R is for Refusal

So, this is a little more intense than the previous chapters I think. Ye've been warned.

XXX

Stiles wasn't surprised to discover, upon waking, that he had been blindfolded and handcuffed. God knew it wasn't the first time, and it probably wouldn't be the last. Though he hoped that at least once his being blindfolded and handcuffed would be voluntary, and in a slightly kinkier context.

"Look," he said aloud, though he wasn't sure there was anyone there to hear him. "Whoever you're trying to get to-my dad, Scott, whoever-you might wanna forget about it. Cause the people I have on my side are crazy protective, and I guarantee they're more powerful than you. And when they find me, your asses will be royally screwed."

The voice that answered was surprisingly close, and it made Stiles jump.

"Your friends may be powerful, Stiles, but I am ruthless. I'm going to ask you a question, and you're going to answer honestly, or else I'll show you just how ruthless I can be. Understand?"

"Would you mind taking this blindfold off? I just realized that you can't see me rolling my eyes."

A hand grabbed the back of his neck, not painfully but with enough force that Stiles could tell the man wasn't messing around. Sarcastic conversation could be hell of a dangerous nervous habit, and one that he just couldn't seem to shake no matter how much trouble it got him into.

"Just one question Stiles. Answer one question, and we can be done here. You ready?"

Stiles bit back a snarky comment. He was starting to feel genuinely curious. He could sass the son of a bitch after he found out what this was all about. "Alright, let's hear it."

"Good." There was a smile in the man's voice. "Where is Derek Hale?"

Stiles's heart jumped as a million emotions flooded him at once, and he felt his cheeks flush.

"Does his name make you angry?" The man sounded amused.

Stiles didn't answer.

Angry didn't even begin to cover it. It was a start though. Stiles was angry, yeah. Pissed off even. Betrayed. But also sad. Let down. More than a little hurt. Derek had found this new power, and then he'd just left. Just like that. Without even a proper farewell.

Stiles hated him.

And he would give anything to see him again.

"Stiles, where is he?" the man asked, interrupting his thoughts.

Stiles snorted. "How would I know? That monumental douchebag left without so much as a wave goodbye. If I had to guess, though, I'd say...somewhere in the southwestern United States? Good luck! Can I go now?"

The man tightened his hand on Stiles's neck and let out a hum. "Yes, I'd heard you were stubborn. One last chance, Mr. Stilinski. Where is Derek Hale?"

"How the hell would I know? He hasn't contacted me or anyone else in Beacon Hills since he left."

The man's grip grew painful, his nails digging into Stiles's skin. "Really? Because the cheap cell phone you threw away recently suggests otherwise. The only calls were made to a 928 area code. Flagstaff, if I'm not mistaken. And if memory serves, that's in the southwestern United States."

Stiles let out a laugh as he tried not to freak out. "That? That's just a girl I met online. She thinks I'm an up and coming actor. She told me she's a model. We're both just...lonely kids, but that doesn't mean-ah!"

His words were cut off as the man's nails dug deeper into Stiles's neck, breaking skin and drawing blood. He leaned forward so Stiles could feel his breath on his ear. "I gave you your chance, Stiles. You could've stopped what's coming."

And then the hand and the voice were gone. A door opened and closed somewhere behind Stiles, presumably taking the man with it.

Stiles let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and let himself have a few moments of panic before he forced himself to calm his heavy breathing and his racing heart.

How the hell did that son of a bitch know about the phone?

Stiles had only had the burner-his fourth since Derek had left-for a few days before Derek had told him, a week and a half ago, to get rid of it. It was the last time they'd talked. Derek had been just north of the border at the time. He could've traveled thousands of miles since then- assuming he hadn't hopped on a plane or a train or a fucking cruise ship. He could be literally anywhere. That's what Stiles would tell the man when he returned.

That's what he would say, but he was pretty sure he knew where Derek was.

During their last call, Derek had muttered something about dealing with family (though he denied it when Stiles asked), and since Peter was in Eichen House, that left Cora. And Cora was in or near Uruguay. At least, that's where Stiles guessed she was. When Derek had taken her out of the country a few years ago, Stiles had tracked the car Derek rented to Venezuela. Then he'd tracked Derek's ATM withdrawals over the next three days, and then it was just a matter of figuring out which plane tickets he could afford with the amount of money he'd withdrawn, assuming he'd given Cora a couple thousand to get her feet on the ground. It wasn't too hard, really, and he'd done it all on Parrish's computer before wiping away any evidence that he'd done so. The deputy had never even known.

And neither would the bastard that had kidnapped Stiles.

Stiles wasn't sure how long the guy had been gone, except that it hadn't been long and he was starting to get hungry, his shoulders were aching from his wrists being cuffed behind his back, and he was already bored. And being bored meant that his mind was starting to wander, and percolate on exactly what the man had in mind for him.

"Okay, enough of that!" he muttered. He had to focus on something else. Anything else. He started humming the first song that came into his head, and then singing under his breath, his voice shaking. "Took a walk that night but it wasn't the same...We had a fight on the promenade out in the rain..."

He was only mildly surprised to find that he could still sing the whole album. He'd discovered it during his formative years, and (much to the chagrin of his father) listened to it almost every day for his entire middle school career.

He was in the middle of the first of Mr. Brightside for the third time when the door opened.

"You like The Killers?" Stiles asked immediately.

The man didn't answer, but Stiles could hear him approaching. It took him a second to realize it was actually two people, and a few seconds later he felt the uncomfortable sensation of a gun being pressed to his temple.

"I'm gonna un-cuff you now," the man said, and he was directly behind Stiles. Not the one holding the gun, then. "You try anything, you die."

Stiles gave a slight nod, cursing himself as words spilled unbidden from his mouth. "Got it. I mean, you seem pretty quick to kill me. We've hardly even gotten to know each other."

The slight pressure of the gun against his head vanished, only for it to reappear at his knee.

"A gunshot wound to the knee'll still kill me," Stiles said.

The man let out a short chuckle. "Eventually, but I would still have time. Plenty of time. Now you wanna make a break for it, by all means try it. Just know that as bad as this is gonna be for you, it will be so much worse if there's a bullet hole for me to fuck with."

Stiles didn't put up a fight when the cuffs came off, and had to bite back a groan as his arms were pulled in front of him. They'd been behind him for hours, and the change in position sent bolts of pain through his shoulders and arms. A moment later, his wrists were strapped to a table he hadn't even known was there. He wasn't sure why the hell the man had done that, but he knew it wasn't good. It took all of his control to breathe through the panic that was again threatening to choke him.

"Do you know what the nice thing is about fingers, Stiles?" the man asked.

"I can think of a few things," Stiles said, quietly so that his voice wouldn't crack and so that the man perhaps wouldn't hear it shaking.

The man ignored the comment and said, "There are ten of them."

Stiles felt his stomach drop, and his fingers instinctively curled into fists. The man laughed.

"Which should we start with?" he asked.

Stiles felt a corner of his mouth lift and stuck out both middle fingers.

"Well, if you insist," the man said.

"Wait," Stiles began. "Just wai-" He couldn't stop the word from becoming a scream as someone began twisting his finger until it snapped.

He was unconscious by the time they were done with the next finger.

XXX

Stabbing pain in his middle fingers was the first thing Stiles noticed when he woke up. The second thing he noticed was that he wasn't alone. Someone was sitting in front of him-across the table, if Stiles had to guess. He didn't think it was the man that had been doing all the talking. He was quiet and pretty much undetectable when he wasn't talking, like some sort of freaky ninja. Whoever was in the room with Stiles breathed heavily and kept sniffing like he had a cold.

"Don't you have, like, a tissue or a hankie something?" Stiles said. The person didn't say anything. "You've been really quiet. Though, I'm guessing it was probably you that broke my fingers, not the other guy. And actions speak louder than words, right?"

Still nothing. Whoever this guy was, he had a lot more patience than the people Stiles was used to.

"Do you get paid for this?"

The door opened and Stiles felt his heart jump. The guy in charge was back. Which probably meant more pain was coming.

"He's not going to answer you," the man said. "I cut out Ollie's tongue years ago."

Stiles felt a pit form in his stomach. "That's a hell of a way to earn someone's loyalty," he said, even as his mind screamed at him to shut up.

This guy is out of his mind.

"I told him that would happen if he tried to sell me out but he did it anyway, so I removed his tongue from his head and put a bomb in his brother-in-law's car and told him his sister and two adorable nephews were next if he didn't do as I say. I admit it isn't not the...friendliest foundation for a relationship, but I like to think we've grown since then, that we're something close to friends. Wouldn't you say, Oliver? Well, not say. You know what I mean!...He just nodded. See, Stiles? You underestimate the power of time in healing a relationship. Hell, give it enough time and you might even be able to forgive Derek Hale for leaving."

He fell silent, and Stiles could tell he was waiting for a reaction.

Stiles decided not to give him one.

The man gave Stiles's shoulder a squeeze as he walked by. "That's alright. You're not here to talk about your feelings. Where is Derek?"

"The answer hasn't changed," Stiles said. "I don't know where Derek is. He could be in Mexico or Maine or...Monte-fucking-Carlo. I have no idea."

The man's fist came out of nowhere and Stiles's head snapped to one side. The taste of blood filled his mouth, spilling from the fresh cut on the inside of his cheek. The fact that the man had hit him was a surprise, but not as surprising as the power behind the blow. He turned to one side and spat out blood that he didn't particularly feel like swallowing. The man put a hand against the cheek he'd just punched and Stiles tried (and failed) not to wince as he turned away from the touch.

"Stiles," the man said in the tone of voice one might use when scolding a toddler. "Where is he?"

"I don't know," Stiles said. This time he wasn't surprised when the fist flew into his jaw. The man hit him a few more times, splitting his lip and opening up a gash above his cheekbone.

Then, whether out of boredom or frustration Stiles wasn't sure, the man and the mute left, leaving Stiles alone once again. He sat in silence, catching his breath and gathering his thoughts. A (painful) experimental wiggle revealed that his jaw didn't seem to be broken, and a quick probe around his mouth with his tongue found no loose teeth, so at least there was that. His face and head hurt too much to sing, so he sat in silence, trying to think of something to distract him from the pain.

Sleep came too suddenly for him to fight it.

XXX

Stiles woke up coughing and spluttering. His arms were behind his back again (how had they done that without waking him up?). The icy water that had just been dumped on him, and the fact that the room was now freezing, was making him shiver which was in turn making his shoulders and arms hurt. He had to bite back a groan as sensation fully returned and the broken bones and bruises made themselves known.

He lifted his head and turned to where he thought the guy in charge was.

"You...you wanna maybe t-turn down the A/C? I, uh...I didn't realize th-this was a wet t-shirt contest and I f-forgot a change of clothes."

The man made a sound that was halfway between a cough and a laugh. "You know, I can't decide whether I like you, or whether I want to give you the same treatment I gave Oliver. But if I did that, how would you tell me where Derek is?"

Stiles snorted. When he spoke, it was through chattering teeth. "Th-this again? I told you, man. I don't know wh-where he went."

"Why don't I believe you?" the man asked. "I have to admit, your persistent stubbornness surprises me. How long do you think you can keep this up? Hm? How much more of this can you take?"

Stiles shrugged. "I d-don't know where he is so...so I g-guess we'll f-find out."

"I guess we will," the man said, and walked away.

Stiles waited until he heard the sound of the door being opened and shut before letting out the sob he'd been holding in. He didn't try to stop the tears as hopelessness and terror washed over him. He really didn't know how much more he could take. A large part of him was starting to think he might die here.

A bigger part of him decided he wasn't going to let that cold water could be enough to let him slip the cuffs, and he could do that, well...Well it was a first step. He'd figure out the rest later.

He'd barely moved his hands before he froze and decided to rethink his idiotic idea. He'd slipped cuffs before, that wasn't the problem. The problem was his broken fucking fingers, and the fact that they hurt like a bitch. But he didn't really have a choice. He took a few deep breaths and forced himself to stop shivering as best he could.

"Okay, Stiles," he said softly. "You can do this. You can do this!"

He started shimmying his right hand and immediately the pain sucked the breath out of his lungs and he stopped moving. His voice shook as he said again, "You can do this. You can do this."

He moved his hand again, and this time he didn't stop-not when his fingers screamed in protest, not when the cuffs scraped the skin from his wrist, not even when his vision went black at the edges. And then there was a sudden give, and Stiles's hand came free.

A startled laugh jumped from him, though it quickly vanished as the muscles in his shoulders and back responded to the change in position. His fingers shook as he fumbled with the blindfold, adrenaline turning him clumsy (well, clumsier than usual). The fact that his middle fingers were broken didn't help either, but he eventually managed to get the blindfold off. The sterile white lighting of the room hurt his eyes, and it took a while before he could open them without squinting. When he stood, his legs collapsed beneath him.

"Shit!" he cried as he hit the ground, legs covered in pins and needles. It took him a moment before he could stand, using the chair and table for support, and even then his legs were weak. Once he was on his feet, he took some time to catch his breath, and then he murmured, "Well now what?"

If he'd looked around the room, he might have noticed the camera in one corner, but he was too preoccupied with trying to come up with an escape plan.

The door opened a moment later.

"Well," the man said. He was tall and well dressed and meticulously groomed and Stiles couldn't help but wonder what the hell this vain, rich asshole wanted with Derek. The asshole drew a gun from a holster on his hip. "Looks like you just shortened the timeline."

Stiles's leg was already crumbling beneath him when the shot rang out, and his scream followed a second later.

"You-you fucking shot me!" Stiles managed between gasps as his hands hovered over the bullet hole just above his knee.

"Yep," the man said, shoving gun in his waistband and closing the space between himself and Stiles in a few strides. His jaw was tight, mouth drawn into a thin line, eyes staring not at Stiles, but straight ahead.

Earlier, Stiles had been scared of what was going to happen to him. Now, seeing the cold expression on his face as he stormed forward, was the first time Stiles was truly scared of the man himself.

"You've made a big mistake," the man said, grabbing the front of Stiles's shirt.

And then he straightened as much as he could with Stiles's shirt balled in his fists and started dragging Stiles back toward the chair, leaving a trail of blood behind him. Stiles let out a scream as his injured leg was jostled, and then he screamed again.

This was worse than the fingers.

And it reminded him of a nightmare he'd had, back when the Nemeton had still had sway over him, only he couldn't scream himself awake from this. All he could do was pray for unconsciousness. It didn't come. His scream died off as they finally made it back to the metal chair at the center of the room, replaced with loud, pained gasps.

"The hell?" Stiles got out as the man handcuffed him to the leg of the chair, leaving him lying on the cold ground, arms stretched out behind him. "I…I lose-lose chair privileges?"

The man straightened up and looked down at Stiles. "Do you know how Elvis died?"

Even with his leg hurting like a bitch, his mind clouded by pain, Stiles still couldn't seem to keep his mouth shut. "Heart attack."

"He passed out on the toilet. And since he was sitting up, the blood pooled in his legs and he couldn't get enough oxygen to his brain and he gave up the ghost right there on the shitter."

"P-pretty sure it was a heart attack," Stiles mumbled. There were starting to be crack's in the man's facade, and it freaked him out.

"The point is, Stiles, if you pass out from pain or blood loss, I don't want you to croak. So for the foreseeable future, you get to lay on the floor. Now I've got someplace to be, and you, well. You have proven to be even more goddamned annoying than your reputation suggested. So I'm going to leave, and you're going to have a babysitter."

The man left, and a second later was replaced with a tall, solemn man that had to be Oliver, carrying a folding chair. Stiles watched him as he unfolded it and sat down, trying to calm his breathing, get his panic under control.

"You-you don't have to do this, you know," Stiles said. "Be his-his cronie or whatever. After what he did to you. You…" A wave of pain took the words from his mouth, and he had to ride it out before he spoke again. "You help me get out of here and I'll tell-I'll tell my dad. He's the sheriff. Your family, you, you'll be protected, you'll...Are you even listening to me?"

Oliver was watching him, a blank expression on his face. He didn't respond to Stiles's words.

"I'm telling you, Oliver. This...sick, psychopathic son of a bitch deserves nothing from you. You...you can get back at him. Land his ass in prison."

Oliver's face remained unreadable as he stood up and leaned down, going out of Stiles's view. When he stood back up, the black blindfold in his hand.

"Please don't gag me," Stiles said, panic creeping up as he imagined trying to breathe around the material. "I'll shut up! I'll shut up. I'll-" He stopped talking as Oliver knelt by his leg and looped the fabric around Stiles's leg, just above the bullet wound. Stiles looked up at Oliver. "Uh..thank you."

Oliver's expression changed for the first time, then, taking on a look of sympathy as he shifted the fabric into the beginnings of a knot.

"...What?" Stiles asked, and then Oliver tightened the knot and Stiles barely had the chance to scream before he lost consciousness.

XXX

Parrish looked up at Lydia burst into the station. Her eyes were wide, brow furrowed, and she marched toward his desk.

"News?" he said.

"No," she said breathlessly, the word coming out frustrated and harsh. "You?"

Parrish shook his head. "Nothing on this end either. Sheriff just checked in, and he hasn't found anything either."

Lydia sighed, leaning against the edge of the desk. "Damn it, Stiles."

"We'll find him," Parrish said, hoping he was right. A second later, the phone on his desk started ringing. Lydia turned sharply as he picked it up.

"Beacon Hills police department."

"Who is it?" Lydia whispered loudly.

Parrish shrugged. "Hello?" He was met with silence. "Hello, this is Deputy Jordan Parrish. Who is this?"

Lydia raised her eyebrows, her meaning clear: Stiles?

Parrish shook his head. All he heard was breathing. "Hello? Stiles, is that you?" There was still no response, and then a clatter as if someone dropped the phone. "Hello?"

"Is it him?" Lydia asked as Parrish scrambled to his feet and grabbed his coat off the back of his chair.

"I think it might be. Whoever called is still on the line. Macy!" He called to the techie.

"Yeah, Parrish?"

"I need you to track this call. I'm taking my cruiser, call me when you've got a location."

"You got it," Macy answered, turning to her computer.

"Come on," Parrish said, grabbing Lydia's hand and hurrying toward the exit. "If that's Stiles, we're gonna find him."

XXX

Stiles woke up to the sound of the man shouting.

"Where the fuck is he Stiles?!"

The man was angry. Not just angry, enraged.

There was fire in his eyes.

"Tell me. Where. He. Is!"

"I don't know," Stiles said, heart pounding.

"Liar!" He came to a stop next to Stiles, bent down, and dug a thumb into the bullet hole.

Stiles screamed, his vision going going black at the edges. A sharp slap to the face kept him from losing consciousness.

"Where is he?"

"Please," Stiles gasped between sobs. "I don't know. I don't know."

"I don't believe you." He dug his thumb into the bullet hole again, eliciting another scream.

The man was breathing heavily now, his perfectly styled hair falling loose over his forehead, and his voice took on an almost wild edge. "Does he even know?" He said it almost shrilly as he grabbed Stiles's face, getting his own blood on his cheek. "Does he even know? Does he know how much you care for him? That you would die for him?"

There was a sound somewhere outside of the room and the man let go, moving out of Stiles's view. A second later, he felt the man grab a fistful of his hair and yank his head back. A second after that, the man undid the handcuffs and dragged Stiles to his feet, putting a tight arm around Stiles's chest to hold him up. And then Stiles felt the sharp edge of a knife against his throat. Fear seized him and his sobbing was replaced with shaky breathing, his Adam's apple bobbing against the blade just enough to break skin.

"Just tell me, Stiles," the man hissed. "What do you owe Derek Hale? Hm? Where is he?"

"I don't-I don't know."

The arm around his chest tightened. The blade pressed a little harder, and a bead of blood dripped down Stiles's throat.

He squeezed his eyes shut in preparation of what was to come.

This is it.

XXX To be continued...

A/N: Uuuuh, I have no idea when the next chapter is coming. You're probably already aware of how inconsistent I've been on this fic hahaha. College'll do that, y'all. But I hope you enjoyed that this chapter is nice and long! Please don't hate me! :)