smile hostage refuge [chapter three]
Title: Smile Hostage Refuge
Pairing: Max/Craig, side dish of Max/Ronnie
Rating: R - beware of the noncon.
POV: First & third
Disclaimer: Fake. Title belongs to The Used.
Prelude | One | Two
“Ronald Radke?”
“...Yeah?”
“ I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”
Ronnie glances warily at the police badge being presented and slowly sits down, phone still pressed to his ear.
“When was the last time you saw Maxwell Green?”
All expression drains from Ronnie’s face, and his words are snapped off in a strained monotone. “You mean since he kicked me out of my own band and started talking smack about me to anyone that would listen? Since then?”
Greg Stenson was silent as Ronnie’s voice grew steadily louder.
“Answer the question. Did he ever come and visit you here?”
“No,” he hisses. Then, “What is this about?”
“Green was filed as a missing person two days ago. If I find out that you had anything to do with his disappearance...”
Disappearance? “So, I’m a suspect.”
“You’re someone with a a grudge.”
Ronnie’s eyes drift down to stare without focus at the countertop, his long lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks.
::
“Well, I spoke to Radke.” At my hopeful look, Stenson shakes his head. “He had no information, or at least nothing he was willing to divulge. Strangely enough, he did ask to be kept up to date on the situation.”
I smile softly and advert my gaze. “He and Max used to be best friends. I’d want to know, too.”
“I wasn’t at liberty to give him any details into the case, but he wanted to know if you’d go down and see him. I told him I’d deliver the message, but please don’t feel as though you have to. Craig?”
I shake my head, feeling disconnected. It’s been a lingering sensation. “It’s fine. I’ll go see him.”
The burly officer sniffs and adjusts his belt. I know he’s waiting to deliver the bad news.
My ears ring.
“How are your friends doing?”
“I don’t know... it’s hard. It’s like, we’re worried out of our minds, unable to even function at one moment, and then in the next, it’s like it hasn’t hit us yet. The reality,” I mumble, and then sigh. “We’re dealing with it together.”
“I can offer counseling, if that’s something you feel may be of some help.”
“You know,” I say, ignoring the previous comment. “Robert’s mom is hysterical about it.”
The corner of my mouth twists up into a bitter little grin, imagining the scene Rob had described for me: the old woman sorting frantically through the bits of Escape the Fate merchandise, brandishing a bracelet a fan had made for Max that would have been left in a hotel room had it not been for her. She kept everything.
“Speaking of mothers - I miraculously got in touch with Mrs. Mathers.”
And there it was.
“Typically, she had nothing but good things to say about her son. She did mention that Chase used to have blackouts in time and memory lapses and saw a specialist who thought he was suffering from Dissociative Identity Disorder... mother disagreed and never pushed for a follow up.”
My eyebrows knot together in confusion. “Like Multiple Personality or something?”
“Same thing. Dissociative Identity Disorder is only really known to be caused by childhood abuse, or maybe trauma. But Chase’s record is clean save for one incident of shoplifting, so I did some digging -”
“Excuse me,” I cut in sharply, my voice shaking. “I know you’re trying to help, but I don’t give a shit about this guy. As far as I’m concerned, this is a waste of time. Every second you spend looking at little, unrelated things, it’s another second that Max is out there. Somewhere. And I’m really sorry, but I can’t fucking handle it.”
And then I turn my back so that he won’t see me break down. I wrap my arms around myself, and feel a large hand on my shoulder. He’s annoyed with me, I know straight away.
“Look, Craig. This isn’t some episode of CSI:Nevada. Crimes like these are not solved in an hour. We need to look at the entire picture or we’ll miss something - do you understand? Nothing is irrelevant. And if it makes you feel any better, we’ve taken Chase’s father into custody. We’re taking dangerous people off the streets as we go.”
It doesn’t make me feel better. I make a mental note to be vindictive and happy that Chase Mathers was indeed mistreated by his old man as soon as we get Max back.
“So neither of his parents knew anywhere the kid could be hiding out?”
“No. But this isn’t where the search ends.” He squeezes my shoulder in comfort. “I promise.”
::
“So you were a fan.”
The weight on his lap shifts as Mathers leans over the bed to grab something off the night stand. There’s a sound of reluctant tearing and before he knows it, tape is reapplied to his mouth.
“Maybe I’ll tell you the story one day,” he growls into Max’s ear, letting his lips brush the lobe. He then shuffles down his victim’s legs and immediately takes to sliding Max’s skinnies down his hips.
‘Get the fuck off,’ Max warns internally, nearly trembling. He bucks his hips and jerks his knees to try and throw Mathers off, but with his limbs still bound he’s no better than helpless. Even with his heart hectic and rabid against his ribcage, he doesn’t stop struggling. Even with his sense of fear heightened by the forced disuse of his eyes, the pitch black and the uncertainty.
The guy could point a gun to his head and Max wouldn’t even know until the bullet tore through his brain.
He makes muffled, incoherent noises of angry protest against the tape, wishing he could properly yell, ‘I’ll kill you. Craig’ll kill you.’
When his waistband reaches his knees, Max suddenly wrenches his torso off the bed until his abdominal muscles bring him to a full sitting position, and uses the momentum to blindly smash his forehead into Mathers’ nose. There’s an outraged screech of pain, and then a long verbal parade of the word ‘fuck’ until Mathers topples off him.
Wasting no time, Max rolls to his left and promptly crashes off the bed and onto unforgiving wood floorboards, his arms caught awkwardly beneath him. He wiggles and tries to get off his back, breathing hard through his nose, and knocks the back of his cranium against a wall. That’s when he decides that seeing would be a very good thing.
Just as he goes to rub his blindfold off on his shoulder, Mathers jumps on top of him, winding him and causing his thin shoulderblades to rake against the rough flooring. Fingers wrap around his neck, pin him, and warm liquid drips steady like rain onto his temple and continues on to cascade into his hairline. Max hopes it’s blood.
“Oh, you’re gonna be sorry,” Mathers gripes, sounding distracted. He stands up for a moment and Max starts moving again, disoriented and lacking a sense of direction. Mathers is back, though, sitting on top of him and grinding his pelvic bone into the soft fabric of boxers with brutal force and a cruel laugh. He grasps Max’s right arm and digs a needle right into the crook of his elbow.
Max wants to cry. He shakes his head fiercely, hears the needle being tossed, and lets out a high-pitched cry from the back of his throat.
“There you go. Next time you try that, I’ll shoot a load in your filthy mouth and make you choke on it. Got that?”
Max can’t answer. His eyelids flutter in pleasure.
Pairing: Max/Craig, side dish of Max/Ronnie
Rating: R - beware of the noncon.
POV: First & third
Disclaimer: Fake. Title belongs to The Used.
Prelude | One | Two
“Ronald Radke?”
“...Yeah?”
“ I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”
Ronnie glances warily at the police badge being presented and slowly sits down, phone still pressed to his ear.
“When was the last time you saw Maxwell Green?”
All expression drains from Ronnie’s face, and his words are snapped off in a strained monotone. “You mean since he kicked me out of my own band and started talking smack about me to anyone that would listen? Since then?”
Greg Stenson was silent as Ronnie’s voice grew steadily louder.
“Answer the question. Did he ever come and visit you here?”
“No,” he hisses. Then, “What is this about?”
“Green was filed as a missing person two days ago. If I find out that you had anything to do with his disappearance...”
Disappearance? “So, I’m a suspect.”
“You’re someone with a a grudge.”
Ronnie’s eyes drift down to stare without focus at the countertop, his long lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks.
::
“Well, I spoke to Radke.” At my hopeful look, Stenson shakes his head. “He had no information, or at least nothing he was willing to divulge. Strangely enough, he did ask to be kept up to date on the situation.”
I smile softly and advert my gaze. “He and Max used to be best friends. I’d want to know, too.”
“I wasn’t at liberty to give him any details into the case, but he wanted to know if you’d go down and see him. I told him I’d deliver the message, but please don’t feel as though you have to. Craig?”
I shake my head, feeling disconnected. It’s been a lingering sensation. “It’s fine. I’ll go see him.”
The burly officer sniffs and adjusts his belt. I know he’s waiting to deliver the bad news.
My ears ring.
“How are your friends doing?”
“I don’t know... it’s hard. It’s like, we’re worried out of our minds, unable to even function at one moment, and then in the next, it’s like it hasn’t hit us yet. The reality,” I mumble, and then sigh. “We’re dealing with it together.”
“I can offer counseling, if that’s something you feel may be of some help.”
“You know,” I say, ignoring the previous comment. “Robert’s mom is hysterical about it.”
The corner of my mouth twists up into a bitter little grin, imagining the scene Rob had described for me: the old woman sorting frantically through the bits of Escape the Fate merchandise, brandishing a bracelet a fan had made for Max that would have been left in a hotel room had it not been for her. She kept everything.
“Speaking of mothers - I miraculously got in touch with Mrs. Mathers.”
And there it was.
“Typically, she had nothing but good things to say about her son. She did mention that Chase used to have blackouts in time and memory lapses and saw a specialist who thought he was suffering from Dissociative Identity Disorder... mother disagreed and never pushed for a follow up.”
My eyebrows knot together in confusion. “Like Multiple Personality or something?”
“Same thing. Dissociative Identity Disorder is only really known to be caused by childhood abuse, or maybe trauma. But Chase’s record is clean save for one incident of shoplifting, so I did some digging -”
“Excuse me,” I cut in sharply, my voice shaking. “I know you’re trying to help, but I don’t give a shit about this guy. As far as I’m concerned, this is a waste of time. Every second you spend looking at little, unrelated things, it’s another second that Max is out there. Somewhere. And I’m really sorry, but I can’t fucking handle it.”
And then I turn my back so that he won’t see me break down. I wrap my arms around myself, and feel a large hand on my shoulder. He’s annoyed with me, I know straight away.
“Look, Craig. This isn’t some episode of CSI:Nevada. Crimes like these are not solved in an hour. We need to look at the entire picture or we’ll miss something - do you understand? Nothing is irrelevant. And if it makes you feel any better, we’ve taken Chase’s father into custody. We’re taking dangerous people off the streets as we go.”
It doesn’t make me feel better. I make a mental note to be vindictive and happy that Chase Mathers was indeed mistreated by his old man as soon as we get Max back.
“So neither of his parents knew anywhere the kid could be hiding out?”
“No. But this isn’t where the search ends.” He squeezes my shoulder in comfort. “I promise.”
::
“So you were a fan.”
The weight on his lap shifts as Mathers leans over the bed to grab something off the night stand. There’s a sound of reluctant tearing and before he knows it, tape is reapplied to his mouth.
“Maybe I’ll tell you the story one day,” he growls into Max’s ear, letting his lips brush the lobe. He then shuffles down his victim’s legs and immediately takes to sliding Max’s skinnies down his hips.
‘Get the fuck off,’ Max warns internally, nearly trembling. He bucks his hips and jerks his knees to try and throw Mathers off, but with his limbs still bound he’s no better than helpless. Even with his heart hectic and rabid against his ribcage, he doesn’t stop struggling. Even with his sense of fear heightened by the forced disuse of his eyes, the pitch black and the uncertainty.
The guy could point a gun to his head and Max wouldn’t even know until the bullet tore through his brain.
He makes muffled, incoherent noises of angry protest against the tape, wishing he could properly yell, ‘I’ll kill you. Craig’ll kill you.’
When his waistband reaches his knees, Max suddenly wrenches his torso off the bed until his abdominal muscles bring him to a full sitting position, and uses the momentum to blindly smash his forehead into Mathers’ nose. There’s an outraged screech of pain, and then a long verbal parade of the word ‘fuck’ until Mathers topples off him.
Wasting no time, Max rolls to his left and promptly crashes off the bed and onto unforgiving wood floorboards, his arms caught awkwardly beneath him. He wiggles and tries to get off his back, breathing hard through his nose, and knocks the back of his cranium against a wall. That’s when he decides that seeing would be a very good thing.
Just as he goes to rub his blindfold off on his shoulder, Mathers jumps on top of him, winding him and causing his thin shoulderblades to rake against the rough flooring. Fingers wrap around his neck, pin him, and warm liquid drips steady like rain onto his temple and continues on to cascade into his hairline. Max hopes it’s blood.
“Oh, you’re gonna be sorry,” Mathers gripes, sounding distracted. He stands up for a moment and Max starts moving again, disoriented and lacking a sense of direction. Mathers is back, though, sitting on top of him and grinding his pelvic bone into the soft fabric of boxers with brutal force and a cruel laugh. He grasps Max’s right arm and digs a needle right into the crook of his elbow.
Max wants to cry. He shakes his head fiercely, hears the needle being tossed, and lets out a high-pitched cry from the back of his throat.
“There you go. Next time you try that, I’ll shoot a load in your filthy mouth and make you choke on it. Got that?”
Max can’t answer. His eyelids flutter in pleasure.