smile hostage refuge [chapter one]
Title: Smile Hostage Refuge
Pairing: Craig Mabbitt & Max Green
Rating: R
POV: Third & Craig's
Summary: 'Hey, are you okay? You look pretty low.'
Disclaimer: Fake.
A/N: Title and summary lyrics belong to The Used.
When he awakens, it’s to complete darkness and the feel of fabric against his eyelashes. His mind is hazy and he’s more than a little delirious, unable to grasp anything beyond his own disorientation. His thoughts are incoherent and the only thing he can truly comprehend is that he’s on his back on an unfamiliar bed.
An unintelligible complaint begins to form on his tongue, but there’s a gag and it’s biting painfully into the corners of his mouth.
“Don’t conk out again,” a voice warns, and it sounds surprisingly prepubescent. Something pricks his arm and Max moans fitfully, tossing his head to the side and pressing his feverish cheek into a pillow. His long, unruly hair falls across his forehead, musky and damp with sweat.
The effects of whatever he’s been given are instant: a wave of nausea rolls over him and his skin burns hot and his heart pumps erratically before eventually becoming nothing more than a flutter, even when Max figures it should probably be jackhammering against his ribcage, all things considered.
Everything is spinning.
“Don’t fall asleep,” he’s told again. “You have a concussion, and you’re no good to anyone dead.”
Nothing registers, and he barely hears the words over the rushing of blood in his ears. When he begins to nod off, restraints he hadn’t noticed previously are being tightened around his wrists and feet.
When Max regains consciousness (he can’t gauge how much time has passed), he’s still blind as a bat, but the gag has been ripped from his mouth and lukewarm water is being emptied onto his face.
Someone grabs his arm and yanks it to reveal the underbelly.
“D...d-don’t,” he mumbles, and isn’t sure whether it’s saliva or vomit that runs out of his mouth when it’s left hanging open for too long. The syringe is already buried into the crook of his elbow and his muscles are suddenly too weak to struggle.
“You’ll build up a tolerance quickly enough - especially with your history. ”
Max would like to ask what exactly it is that he was going to build a tolerance to, but the conversation is becoming increasingly difficult for him to follow, and even harder for him to contribute to. The most glorious euphoria is taking over his every sense, and all Max wants to do is fucking lay in it.
But even though he’s fading out, he forces his lips to move. He slurs, “Wha d’you want with me?”
Bemused laughter. “We’ll talk about that when you come down again.”
By this time, Max is hardly present at all, pinprick eyes already rolled into the back of his head. “Who are you?” His tongue is lazy and too big in his mouth, but he still manages.
There is a moment of silence while his captor disposes of the needle. “If you must address me, you will call me Master,” is the malicious reply, a cruel smile evident in the tone. “If you so refuse, do not speak at all.”
Max is already dead to the world.
::
When Bryan pulls up in front of my house, the guys are reluctant to let me leave. They offer to have me stay the night, but neither actually come up with any ideas of what we’d do other than just sit and wallow.
“I just don’t really think it’s a good idea for you to be alone right now,” Robert explains reasonably.
“I won’t be, dude, Gab is home. I just need to see my family.”
I need to hold my daughter.
The second I walk through the front door, Gabrielle is on me like a fly on shit, drilling me with “Where have you been” and “Why haven’t you been answering your phone?”
‘His cell is missing from his house...’
“Why?” I ask, pitch rising with hope. Maybe... “Did Max call?”
“Jesus,” she breathes in frustration, angling away from me. “I’m so sick of having to compete with Max.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I retaliate, taken aback. A surge of anger rockets through me.
She snaps, “Never mind. Where were you?”
I want so badly to demand what the fuck her problem is, but the last thing I want to do right now is bicker. Instead, I launch into probably the most chaotic and scrambled tale I’ve ever told, beginning with how I had mished to Max’s place around eleven thirty that morning only to find his door hanging wide open and furniture strewn everywhere.
At first, Gab is super sympathetic, but she’s barely frantic over it. It’s really more like disbelief than anything, like she can’t understand what anybody would want with Maxwell Green. And then...
“Aren’t you supposed to be at Warped in two days?” She asks, suddenly sounding nervous for all the wrong reasons.
“Trying to get rid of me?” I ask, attempting to sound breezy. I keep walking, heading straight for the kitchen, where I pull open the liquor cabinet and reach for a nearly untouched bottle of JD.
“Don’t drink,” she says, touching my elbow. “It won’t bring Max back.”
And she’s totally right. Ever since I took up a permanent spot in Escape the Fate, I’ve had my consumption under complete control. I think of Leila, and how I left my addiction behind - for her. So she wouldn’t ever have to say that her daddy is a full-time alcoholic.
Immediately I make my way into the the living room where I promptly bend to pick up my precious girl, lifting her up high with outstretched arms before bringing her into my chest, her chin on my shoulder. I bounce a little while I talk to her, hoping to pacify myself more than anything.
She’s so happy to see me. I’ve never felt so numb.
That night, Robert rings my cell and tells me about the hour-long phone call he had endured with Max’s mom. He tells me that she was confused and upset and wanted to know why no one was taking care of her baby. Mostly, he says, she just cried.
::
By the next day, I’m back at the station for questioning at Officer Greg Stenson’s request. Now that Max’s disappearance has had time to sink in, my nerves are frayed and I'm jittery like a kid who has just downed more than his body's weight in expressos.
“Get much sleep last night?” He says in greeting, most likely taking note of my haggard appearance and tired eyes before gesturing for me to sit opposite him.
“Yeah,” I lie.
“Well, I’ve got some good news,” Stenson begins, pushing a mug-shot of some young guy towards me. “Recognize this man?”
I study the photo for all of three seconds before answering in the negative. The close-cropped blonde hair, the cold hazel eyes, and the acne scars are definitely unfamiliar.
“Name is Chase Mathers. He’s the one we're looking for.”
“Him?” I dead-pan.
“Inexperienced and thoughtless,” Stenson agrees. “He left behind enough DNA to make a baby.”
I never expected him to be so young. And it’s no offense to Max, because Max is just a tiny little thing, and I know he can't fight worth shit.
The thought of this ‘Chase’ overpowering Max is enough to make me sick to my stomach.
“So you have his address, now, right?” I query after a moment’s hesitation. “All you have to do is kick his door in and go SWAT on his ass?”
“If only it were that easy. Listen, Craig - this was all pre-meditated, you understand? From entering the house and taking Max by surprise... Mathers could have been watching Max, could’ve been camping outside his house, just waiting. Was there any reason why Max was alone? Did he fight with you or anyone else in the band?”
“... No, there was no fight. Our tours last for months, so it’s normal for us to just go home and have a little time to ourselves. There’s really no such thing as ‘personal space’ while you’re on the road.”
If I had known that you were in danger, I would have never let you out of my fuckin sight.
“Understandable. I spoke with a couple of people from Epitaph, but as far as they knew, Max wasn’t having any problems with anybody. I also spoke with his mother, although she said she hasn’t heard from him in quite some time. Is that normal?”
I nod. “Max isn’t his step dad’s biggest fan, y’know? I guess he’d just rather not risk him answering the phone, but I don’t know. Max doesn’t really talk about it.”
I watch Stenson withdraw his notebook from his shirt pocket before jotting down no more than a few words and then heavily underlining them. Frowning, I open my mouth to say something, but am interrupted by his chair scraping backward against the linoleum.
“Once again, thank you for your help.” And with that, he offers me a smile that’s really more of a grimace, and gets up to leave. I throw my own chair back and run after him.
“Wait!” I call, feeling agitated and left in the dark. “You’re going to go to this guy’s place, right?”
Stenson takes a deep breath and finally turns to face me, expression unreadable. “I sent a team last night, as soon as we ran the fingerprints. We scoured the place, but there was no sign of either Mathers nor Max. Believe me when I say we exhausted ourselves looking for clues as to where they might be, following tire tracks... There just hasn’t been any luck thus far.”
I can’t breathe.
Pairing: Craig Mabbitt & Max Green
Rating: R
POV: Third & Craig's
Summary: 'Hey, are you okay? You look pretty low.'
Disclaimer: Fake.
A/N: Title and summary lyrics belong to The Used.
When he awakens, it’s to complete darkness and the feel of fabric against his eyelashes. His mind is hazy and he’s more than a little delirious, unable to grasp anything beyond his own disorientation. His thoughts are incoherent and the only thing he can truly comprehend is that he’s on his back on an unfamiliar bed.
An unintelligible complaint begins to form on his tongue, but there’s a gag and it’s biting painfully into the corners of his mouth.
“Don’t conk out again,” a voice warns, and it sounds surprisingly prepubescent. Something pricks his arm and Max moans fitfully, tossing his head to the side and pressing his feverish cheek into a pillow. His long, unruly hair falls across his forehead, musky and damp with sweat.
The effects of whatever he’s been given are instant: a wave of nausea rolls over him and his skin burns hot and his heart pumps erratically before eventually becoming nothing more than a flutter, even when Max figures it should probably be jackhammering against his ribcage, all things considered.
Everything is spinning.
“Don’t fall asleep,” he’s told again. “You have a concussion, and you’re no good to anyone dead.”
Nothing registers, and he barely hears the words over the rushing of blood in his ears. When he begins to nod off, restraints he hadn’t noticed previously are being tightened around his wrists and feet.
When Max regains consciousness (he can’t gauge how much time has passed), he’s still blind as a bat, but the gag has been ripped from his mouth and lukewarm water is being emptied onto his face.
Someone grabs his arm and yanks it to reveal the underbelly.
“D...d-don’t,” he mumbles, and isn’t sure whether it’s saliva or vomit that runs out of his mouth when it’s left hanging open for too long. The syringe is already buried into the crook of his elbow and his muscles are suddenly too weak to struggle.
“You’ll build up a tolerance quickly enough - especially with your history. ”
Max would like to ask what exactly it is that he was going to build a tolerance to, but the conversation is becoming increasingly difficult for him to follow, and even harder for him to contribute to. The most glorious euphoria is taking over his every sense, and all Max wants to do is fucking lay in it.
But even though he’s fading out, he forces his lips to move. He slurs, “Wha d’you want with me?”
Bemused laughter. “We’ll talk about that when you come down again.”
By this time, Max is hardly present at all, pinprick eyes already rolled into the back of his head. “Who are you?” His tongue is lazy and too big in his mouth, but he still manages.
There is a moment of silence while his captor disposes of the needle. “If you must address me, you will call me Master,” is the malicious reply, a cruel smile evident in the tone. “If you so refuse, do not speak at all.”
Max is already dead to the world.
::
When Bryan pulls up in front of my house, the guys are reluctant to let me leave. They offer to have me stay the night, but neither actually come up with any ideas of what we’d do other than just sit and wallow.
“I just don’t really think it’s a good idea for you to be alone right now,” Robert explains reasonably.
“I won’t be, dude, Gab is home. I just need to see my family.”
I need to hold my daughter.
The second I walk through the front door, Gabrielle is on me like a fly on shit, drilling me with “Where have you been” and “Why haven’t you been answering your phone?”
‘His cell is missing from his house...’
“Why?” I ask, pitch rising with hope. Maybe... “Did Max call?”
“Jesus,” she breathes in frustration, angling away from me. “I’m so sick of having to compete with Max.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I retaliate, taken aback. A surge of anger rockets through me.
She snaps, “Never mind. Where were you?”
I want so badly to demand what the fuck her problem is, but the last thing I want to do right now is bicker. Instead, I launch into probably the most chaotic and scrambled tale I’ve ever told, beginning with how I had mished to Max’s place around eleven thirty that morning only to find his door hanging wide open and furniture strewn everywhere.
At first, Gab is super sympathetic, but she’s barely frantic over it. It’s really more like disbelief than anything, like she can’t understand what anybody would want with Maxwell Green. And then...
“Aren’t you supposed to be at Warped in two days?” She asks, suddenly sounding nervous for all the wrong reasons.
“Trying to get rid of me?” I ask, attempting to sound breezy. I keep walking, heading straight for the kitchen, where I pull open the liquor cabinet and reach for a nearly untouched bottle of JD.
“Don’t drink,” she says, touching my elbow. “It won’t bring Max back.”
And she’s totally right. Ever since I took up a permanent spot in Escape the Fate, I’ve had my consumption under complete control. I think of Leila, and how I left my addiction behind - for her. So she wouldn’t ever have to say that her daddy is a full-time alcoholic.
Immediately I make my way into the the living room where I promptly bend to pick up my precious girl, lifting her up high with outstretched arms before bringing her into my chest, her chin on my shoulder. I bounce a little while I talk to her, hoping to pacify myself more than anything.
She’s so happy to see me. I’ve never felt so numb.
That night, Robert rings my cell and tells me about the hour-long phone call he had endured with Max’s mom. He tells me that she was confused and upset and wanted to know why no one was taking care of her baby. Mostly, he says, she just cried.
::
By the next day, I’m back at the station for questioning at Officer Greg Stenson’s request. Now that Max’s disappearance has had time to sink in, my nerves are frayed and I'm jittery like a kid who has just downed more than his body's weight in expressos.
“Get much sleep last night?” He says in greeting, most likely taking note of my haggard appearance and tired eyes before gesturing for me to sit opposite him.
“Yeah,” I lie.
“Well, I’ve got some good news,” Stenson begins, pushing a mug-shot of some young guy towards me. “Recognize this man?”
I study the photo for all of three seconds before answering in the negative. The close-cropped blonde hair, the cold hazel eyes, and the acne scars are definitely unfamiliar.
“Name is Chase Mathers. He’s the one we're looking for.”
“Him?” I dead-pan.
“Inexperienced and thoughtless,” Stenson agrees. “He left behind enough DNA to make a baby.”
I never expected him to be so young. And it’s no offense to Max, because Max is just a tiny little thing, and I know he can't fight worth shit.
The thought of this ‘Chase’ overpowering Max is enough to make me sick to my stomach.
“So you have his address, now, right?” I query after a moment’s hesitation. “All you have to do is kick his door in and go SWAT on his ass?”
“If only it were that easy. Listen, Craig - this was all pre-meditated, you understand? From entering the house and taking Max by surprise... Mathers could have been watching Max, could’ve been camping outside his house, just waiting. Was there any reason why Max was alone? Did he fight with you or anyone else in the band?”
“... No, there was no fight. Our tours last for months, so it’s normal for us to just go home and have a little time to ourselves. There’s really no such thing as ‘personal space’ while you’re on the road.”
If I had known that you were in danger, I would have never let you out of my fuckin sight.
“Understandable. I spoke with a couple of people from Epitaph, but as far as they knew, Max wasn’t having any problems with anybody. I also spoke with his mother, although she said she hasn’t heard from him in quite some time. Is that normal?”
I nod. “Max isn’t his step dad’s biggest fan, y’know? I guess he’d just rather not risk him answering the phone, but I don’t know. Max doesn’t really talk about it.”
I watch Stenson withdraw his notebook from his shirt pocket before jotting down no more than a few words and then heavily underlining them. Frowning, I open my mouth to say something, but am interrupted by his chair scraping backward against the linoleum.
“Once again, thank you for your help.” And with that, he offers me a smile that’s really more of a grimace, and gets up to leave. I throw my own chair back and run after him.
“Wait!” I call, feeling agitated and left in the dark. “You’re going to go to this guy’s place, right?”
Stenson takes a deep breath and finally turns to face me, expression unreadable. “I sent a team last night, as soon as we ran the fingerprints. We scoured the place, but there was no sign of either Mathers nor Max. Believe me when I say we exhausted ourselves looking for clues as to where they might be, following tire tracks... There just hasn’t been any luck thus far.”
I can’t breathe.