Merry Christmas, @omghoechlinplease!
It’s a quiet day– the best kind of day as far as Derek’s concerned. He’s settled on the couch, knee deep in the first half of next week’s required reading. His face is just barely out of range of a ray of sunlight that’s been steadily creeping across his living room floor towards him. In about twenty minutes that’ll become a problem, but for now?
The doorbell rings– probably the biography of Abraham Lincoln he ordered off Amazon. With a lazy stretch, Derek drops his book on the end table and gets up to answer the door–
–and the world spins–
–and he finds himself standing in a grimy, poorly-lit warehouse, staring down the barrels of at least six automatic rifles.
“Uh,” he croaks, hands twitching upwards on reflex, when someone captures his wrist in a vice grip and yanks. A rough voice shouts get down, dumbass! and he follows obediently, more out of shock than anything else. He folds his legs under him and throws himself to the ground behind some waist-high metal container, biting back a curse when he hits concrete elbow-first.