his anger. He's trying to see how bad the bloody hole in the kid's shoulder is, but Stiles is squirming and doing everything he can to hide it and overall not being the slightest bit cooperative. No surprises there.
"I'm sorry for saving your life!" Stiles spits back, easily matching the vehemence in his tone.
"Hold still, Stiles!" Rafe grabs his wrist firmly to stop his flailing. "Let me see it!"
Stiles actually does try to comply, going as still as a kid like Stiles can possibly go, but he still flinches and squirms when Rafe starts peeling his t-shirt back.
Humming in pain, Stiles drops his head back against the crate he's propped up against, breathing loudly through his nose as Rafe uncovers the wound.
"Okay," Rafe says, wincing at the puckered hole. The bullet hit him right under the collarbone, closer to his side. "It actually doesn't look too bad. It's not bleeding that bad. That means it missed the artery." He'd already known that, though. Stiles would have bled out already if it had.
"Great," Stiles bites out, his usual level of snark marred with pain. "So glad my bullet wound doesn't look that bad, cause it sure as hell feels pretty bad!"
"Yeah, well, you could be dead right now, so I'd say you're pretty lucky," Rafe says, leaning him forward to look for an exit wound. "Dammit. Bullet's still in there," he mutters, shaking his head. Just because it doesn't seem to have hit anything too vital didn't mean it hadn't done some damage, or could still do more if it moved. Despite movies making shoulder wounds seem like not a big deal, there's actually a lot of important stuff in there.
He unbuttons his overshirt, shrugging it off, and then goes to undo his belt.
"Whoa, hey, what are you doing there, pal?" Stiles asks, eyeing him nervously.
"I said it's not bleeding that bad," Rafe says shortly, stuffing the shirt up against the wound. "Not that it's not bleeding at all. If we don't get this stopped you could still bleed out." He loops the belt under Stiles' armpit and around his neck, pulling it tight. Not the most ideal first aid, but they'd have to make do.
Stiles lets out a shriek, trying to scramble out of his grasp, but Rafe holds him fast. "I know, I'm sorry. Almost done." He ties off the belt, satisfied that it's putting enough pressure on the wound now to hopefully stop the bleeding.
"All right. That should hold it until we can get some help," Rafe says, inspecting his work.
Stiles is panting, his face pale and lined with pain, but he manages to get himself together enough to look at Rafe hopefully. "Please tell me your FBI friends are on their way."
Rafe bites his lip, eyes darting to the side.
"You don't have any backup?!" Stiles yells in outrage.
"Shhh!" Rafe holds a finger to his lips, hoping his glare conveys that he's also pissed about how this is going down. "He's still out there."
"You came out here for an op without any backup?" Stiles hisses, not missing a beat. "Isn't that, like, a big no-no with you FBI people? Pretty sure they said something about that about a billion times during my internship. Something along the lines of 'never go in without backup!'"
"This… It wasn't exactly a sanctioned operation," Rafe confesses. "So, no, I don't have backup. But…" He reaches for his pocket. "I have a phone."
Stiles huffs at him unhappily while he dials, but he can't get a connection. No signal at all. He gets up and moves around, but he can't find a signal anywhere. Shit.
"How's that phone working for you?" Stiles asks as he comes back, holding up his own phone to show the lack of bars.
Rafe sighs, crouching next to the kid. "Either the metal of the container is blocking the signal, or I wouldn't be surprised if Marko set up some kind of jammer. That would be very on brand for him."
"Marko?" Stiles asks, raising his eyebrows.
"The assassin who shot you," Rafe tells him.
"Oh. Hang on—"
There's a sudden jolt as the container lifts, rocking back and forth. Stiles lets out a terrified yelp and splays his arms out to steady himself, the yelp turning into a pained scream when he remembers moving his arm is a bad idea.
Rafe manages to stay upright as the container moves, reaching out to hold Stiles' good arm and looking around. As if he can see what's happening.
The movement doesn't last long before there's a thump, and then more thumping and cranking sounds.
"What's happening?" Stiles chokes out, obviously terrified.
Rafe shakes his head, trying to figure out what the noises mean, before he hears the familiar rumble of an engine starting. Another jolt, and they're moving again, but this time, it's obvious what it is. "I think we're on a truck."
Stiles' eyes are bugging out of his head, his voice going squeaky. "A—a truck? He's driving us somewhere? No, no, no, we can't—How will anyone find us now?"
Rafe decides it would be counterproductive to point out that no one is currently looking for them, which makes that concern moot, because the kid is starting to hyperventilate and he clearly doesn't need more fuel for his panic attack.
"Stiles," he says, trying to get his attention.
"We're gonna die here, aren't we?" Stiles babbles between wheezing gasps. He squeezes his eyes shut, moaning. "Oh—Oh, God. We're gonna die, and I'm never gonna see my dad, or Lydia, or Scott—Oh, God, Scott! The last person I'm gonna see is Scott's douchebag dad, and—"
"Stiles!" Rafe barks. He's going to make himself pass out if he doesn't take a real breath soon. "You need to calm down. Breathe."
He's not listening. If anything, he's spiraling more.
"Stiles," Rafe tries again, using a calming tone this time. He knows how to handle this. This is a problem he can fix. "Open your eyes. I want you to look around and tell me three things you can see."
Miserable whimpers answer him.
"Stiles, come on. You can do this. Three things you can see." He sets his phone on the floor so the light illuminates more of the container around them.
Reluctantly, Stiles squints at him, and then looks around. "I—I don't know," he pants. "It's too dark."
"Try."
The kid moans again, but he obeys. "The—the boxes. Your phone." He grimaces, tears leaking out of his eyes. "I don't—I don't—"
"Keep going. What about your clothes?"
Stiles sniffs, looking down at himself. "M-my shoes."
"Good," Rafe says. "Now tell me three things you can hear."
A shaky breath. "Uh, the—the engine. The… Something rattling. Back there." Stiles jerks his head to indicate the direction he's talking about. Another hitched breath, though this time it's almost a laugh. "Your stupid voice."
That gets a smile from Rafe. Not only is the kid back to sarcasm, his breathing is evening out. "Dare I even ask for three things you can smell, or are you just gonna make a crack about how much I stink?"
Stiles snorts out a laugh, raising his good hand to swipe at his face.
"Seriously, you okay?" Rafe asks, watching him closely. Between the bullet wound and the panic attack, the kid actually has him pretty worried.
Nodding, Stiles takes a deep breath, as if to prove he's fine now. He looks up at Rafe, the light from the phone glittering against his eyes. "How'd you do that?"
Rafe shrugs. He's no stranger to panic attacks. "With a job like mine… It's useful to know that kind of thing," he says, leaving it at that.
Stiles studies him for a minute, his expression stuck between curiosity and surprise. Like he's considering for the first time that maybe there's more to Rafe than the assumptions he's made about him his whole life.
"Yeah, I guess so," he says. His hand goes back to his shoulder with a grunt as they hit a bump. "Don't suppose your FBI training taught you what to do when you get trapped in a shipping container on the back of a truck with no backup and no cell reception?"
Rafe sighs, looking up and around at the dark container boxing them in. "Well, not exactly," he admits. "But I might have a few ideas."
"So, you gonna tell me who this Marko guy is, or is it, like, one of those top secret, if you tell me you'll have to kill me, type of deals?"
Stiles is only catching glimpses of McCall's light as he moves around the perimeter of the container, knocking on the side here and there like he's testing the strength of the metal. Stiles would get up and help but A: he's pretty sure there's not going to be a magic door in the walls, and B: he just got shot, so he's allowed to sit this one out.
"Uh, he's an assassin," McCall says distractedly from behind a crate. "A hired gun. And a total sociopath from the intel I've managed to gather."
"That's… fun," Stiles says. "So you're here to… What? Take him out?"
Some grunting and shuffling noises as McCall pushes some of the crates aside. "I'm here because Argent gave me a tip that he was hired by Monroe to take Scott out."
"Oh." Well, that was unexpected. "Wait, you talk to Argent? Even though he's, like, with your ex-wife now?"
McCall appears around the corner of the box to scowl at him.
Right. Very much besides the point. "Sorry," Stiles apologizes. "I'm a little woozy from blood loss." Definitely not a lie there.
Arching an unimpressed eyebrow, McCall goes back to… Whatever the hell he's doing over there. Rearranging stuff?
"So, Monroe hired this guy to kill Scott," Stiles repeats slowly. "But… You disappeared, like, five months ago. Isn't that kind of a long time for him to wait to make his move?"
"She didn't hire him to simply kill Scott. She hired him to take him down. All his allies. The entirety of the little organization he's built up to help protect other supernaturals." McCall appears again, studying the crates with a furrowed brow. "I don't know if you've noticed, but Scott's kind of a symbol of hope for a lot of supernatural creatures out there just trying to lay low and live their lives."
Good old Scotty. Ever the true alpha.
Seemingly satisfied with whatever he'd done, McCall returns to sit down next to Stiles. "So for the past few months, Marko's been scheming and recruiting, and I've been working my way into his ranks."
"But," Stiles argues, hissing as McCall starts messing with his make-shift bandage, shining his light on it to see if the wound is still bleeding. It takes all his willpower not to swat his hands away. "Doesn't the guy know you're his dad? And that you work for the FBI?"
"Yeah, exactly," McCall says. "And that's why I've spent the last few months convincing him that's why I'll be a valuable asset to him. Because I'm revolted by what my son's become and I want nothing more than to see him and everyone like him dealt with. So much so that I quit my job at the FBI so I could do whatever was needed to ensure it happens."
"You are such a dick," Stiles mutters.
McCall smirks and shakes his head, tugging maybe a little rougher than necessary on the belt and pulling a wince from Stiles. "It took a while to convince him, but he finally agreed to meet with me. And then you showed up and spooked him."
"Hey, is it my fault you made such a terrible plan?" Stiles complains, biting back the pain McCall kicked back up by messing with the wound.
"It wouldn't have been so terrible if you hadn't shown up!" McCall snaps.
"I wouldn't have shown up if you'd just told Scott what the hell you were doing in the first place!" Stiles snaps back.
"This guy is dangerous. I didn't want Scott trying to track him down on his own, and you know he would. Better for him to hate me than end up dead."
"Oh, so you could end up dead instead?" Stiles says. "Because, from where I'm standing, that's exactly what was gonna happen. That guy was waiting in the shipping yard to kill you, not meet with you. How much do you think it'll help Scott when his dad gets murdered and he doesn't even know why?" He scowls up at the FBI agent. "You underestimate him, you know."
McCall takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly and looking down at his blood-stained hands. "Stiles, there are a lot of things you don't understand. Things about how… Messy this all is. How this war with Monroe is tied up in other things that have nothing to do with you. And… I know Scott can handle things, and he has. A hell of a lot more than he should have to. I'm just… I'm trying to do everything in my power to let Scott—and the rest of you kids, for that matter—have a chance at a semi-normal life. I know it's already not normal, but…" He looks up at Stiles with a certain sadness in his eyes. "I just wanted to handle this one for him."
Dammit. Stiles hates it when McCall shows his human side. Makes it so much harder to hate him. Sighing in resignation, he drops his head back on the box behind him. No use arguing about it now—what's done is done. "So, what's your genius plan to get us out of here?"
"Well," McCall says, making a face like he's afraid to share. "I figure eventually we have to stop. Either we'll have to get gas, or Marko will get to wherever it is he plans on taking us. And then…"
Stiles raises an eyebrow.
McCall shrugs. "We bang on the sides of the container and yell until someone hears us."
"All that FBI training, and that's the best you could come up with?" Stiles deadpans.
"The other option," McCall continues as if he hadn't heard Stiles' retort, "is that Marko will take us somewhere else to kill us. Maybe he thought we had backup or something, and he wants to dump our bodies in an unknown location. He's pretty paranoid, so that isn't a stretch. Which is why I made that." He nods at his little pile of crates he'd been moving around.
Stiles doesn't love this talk of body-dumping. "What's that?" he asks, looking at the crates curiously.
McCall stands, hooking his arm under Stiles' good one to pull him to his feet. "That is a strategic hiding place," he explains over Stiles' pained moans. "So if he opens the door, he can't shoot us, but I can shoot him."
"What if he decides to dump this entire box in the ocean or blow us up or something?" Stiles whines between gasps. He closes his eyes as the container lurches around him dizzyingly.
McCall gently lowers him up against something solid. "Never said it was a perfect plan," he says.
"I hate you so much," Stiles moans, trying to catch his breath.
"Yeah, well, feeling's mutual," McCall says with a smirk. "But my son seems to like you for whatever reason, so I promise I'll do my best to keep you alive. For Scott."
"Ugh, I think I'm done doing Scott favors for a while," Stiles mumbles, wishing yet again he'd just let McCall die. The world still hasn't stopped spinning, and he's starting to feel a little sick. Cold sweat breaks out across the back of his neck. "Much too hazardous to my health."
McCall says something else, but it's drowned out by the buzzing in Stiles' ears.
He's suddenly being jostled roughly, sending out ripples of agony from his shoulder. "Hey!" McCall snaps. "Stiles! Stay awake!"
He cracks his eyes to see the worried face of his friend's dad much too close. He flinches away with a questioning grunt.
"Don't pass out on me, okay?" McCall repeats.
Blinking a couple of times, Stiles realizes he nearly checked out there. Well, that won't do. "Sorry," he says, taking a deep breath and making himself sit up a little straighter. "Got a little dizzy for a second. I'm okay."
McCall doesn't really seem to buy this, but there isn't a whole hell of a lot he can do about it, so he lets it go.
"You never told me how you managed to track me down," the agent says.
"Oh, uh." Stiles is still trying to quiet the ringing in his ears. "I figured out where that card was postmarked. That you got Scott. For his birthday." The spots are slowly dissipating from the edges of his vision. "And from there it wasn't too hard to figure out where you were holed up."
That's a lie. He'd spent literal weeks trying to figure out where the guy had gone, and in the end, it had been sheer dumb luck that he'd spotted him in the background of a local coffee shop's social media post. From there, it had just taken a little convincing of baristas that he was a cop and they'd tipped him off to the fake ID McCall was using, which led to him tracking him to the motel. So. Basically, he's a criminal investigator now.
McCall is giving him a funny look, like he doesn't quite believe Stiles' story. But he's also here, so obviously, whatever he'd done to track him down had worked. Eventually, he shakes his head and laughs. "I think I'm regretting getting you into that internship last summer."
"Oh, come on," Stiles says, wincing as he shifts into a more comfortable position. "They said I was, and I quote, 'the most persistent intern they'd ever had.'"
"I don't think that was a compliment, Stiles," McCall points out, as if that's more evidence to support his claim.
It definitely hadn't been, but for as much as Stiles made his instructors roll their eyes, he'd also gotten them to agree to let him go on that op to rescue Derek. It was one of his superpowers. Nagging and pestering people so much that they eventually caved in.
And anyway, he's pretty sure they all secretly liked him. So maybe it was a compliment after all.
The truck slows down and turns, giving the feeling of coming off of a highway. McCall tenses, straightening up and looking toward the back like he's trying to see which way they're going.
"What's going on?" Stiles asks, fear slipping into his voice.
McCall shakes his head, holding up a hand to shush Stiles. Like he's trying to listen for something.
They keep driving for a while longer, until, eventually, they come to a stop and the engine turns off. McCall crouches again, entirely too close to Stiles, and pulls his handgun out of his waistband. "Stay quiet," he murmurs, turning off the light on his phone.
In the pitch black of the container, Stiles feels the panic rising again, so he tries to focus on taking deep even breaths, counting with each inhale and exhale. He can hear the muffled sound of a car door slamming, and then the soft crunch of feet on gravel.
The back of the container opens with a loud creak, making Stiles jump and let out a soft whimper. The dim light outside casts long, creepy shadows over everything.
"All right, FBI," a deep voice says. "Time to die."
"C'mon, FBI." Marko taps his semi-automatic rifle against the side of the container impatiently. "I know you're in there. You and your little friend. Come out, come out, wherever you are."
Rafe kneels protectively over Stiles, looking through the slit he made when he positioned the boxes. Marko is standing just far enough to the side of the open door that he can't get a good shot on him. If he would just move…
"All right, how about we try it this way?" Marko says. "You come out with your hands up, or I start shooting at random. Those boxes don't have nothing but kids' toys in them. You really think they'll stop my bullets?"
Stiles is trembling, breathing in a deliberate pattern that keeps hitching just a little more with each breath. Rafe needs to do something, or he's going to panic again.
"I thought we were meeting to discuss the plan," Rafe says. "Not for you to backstab me."
"Oh, me backstab you?" Marko laughs. "No, no, you've got it all wrong, friend. I wasn't the one who showed up with somebody when I said I'd come alone."
"What, the kid?" Rafe scoffs. "He's nobody. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. He's got nothing to do with any of this."
"Fine. If he's nobody, kill him and let's get back to talking like men."
Stiles inhales sharply, and Rafe can just make out his eyes looking up fearfully at him.
Clenching his jaw and trying desperately to think, Rafe lets out a frustrated breath. "I'm—I'm not gonna kill him, Marko. I don't kill innocent kids."
A loud grunting chuckle answers him. "Just the guilty, bloodthirsty ones, eh?"
"That's right."
"McCall, McCall, McCall…" There's another bang on the side of the container, and this time Stiles isn't the only one who flinches. "I said come out now!" Marko shouts angrily.
Rafe could try to stall more, to wait and see if he can get a shot, but the risk of Marko letting loose a volley of bullets at them that will tear straight through the crates is too great. He's going to need a plan B.
Pulling out his phone, he checks to see if opening the back of the truck gave him any signal, but there's still no bars. But if he goes outside, maybe… He types out a quick message, praying it will send.
He starts to get up, but Stiles grabs the front of his shirt. "Where do you think you're going?" he hisses. "You can't go out there!"
Rafe takes his hand, feeling the tremors running through him. "It's gonna be okay, Stiles," he whispers. "Trust me." Uncurling the kid's fingers from his shirt, he puts them around his gun instead.
"No, don't—!"
Before he can protest more, Rafe stands up, hands in the air, and leaves the shelter of the boxes.
"The kid, too, McCall," Marko growls.
"No." Rafe takes a couple steps forward. "I won't be a part of killing some innocent kid. You want him dead? Kill me first, and then do whatever you want to him."
"Oh, I don't know about that," Marko drawls. "Seems he wanted to play the action hero earlier, who's to say we won't see a sequel?"
Rafe glances back to where Stiles is hiding and can just make out his silhouette peeking through the boxes. "Him?" Rafe says incredulously. "No, he's no hero. Like I said, just a scared kid in the wrong place at the wrong time. And you saw, he's hurt. What's he gonna do to you?"
Reaching the back door of the truck, Rafe sees Marko leaning up against the other closed door, holding his rifle over his shoulder casually as he waits. He looks up, dark eyes glinting in the moonlight, and sighs. "Fine. Have it your way. Only because there's no place to go." Leaning over just a little to look inside the dark truck, he repeats it louder. "You hear that, kid? There's no place to go out here. You try to run, I'll just make your death slow and painful."
He's right, there isn't anywhere to go. They're somewhere along the shoreline, and Rafe doesn't see anything in any direction.
Marko swings the shotgun around, motioning with it for Rafe to get down from the truck. "Now, me and you, we're gonna take a little walk. I don't want to be dragging your body all the way out to sea myself."
Rafe obeys, hopping down from the truck and walking slowly toward the rocky coast while Marko keeps the rifle trained on him. He's fucked, he knows it, but if he can just stall long enough, Stiles might still have a chance…
A gunshot rings out, making both Marko and Rafe spin back toward the truck. Rafe acts on impulse, using the distraction to attack the assassin before it even registers who shot the gun. He grabs Marko's arm and twists, forcing him to drop the rifle, and then snakes his arm around the man's neck.
Marko won't go down easy, though. He may have been surprised by the unexpected shot, but he's quick to fight back, throwing his elbow back into Rafe's nose. But, quick as he is, Rafe is bigger, and uses his weight to take Marko to the ground, throwing out a leg to kick the rifle as far away as he can.
It's a fight for sheer survival. Both of them roll over each other, punching, grasping for purchase to pin the other down. Marko hollars in rage and snaps his teeth, fighting like a wild animal, while Rafe lets the muscle memory of hours of training in hand to hand combat make his moves for him.
But in the end, Marko's lunacy wins. He smacks Rafe's head up against a rock, the world going gray for a moment, and manages to get on top of him, hands around his throat.
"You think you can double-cross me, FBI?" Marko seethes through clenched teeth. "You may have the others convinced that you're for our cause, that you only see your son as an abomination now, but I know better. I know that blood always trumps all. You won't kill him. In the end, you were always going to protect him, no matter how much you hate him. Is it worth it? Dying for him now, you foolish bastard."
Rafe can't answer, can't get any oxygen into his lungs past Marko's crushing fists.
Turns out, he doesn't have to.
"I'll agree with the bastard part," Stiles pants, grasping Marko's rifle. "But the only fool here is you."
With that, the kid raises the rifle like a baseball bat and swings it at Marko's head as hard as he can.
Stiles is really done with this hero stuff. He says it all the time, but this time, he really means it. It's so not worth the pain. And to think, he could be back home right now, sitting safely on the couch, watching TV and eating pizza and maybe even cuddling with Lydia if she let him.
But instead he's spending his Tuesday night rescuing freaking Rafael McCall's ass yet again. The irony. His life should probably be made into some kind of dark comedy, or a cautionary tale or something else that people can sit back and shake their heads at, because this is fucking ridiculous.
What he should have done at the very least, besides staying home in the first place, was stay in the truck. McCall had told him to stay in the truck, and even though the guy openly despised him, he'd also shown in the past that he cared enough about Stiles to save his life a couple times. And he hadn't let him bleed out. Which meant when he'd said to stay in the truck, it probably had been out of a concern for Stiles' well-being.
Except, he'd also handed him a gun, which Stiles basically took as an open invitation to rescue his stupid ass again. Because the guy clearly didn't have a plan. Twelve years in the FBI and he couldn't come up with something better than give in immediately to the psycho, gun-wielding assassin's demands? Come on. Clearly he needed a refresher course in making plans.
Not that Stiles really had anything better, but he isn't the trained agent, so…
Still, he'd managed to suppress the impending panic attack. (Totally not using the method Rafe had used with him earlier, because he's too proud for that.) (Ok, fine, he'd used it.) And then he'd crawled painfully to the back of the truck to see what the hell was going on out there.
He'd seen Marko leading McCall down to the edge of the water to presumably shoot him in the head and then come back to do the same thing to Stiles.
So, really. He'd done it to save himself.
Stiles has fired a gun before a few times. His dad is kind of a nut about gun safety, and made him learn not only how to use them, but how to respect them at a pretty young age. So, yeah, Stiles has gone to the firing range plenty of times, but he's never been all that much of a gun enthusiast. And, while he can shoot, he's not, like, a prodigy at it or anything.
So it's really not all that surprising that he misses Marko. But the shot does provide a distraction, which McCall takes full advantage of.
Somehow, the FBI agent manages to get Marko's rifle out of his hands and on the ground, and then the two of them are wrestling and there's no way Stiles will get another clear enough shot. But it also looks like McCall might not win this fight on his own, and Stiles really doesn't want to go through all of this just to have Marko come back and shoot him.
Jumping off the back of the truck with a bullet wound in his shoulder is not the smartest thing he's done tonight, but also not the stupidest. There isn't another way to get down, so what's he supposed to do? The pain reverberates through his body, making his vision darken, and he tries his best to shake it off as he lurches toward the discarded rifle.
The two men don't seem to notice him as he approaches, which is good, because Stiles is uncoordinated on a good day, but now he's downright the clumsiest person on the planet. It takes him three tries to successfully get the rifle into his hands (not his fault the ground keeps moving under him). Once he has it, he holds it in what he thinks is the correct way to hold a rifle (he's never shot one of these before, so he has to go off what he's seen in movies). He vaguely remembers his dad teaching him stuff about guns like these, so he can probably figure out how to fire it, but it's also oddly hard to think about much of anything right now.
Anyway, Marko is on top of McCall now, choking him, and McCall's face is turning purple. And all the while, Marko is giving him some speech about how he's an idiot because he's going to protect his son and yada yada. Don't these bad guys know that monologuing only gives the heroes time to fight back?
Whatever, he should really do something, because McCall looks like he's about to pass out, and Marko sounds like he's winding down with the speech. He just called him a foolish bastard, which kind of sounds like the type of thing you say right before you kill someone.
"I'll agree with the bastard part," Stiles wheezes, and wow, when did it get so hard to breathe? "But the only fool here is you."
Yeah, that felt right. But shooting him doesn't, because Stiles isn't sure he can really handle shooting someone with a giant rifle. As established, he's not really a gun person, and it just feels like overkill. There would probably be a lot of blood, and there's a chance he'll miss, or get knocked over by the kick-back and look like an idiot, and… A bat is more his weapon of choice anyway. So he swings the rifle right at the guy's head.
There's a crack and a kind of tearing sensation and the next thing he knows, Marko is on the ground, not moving. And that's great, because McCall is gasping for air and getting up to check on him, and Stiles can't tell from his expression but the assassin might actually be dead. He might have killed the guy. But he finds he doesn't really care, because, while McCall can breathe now, he suddenly can't.
He doesn't want to collapse, because he knows it's going to hurt. Like, really hurt. But he doesn't really get a say in the matter. Thankfully, McCall, bastard that he is, reads his mind, catching him before he's completely down so he can lay him out more gently.
"Stiles? ...hear me? Sent a… …on the way."
Stiles only catches about half of what McCall is trying to tell him as the man's face wavers in and out of his vision. He thinks he's trying to be reassuring, but all Stiles can focus on right now is trying to get air into his lungs. Every attempt sends fire through the right side of his chest, but it's like the bullet hole opened up a vacuum—he can't get any oxygen.
Oh, God. He's going to die here.
All because he had to save Rafael McCall.
Scott better be freaking grateful.
Well, since he's officially dying now, he supposes that means he gets to do that whole dying man's wish thing. He draws on his last energy reserves,
"Scott," he tries, the one word breathy and painful.
"Hey, take it easy, Stiles," McCall says. "They're almost here."
Stiles shakes his head, reaching insistently toward his friend's dad. This is important, and he doesn't have much time.
"Tell… Scott," he gasps, trying desperately to get it out. Man, not being able to breathe is really putting a cramp in his final instructions. "Tell him…"
McCall nods, like he knows what Stiles is going to say. Hopefully he's right, because Stiles isn't sure he can get any more words out.
He tries anyway. Persistent til the end. "Promise… you'll…" Stiles wheezes in as deep a breath as he can manage. "Be there." There. Good enough.
Is McCall crying now? Oof, that's a bad look for him. And kinda a terrible image to be Stiles' last view, but the world is going dark and there isn't much he can do about it.
He thinks he hears sirens in the distance, but maybe it's just the sound of the waves crashing against the rocky cliffs. The waves that are ready to carry him out into the dark, star-speckled sea.
"You have to be there, too, Stiles." The voice is like a whisper, the words hardly carrying any meaning anymore.
"Promise me you'll be there, too."
Like most people, Rafe doesn't like hospitals, but he isn't usually this uncomfortable in them. As he walks through the halls, he second-guesses whether this is actually a good idea. Maybe it would be better if he just went home. Sent a card or something.
No. He has to do this. He can't always run away when things get uncomfortable.
He double checks the number on the room, just to be sure, before taking a deep breath and knocking on the open door.
"Come in," the voice inside says.
Rafe enters the room, and, sure enough, just as he feared—hoped?—Scott is there, sitting in the chair next to Stiles' bed. The two of them have their phones out like they're playing games, and look up at him in surprise. They must have been expecting someone else. Well, obviously. They wouldn't be expecting him.
"Hey, Dad," Scott greets.
"Hey," he says, forcing himself to sound like him visiting Stiles in the hospital is no big deal. Like seeing the boy sitting up and smiling and not desperately gasping for air isn't the best thing he's ever seen. "Just thought I'd stop by, see how you're doing, Stiles." He waves a hand toward the sling holding Stiles' arm questioningly.
"Oh, uh." Stiles glances down at his injured arm. "Not too bad. Doctor thinks it'll heal up fine. Mostly, it's just annoying. Gotta learn to do everything left-handed now."
Rafe smiles and shakes his head, because of course the kid is indignant about the inconvenience of having to learn to do things with his non-dominant arm rather than the fact that he got shot, had a collapsed lung, very nearly died. "Next time, make sure to tell the assassin trying to kill you that you'd prefer getting shot on the other side."
"Yeah, definitely giving that guy a bad review on Yelp," Stiles agrees. He tilts his head, eyes catching on the item Rafe is carrying. "What's that?"
"Oh, I brought you something. A little get-well soon present, if you will." He holds it up so Stiles can see. "I figured since you've proven to be a bullet magnet, and you're unlikely to stay out of trouble anytime in the near future, it might come in handy."
Stiles' eyes go wide in excitement. "Dude, is that a bullet-proof vest?" He makes a 'gimme' motion with his good hand.
"Now remember, contrary to popular belief, putting this on doesn't make you Superman," Rafe explains as he hands it over. "But it might stop a bullet from punching straight through you next time."
"It's so heavy," Stiles notes, showing it off to Scott, who is just as geeked out about it as he is. "I mean, I knew that, my dad has one, but it's always heavier than it looks. How am I supposed to be able to move in this?"
"It's not that heavy," Scott argues, hefting it a couple times.
"Shut up, dude. You have super werewolf strength. To us mere mortals, it's heavy."
"Yeah, well, maybe if you worked out a little more…"
Rafe smiles at the way the two of them continue to argue over the vest, glad he'd decided to get it after all. He'd initially planned it as more of a joke, but they seem to be taking it seriously, and, hey, maybe it isn't such a bad idea. His son is wrapped up in some pretty dangerous stuff, and Stiles has proven over and over again that whatever Scott gets into, he's always going to be right there beside him, special powers or no.
But unlike the eye-rolling annoyance Rafe usually feels at the thought of Stiles being Scott's choice of best friend, this time he finds himself feeling a warmth at the idea. Yes, Stiles is loud and obnoxious and persistent in all the most irritating ways, but he's also ridiculously protective and loyal. Almost to a fault. Rafe couldn't ask for a better person in his son's life.
"I'm gonna go to the vending machine and grab some snacks," Scott is saying. Apparently, their argument is over. "Want anything?"
Stiles scrunches his nose thoughtfully. "Uh, see if they have any of those peanut butter M&M's. Oh, and some chips. Preferably Doritos, but I could settle for Sunchips. And maybe some Gatorade while you're at it?"
"Sure, buddy." Scott gets up to go, but hesitates as he walks past his dad. The next thing Rafe knows, his son has his arms wrapped around him.
He's surprised by the hug. He definitely hadn't been expecting that after he'd fallen off the face of the planet for almost half a year. Especially after Stiles had made it seem like his disappearing act had once again opened old wounds for Scott. All the same, he returns the embrace gratefully.
"Thanks, Dad," Scott whispers against his shoulder, squeezing him a little tighter.
Rafe indulges himself, just for a moment, pressing his lips against the top of Scott's head. "Of course, buddy," he whispers back, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. It doesn't even matter what Scott's thanking him for. He'd do anything for his boy. Anything at all.
Scott pulls back, swiping a hand under his eyes, and glances back at Stiles. "I'll be right back," he promises, and then heads out.
Stiles watches him go, his expression hard to read. His lips might be curled up ever so slightly into a smile, but Rafe can't really tell.
He should probably get going, too, but he can't let himself leave without saying what he came here to say. Clearing his throat, he looks down at his shoes and makes himself speak. "I, uh, wanted to thank you, Stiles. You were right. That was a bad plan, going to meet Marko on my own, and if you hadn't shown up when you did… Even though it was still incredibly stupid…" He looks up at the boy and gives him a tight smile. "What I'm trying to say is, I probably wouldn't be here right now if it weren't for you stepping in and taking that bullet. So thanks for saving my life."
Stiles' eyes dart down to the vest on his lap, and he starts playing with one of the velcro straps awkwardly. "Um, yeah. No problem. I was, uh, actually gonna say thank you. You know, for not letting me bleed out. Or panic. When we were on the truck. This is, like, the third time you've saved me, you know. It's kinda becoming a thing."
Rafe makes a face. "I'd rather it not be a thing, if that's okay with you. Kinda tired of you almost dying."
"Yeah, and you don't want to start getting a hero complex," Stiles agrees with a smirk. "Though, I guess we're probably already too late for that, given your incredibly stupid plan to rescue Scott single-handedly from psycho Marko and his gang. But… I suppose your heart was in the right place, so I'll forgive you."
Rafe chuckles, shaking his head. "You know, Stiles, I have to admit, I'm actually pretty impressed by you. You've got good instincts, and you managed to track me down, which wasn't easy. I could see you doing really well at the FBI someday if you work on trusting your team and suppressing those impulses a bit more."
"Yeah?" Stiles asks genuinely, a smile spreading over his face. "Well, you know, I could see you being a great dad someday if you work on communicating and suppressing those asshole instincts a little more."
That gets a full on laugh. "I guess we both have something to aspire to, huh?" Rafe says.
Scott walks back in, clearly confused and possibly concerned at the way the two of them are laughing and getting along all of a sudden. "What'd I miss?" he asks, plopping back down in his chair next to Stiles and dumping an armful of snacks onto the bedside tray.
Rafe shakes his head again. "I was just telling Stiles that I hope I'll be seeing a lot more of him in the future." He smiles at his son's befuddled expression. "You've got yourself a good friend there, Scott. Take care of him."
"Yeah," Scott says, still looking flabbergasted as to why his dad, who has always had a distaste for Stiles, suddenly not only approves of him, but likes him.
But Rafe isn't going to explain. He's not even sure he could pinpoint when his feelings toward Stiles had shifted. Was it a slow progression these last couple of years, through all the weirdness that has become such a normal part of their lives? Or was it leftover adrenaline from him nearly dying (again) that made Rafe feel particularly fond of him?
Whatever the case, Rafe finds that he doesn't hate it. Doesn't hate the idea that Stiles Stilinski is now (has always been, really) as permanent a fixture in his life as the rest of his family.
"I should go," he says, holding up a hand in a wave. "Scott? Let me know if you want to grab a meal or something before I head out tomorrow. And Stiles? Get well soon."
There are muttered "goodbyes" and "thanks for stopping by's" as Rafe leaves. Before he gets too far, he hears Scott ask, "Dude, what the hell happened on that truck?"
He doesn't hear Stiles' answer, but he knows what his would be. On that truck, he got a second shot. Well, maybe a third shot. Fourth shot? Whatever the number is, Rafe got another chance. Another opportunity to try again, to do better in the future. And he sure as hell isn't going to waste it.
Welp, that's it, friends! Let me know what you think by dropping a review.
