rock stars can be hazardous to your health 1/2 (Adam/Tommy RPS, NC17)
Title: rock stars can be hazardous to your health (1/2)
Fandom: RPS (American Idol/Music/Glam - fandom hasn't quite decided, yet)
Pairing: Adam Lambert/Tommy Ratliff
Word Count: 7,500
Rating: NC-17
Summary: "The gag is cutting into the skin around his mouth; the fabric is soaked with saliva, sweat, salt. He can't hear anything beyond his breathing, which is too loud and too fast, on the verge of hyperventilation." Adam doesn't always know when he's in trouble, but luckily he has someone watching his back.
Author's Notes: Once upon a time, I had a rule against writing RPS. Clearly, that has gone the way of the sparkly unicorn. This is not quite my first RPS fic, but I suspect the comment drabble that popped the fic-cherry is now lost forever in one of the Adam Appreciation Posts at ontd-ai. So I'm considering this my first proper fic.
I know the premise is crack. I intended to write it as crack. But the story… had other ideas. Possibly it is revenge from my writing muses for not writing for so long. Also, it was meant to be short. Yeah.
Part 1 | Part 2
rock stars can be hazardous to your health (1/2)
There are days when Adam really, really hates that he gave up smoking. It's been years - officially anyway - but his fingers and lips still twitch after a certain level of stress, and this is how he knows he can't have one.
He still escapes out into the back alley, because the side exit door is closer to their table than the men's restroom. If he's the punching type he might have a try at the wall, but he's not, Aquarius temper or no, plus, photoshoot on Monday.
His feet dance to their own private tune, nudging away an empty beer bottle. Okay, he's a little bit drunk. He'd stopped ten minutes ago, because Monte had taken away the pastel pink drink (with a chocolate-covered cherry stuck to the glass).
Fresh air is good, though. Well, cold night air. He can feel it waking him up, chasing out the heavy humidity of the club that had been hampering his... floatiness.
He doesn't even see the other man until rough fingers land on his shoulder. And, not the punching type, but nearly ten years on the club scene has made him familiar with the dangers that come with it and he's not shy about using his height advantage-
A push from another direction, he stumbles, fuck there are two of them. The wall is rough under his hands, concrete cold as ice. By the time he figures out his feet and rights himself around, he's staring at a familiar shock of blond hair.
"Hey, you all right?" asks Tommy.
Adam nods. Looks over Tommy's shoulder and sees the dark shape slumped against the dumpster. Homeless guy, from the battered jacket and dirty scarf. "Yeah." He frowns. "You didn't hit him, did you? If you did, you should tell Hannah." Adam's learned to tell his publicist everything before she finds out for herself. It's generally the less painful option.
Tommy grabs his arm, starts leading him back inside. "Nah. He was already on his way down, I think you were just standing between him and his bed for the night."
"Mmm." Tommy's hair smells nice. And Tommy just laughs when Adam sticks his nose into it. Adam remembers that Tommy doesn't have a girlfriend right now, so if the others aren't ready to leave yet, at least Adam can make out with Tommy. He feels a lot more cheerful.
~*~
It's been over a year, and Adam still can't get used to the intensity of some of the fans at these Meet-and-Greets. Some M&Gs he's done were cool, laid-back affairs where it had felt more like he was hanging out a casual party with a bunch of people. Others had felt like the room was one word, one smile, one misplaced hug away from turning into a mob rushing for him. It hasn't happened, so he thinks it may be mostly his imagination combined with the blatant adulation on strangers' faces.
In any case, he has bodyguards.
There are actual protesters outside this concert, or there were when the tour bus pulled in, but the M&G attendees don't look too worried about it. It's a smaller affair, which he prefers, and instead of being stuck behind a table, he's walking and mingling. Well, standing, mostly. The biggest crowd is around him, and as it tends to happen, a line of people waiting to get his autograph had formed, but there are also pockets of fans around his band mates, spread out through the room.
A young woman shyly thrusts a photo into his hand, and he automatically signs it, grinning when he he takes in the image; his management strongly encourages him to sign only official tour memorabilia, and the photo is of him and Tommy at the AMAs. It's a less widely-used shot, taken from behind Tommy. There's already a signature on it, under a written message, He's a good kisser! Adam, feeling silly and relaxed, scribbles, Tongue in cheek! then inserts a his between the in and cheek. The young woman looks ready to explode on the spot, but manages a quiet thank-you and a barely-there hug before disappearing into the crowd.
The next one in line is a woman that looks to around his mother's age. He silently hopes he doesn't get another well-meaning cheek-pinch, which have increased in frequency the further south they've traveled. Her hair is pulled back in a neat style, and she's smiling at him in a way that usually signaled impending cheek-pinching. There's a young man with her who looks close to Adam's age; there's enough resemblance to suggest they're mother and son. He's staring at Adam in a way that makes Adam feel instinctively uncomfortable, but the mother is hugging him warmly and, hey, his cheeks remain unmolested, so Adam focuses his attention on her.
He'll remember it later only because of the weird tension and the inexplicable surge of adrenaline through his body. He signs the woman's CD booklet, accepts her gift of a handwritten recipe for non-fat banana bread with genuine cheer, and is engulfed in flowery perfume and a third hug when he notices the son stepping close. In another situation, Adam would attribute it to a child's usual embarrassment about their parent, but the man's dark look was leveled entirely at Adam.
Time takes on a certain heaviness, a like a pause.
A warm, soft hand touches his cheek, pulling his attention back to the woman. Luckily she refrains from pinching, patting him lightly instead. When he looks back up, the tension in the air is gone and he spots Longineu signaling ten minutes left. Tommy appears from behind the still-glowering son, apologizing to the fans around him, and tells Adam, actually, make that three minutes, because Adam has that call-in interview to New Zealand.
Which is a total lie, because Adam's scheduled for it in the morning, but he can see that Tommy's looking a little wild around the eyes. Probably another well-meaning fan gift - Tommy gets almost as many as Adam, which he totally deserves because he encourages the fans so much. Adam hopes it's something as hilarious as those matching rhinestone-studded cockrings from two stops ago. He smiles at the next fan and idly looks at what Tommy's carrying. Three gift bags hanging from one arm, a stack of greeting-card-sized envelopes in the corresponding hand, and a battered Swiss Army pocket knife in the other, which is unusual but, hey, not the weirdest gift they've gotten by far.
He should fold it back up, though; in this crowd, people could miss seeing the blade and get hurt.
~*~
People go missing every week, in Los Angeles, in West Hollywood, the horror stories passed around the grapevine as both warning and lesson. Half the time, the details don't get worse with the telling because there's no way for them to be worse, and when the newspapers and local media finally acknowledge this terrible, terrible crime in our community, they fill in the gaps of what had been left unsaid: blood, weapons, no witnesses, no leads, no way to find them.
The gag is cutting into the skin around his mouth; the fabric is soaked with saliva, sweat, salt. He can't hear anything beyond his breathing, which is too loud and too fast, on the verge of hyperventilation. There's cloth over his eyes, too, tight enough that he can't open them, but he's sure it's dark around him.
And it's cold.
He doesn't really remember how he got here.
They'd just finished a concert, he'd gotten back to his hotel. Tommy. Tommy had come in, but Adam had felt antsy, too wired to sit still, and if they'd started on the light petting then he'd have wanted to push it further. He was going to take a walk around the hotel, work it off, Tommy should just chill out in his room until he got back.
He's not sure where they could have grabbed him. It's all a bit fuzzy after he got into the elevator. Did he get out? He remembers seeing the doors open, stepping into the lobby, but he could be mistaking a memory from that morning.
At least he knows people would be looking for him, eventually. Having crazy, dedicated fans has its advantages. Ideally, Tommy would wonder where he'd gone after a few hours. If he hadn’t fallen asleep waiting. Adam's hooked up before when he was meant to be hanging out with Tommy, but he's always texted him first. And then Lane will come looking in the morning - if it isn't morning already -
Thinking had helped calm him, or at least slow his breathing, and when his line of thought drizzles out he stubbornly tamps down on another surge of panic. How long has he been gone? He'd woken up to silence, face pressed into a cold surface, legs tied together and hands bound behind his back. Wiggling had only caused him to scrape his cheek against the rough floor, but the sting of small cuts woke him up all the way. He shakily rolls up to a sitting position.
It's all going to be fine. If they were going to kill him, they'd have done it by now, right? He doesn't feel like he's injured, or even bruised. So, probably a kidnapping? For all he knows, he's been out for longer than he thinks and they've already made their ransom demands. He hasn't seen a kidnapping action flick for a while, but he thinks that's how it goes. Idol Runner-Up Kidnapped Mid-Tour! Is the South still hostile to gays? Then, a race against time to rescue him, because kidnappers don't really release kidnappees- oh, they don't when the kidnappees have seen them, or know who they are. Adam has absolutely no idea who could have done this to him, and he's totally fine with being oblivious, really, so long as he gets out in one piece. One living, breathing piece.
He tugs, ineffectually, at the tape around his wrists. Feels like duct tape. At least cloth was used for his mouth and eyes, because the tape is going to be a bitch to rip off. And he will be taking them off.
He doesn't know how long he sits there. He can hear pipes rumbling, thumps that could be footsteps or dripping water, but it's all far away. He hasn't detected anybody else, any sign of human life, since he's woken up. The kidnapping idea starts to sound like the better possibility; Adam tries not to think about just being abandoned in a basement where no one can find him, left to die slowly and alone.
He wouldn't have thought he could fall asleep like that, but evidently he can, because he jerks up suddenly, aggravating the same cheek again - sounds, and whatever is making them is coming closer. He forces his body to take deep, regular breaths. Muscles that had been kept in an uncomfortable position protest at the instinctive tension. Adam's ears narrow down the direction of the noise - they're very faint, unnoticeable if not for the unbroken silence that he's been sitting in all this time.
There's a different sound, and it takes Adam several long seconds to figure out that it's like a doorknob being tried. It tells him where the door is: about ten feet away, far enough to be on the other side of a room. He uses his legs to wiggle back in the opposite direction, until his back hits a wall. There are muffled metallic noises, more rattling of the doorknob, and then - almost too loud - the sound of a lock sliding free.
The door doesn't creak, but the whine of the hinges jacks up his heart rate. Footsteps, definitely heading for him. Adam's tries to swallow, but can't get his throat to work. His heart is ready to leap out of his chest, the cold is seeping under his skin, his body is one slip of focus away from lashing out with all he's got-
"Adam?"
The next inhale is an audible gasp. His jaw aches and spit is trickling down the back of his throat; he's coughing even as he tries to say, "Tommy?"
Thin, nimble fingers touch his face, tracing the cloth over his eyes and mouth. Tommy is close enough that Adam can feel his body heat. He shivers. Tommy seems to understand, because he moves closer, making it easy for Adam to lean his head forward onto Tommy's shoulder while Tommy pulls at the knot of the blindfold. The familiar scent calms Adam down and makes him want to fall apart at the same time. A harder bout of shaking ripples up his body.
Practically cradled by Tommy's arm, Adam feels the momentary stillness, before Tommy says in a low, unfamiliar voice, "Fuck this. Stay still."
Before his imagination can run away with the possibilities, there is a soft snick and the blindfold drops limply from his face. He blinks, and discovers he'd been right about the darkness.
The gag has to be peeled off him, and he ends up coughing and spitting on the floor. Tommy keeps him from falling over, already at work on the other bindings. Fuck, the taste and texture of the gag cloth is permanently imprinted on his tongue. His body starts shaking, gets even worse when his arms and legs are free.
"Hey, hey," whispers Tommy, callused hands on Adam's face. Actually, his skin feels rougher than calluses. "You're dehydrated. Those fuckers." Now Tommy's body is a long line of anger, but he handles Adam gently, carefully. He stands up and takes Adam with him.
Adam can stand on his own. Mostly. "What are you-?" he rasps.
"Later, okay? Right now we have to get out."
Out sounds good. Not that he isn't already, ha ha. Figuring out where his feet should go is already getting a little beyond him. He makes a valiant effort to walk to where he thinks the door is, but gravity is a sneaky bitch and pushes him into Tommy. He feels himself being pulled in a weird waltz-like turn, step step step feel the lead's body and follow, Tommy's long bangs tickling his nose.
Another steppy dance, in a vaguely straight line, and he should tell Danielle that he's figured out this ballroom stuff, like she said he would eventually. Maybe Tommy's just a better partner.
He stubs his right toe several times before he realizes, oh hey, stairs. He's putting a lot of weight on Tommy, but Tommy is clearly stronger than he looks, and Adam's been sticking to his diet better since tour started.
Then the warm Tommy-shape under his arm turns into a wall, and the stairs, and he hears Tommy say, "Shit. Stay here, okay? Just need to... get the car ready. Sit." Adam nods. He can do that. "And don't pass out!"
He doesn't think he does, because the fear comes back when he's alone again. It really is dark; if he had been in a basement and they're not climbing up, he should at least see a bit of sunlight at the top of the stairs, right? Unless they're inside a house. But it's too quiet, it feels too isolated. He wiggles his fingers, his toes inside his shoes. It feels good to be sitting down.
Adam jerks back when he hears the unseen door open somewhere above, but it's Tommy again, and he's wordlessly urging Adam to his feet. Tommy feels a lot warmer now, his skin a little sweaty. Oh, there's more skin, too.
"Put this on," says Tommy. He's taken off his outer layer, one of his ridiculous hoodies - a baggy one - and is impatiently pulls it down Adam's head. Adam doesn't think about his size stretching the material, pushing his arms through the sleeve because he can still dress himself, thank you very much. Actually, it's not as tight as he expected, not even loose.
"Is this one of mine?" he asks, frowning down at himself.
He doesn't need to see Tommy's eye-roll to know it's happening. "Hey, you said I get free access to your suitcase."
And other things besides, he remembers. The memory makes him smile, and Adam winces when the stretch splits the dry skin of his lip.
Tommy is moving them up the stairs again. Adam's right, there's a trapdoor at the top rather than an indoor-house type of door, and it opens into the night sky. And... an empty field?
There's half a moon out, unnaturally bright after the darkness underground. Adam gulps in the fresh air, filling his lungs with it and feeling it chase out some of the fogginess in his mind. The field is not totally empty: he can make out what looks like a small house or shack at the far end, backed by a dark line of trees, and a pickup truck several feet away from them.
There are also weird dark lumps scattered over the long and wispy grass. Tommy is dragging him towards the truck before Adam can ask about them, but he figures it out quickly when one of the lumps moves, unfolds into a vaguely humanoid shape, and growls, "What the fuck?"
Adam can appreciate the feeling. Tommy gives no indication of having heard, except he doubles the urgency with which he's making for the vehicle. And it's not like Adam wants to stay and chat with his likely kidnappers, but there must be a dozen of the lumps on the ground, and only one of Tommy, and what the fuck.
He doesn't even see movement, but the next second he's been shoved forward and he's catching himself on the hood of the truck. The engine is running and the metal is warm under his palms, almost painful to his icy skin. It feels like deja vu, but he can't think of when this could have happened before.
Adam turns around just in time to see Tommy - funny, pretty, talented Tommy - drive his fist into a man's gut and, as the man doubles over, round-kicks his knee into the side of the man's head. The man doesn't even make a noise at the second blow, just collapses sideways onto the ground.
Tommy stands still for a long moment, his gaze resting on the man but clearly just avoiding looking in Adam's direction. He's not even breathing hard, though sweat is adding a shine to his bare arms, made even more ridiculously pale by the black tank he's wearing. Adam can see him swallowing before he looks up, tentatively meeting Adam's eyes.
He's staring at Adam like he's scared. He's just laid out a guy twice his girth and he looks scared of Adam. Of everything that's happened so far, this feels like the most absurd moment of all.
Which is why neither of them notice the other guy, or his gun.
Part 1 | Part 2
Fandom: RPS (American Idol/Music/Glam - fandom hasn't quite decided, yet)
Pairing: Adam Lambert/Tommy Ratliff
Word Count: 7,500
Rating: NC-17
Summary: "The gag is cutting into the skin around his mouth; the fabric is soaked with saliva, sweat, salt. He can't hear anything beyond his breathing, which is too loud and too fast, on the verge of hyperventilation." Adam doesn't always know when he's in trouble, but luckily he has someone watching his back.
Author's Notes: Once upon a time, I had a rule against writing RPS. Clearly, that has gone the way of the sparkly unicorn. This is not quite my first RPS fic, but I suspect the comment drabble that popped the fic-cherry is now lost forever in one of the Adam Appreciation Posts at ontd-ai. So I'm considering this my first proper fic.
I know the premise is crack. I intended to write it as crack. But the story… had other ideas. Possibly it is revenge from my writing muses for not writing for so long. Also, it was meant to be short. Yeah.
Part 1 | Part 2
rock stars can be hazardous to your health (1/2)
There are days when Adam really, really hates that he gave up smoking. It's been years - officially anyway - but his fingers and lips still twitch after a certain level of stress, and this is how he knows he can't have one.
He still escapes out into the back alley, because the side exit door is closer to their table than the men's restroom. If he's the punching type he might have a try at the wall, but he's not, Aquarius temper or no, plus, photoshoot on Monday.
His feet dance to their own private tune, nudging away an empty beer bottle. Okay, he's a little bit drunk. He'd stopped ten minutes ago, because Monte had taken away the pastel pink drink (with a chocolate-covered cherry stuck to the glass).
Fresh air is good, though. Well, cold night air. He can feel it waking him up, chasing out the heavy humidity of the club that had been hampering his... floatiness.
He doesn't even see the other man until rough fingers land on his shoulder. And, not the punching type, but nearly ten years on the club scene has made him familiar with the dangers that come with it and he's not shy about using his height advantage-
A push from another direction, he stumbles, fuck there are two of them. The wall is rough under his hands, concrete cold as ice. By the time he figures out his feet and rights himself around, he's staring at a familiar shock of blond hair.
"Hey, you all right?" asks Tommy.
Adam nods. Looks over Tommy's shoulder and sees the dark shape slumped against the dumpster. Homeless guy, from the battered jacket and dirty scarf. "Yeah." He frowns. "You didn't hit him, did you? If you did, you should tell Hannah." Adam's learned to tell his publicist everything before she finds out for herself. It's generally the less painful option.
Tommy grabs his arm, starts leading him back inside. "Nah. He was already on his way down, I think you were just standing between him and his bed for the night."
"Mmm." Tommy's hair smells nice. And Tommy just laughs when Adam sticks his nose into it. Adam remembers that Tommy doesn't have a girlfriend right now, so if the others aren't ready to leave yet, at least Adam can make out with Tommy. He feels a lot more cheerful.
~*~
It's been over a year, and Adam still can't get used to the intensity of some of the fans at these Meet-and-Greets. Some M&Gs he's done were cool, laid-back affairs where it had felt more like he was hanging out a casual party with a bunch of people. Others had felt like the room was one word, one smile, one misplaced hug away from turning into a mob rushing for him. It hasn't happened, so he thinks it may be mostly his imagination combined with the blatant adulation on strangers' faces.
In any case, he has bodyguards.
There are actual protesters outside this concert, or there were when the tour bus pulled in, but the M&G attendees don't look too worried about it. It's a smaller affair, which he prefers, and instead of being stuck behind a table, he's walking and mingling. Well, standing, mostly. The biggest crowd is around him, and as it tends to happen, a line of people waiting to get his autograph had formed, but there are also pockets of fans around his band mates, spread out through the room.
A young woman shyly thrusts a photo into his hand, and he automatically signs it, grinning when he he takes in the image; his management strongly encourages him to sign only official tour memorabilia, and the photo is of him and Tommy at the AMAs. It's a less widely-used shot, taken from behind Tommy. There's already a signature on it, under a written message, He's a good kisser! Adam, feeling silly and relaxed, scribbles, Tongue in cheek! then inserts a his between the in and cheek. The young woman looks ready to explode on the spot, but manages a quiet thank-you and a barely-there hug before disappearing into the crowd.
The next one in line is a woman that looks to around his mother's age. He silently hopes he doesn't get another well-meaning cheek-pinch, which have increased in frequency the further south they've traveled. Her hair is pulled back in a neat style, and she's smiling at him in a way that usually signaled impending cheek-pinching. There's a young man with her who looks close to Adam's age; there's enough resemblance to suggest they're mother and son. He's staring at Adam in a way that makes Adam feel instinctively uncomfortable, but the mother is hugging him warmly and, hey, his cheeks remain unmolested, so Adam focuses his attention on her.
He'll remember it later only because of the weird tension and the inexplicable surge of adrenaline through his body. He signs the woman's CD booklet, accepts her gift of a handwritten recipe for non-fat banana bread with genuine cheer, and is engulfed in flowery perfume and a third hug when he notices the son stepping close. In another situation, Adam would attribute it to a child's usual embarrassment about their parent, but the man's dark look was leveled entirely at Adam.
Time takes on a certain heaviness, a like a pause.
A warm, soft hand touches his cheek, pulling his attention back to the woman. Luckily she refrains from pinching, patting him lightly instead. When he looks back up, the tension in the air is gone and he spots Longineu signaling ten minutes left. Tommy appears from behind the still-glowering son, apologizing to the fans around him, and tells Adam, actually, make that three minutes, because Adam has that call-in interview to New Zealand.
Which is a total lie, because Adam's scheduled for it in the morning, but he can see that Tommy's looking a little wild around the eyes. Probably another well-meaning fan gift - Tommy gets almost as many as Adam, which he totally deserves because he encourages the fans so much. Adam hopes it's something as hilarious as those matching rhinestone-studded cockrings from two stops ago. He smiles at the next fan and idly looks at what Tommy's carrying. Three gift bags hanging from one arm, a stack of greeting-card-sized envelopes in the corresponding hand, and a battered Swiss Army pocket knife in the other, which is unusual but, hey, not the weirdest gift they've gotten by far.
He should fold it back up, though; in this crowd, people could miss seeing the blade and get hurt.
~*~
People go missing every week, in Los Angeles, in West Hollywood, the horror stories passed around the grapevine as both warning and lesson. Half the time, the details don't get worse with the telling because there's no way for them to be worse, and when the newspapers and local media finally acknowledge this terrible, terrible crime in our community, they fill in the gaps of what had been left unsaid: blood, weapons, no witnesses, no leads, no way to find them.
The gag is cutting into the skin around his mouth; the fabric is soaked with saliva, sweat, salt. He can't hear anything beyond his breathing, which is too loud and too fast, on the verge of hyperventilation. There's cloth over his eyes, too, tight enough that he can't open them, but he's sure it's dark around him.
And it's cold.
He doesn't really remember how he got here.
They'd just finished a concert, he'd gotten back to his hotel. Tommy. Tommy had come in, but Adam had felt antsy, too wired to sit still, and if they'd started on the light petting then he'd have wanted to push it further. He was going to take a walk around the hotel, work it off, Tommy should just chill out in his room until he got back.
He's not sure where they could have grabbed him. It's all a bit fuzzy after he got into the elevator. Did he get out? He remembers seeing the doors open, stepping into the lobby, but he could be mistaking a memory from that morning.
At least he knows people would be looking for him, eventually. Having crazy, dedicated fans has its advantages. Ideally, Tommy would wonder where he'd gone after a few hours. If he hadn’t fallen asleep waiting. Adam's hooked up before when he was meant to be hanging out with Tommy, but he's always texted him first. And then Lane will come looking in the morning - if it isn't morning already -
Thinking had helped calm him, or at least slow his breathing, and when his line of thought drizzles out he stubbornly tamps down on another surge of panic. How long has he been gone? He'd woken up to silence, face pressed into a cold surface, legs tied together and hands bound behind his back. Wiggling had only caused him to scrape his cheek against the rough floor, but the sting of small cuts woke him up all the way. He shakily rolls up to a sitting position.
It's all going to be fine. If they were going to kill him, they'd have done it by now, right? He doesn't feel like he's injured, or even bruised. So, probably a kidnapping? For all he knows, he's been out for longer than he thinks and they've already made their ransom demands. He hasn't seen a kidnapping action flick for a while, but he thinks that's how it goes. Idol Runner-Up Kidnapped Mid-Tour! Is the South still hostile to gays? Then, a race against time to rescue him, because kidnappers don't really release kidnappees- oh, they don't when the kidnappees have seen them, or know who they are. Adam has absolutely no idea who could have done this to him, and he's totally fine with being oblivious, really, so long as he gets out in one piece. One living, breathing piece.
He tugs, ineffectually, at the tape around his wrists. Feels like duct tape. At least cloth was used for his mouth and eyes, because the tape is going to be a bitch to rip off. And he will be taking them off.
He doesn't know how long he sits there. He can hear pipes rumbling, thumps that could be footsteps or dripping water, but it's all far away. He hasn't detected anybody else, any sign of human life, since he's woken up. The kidnapping idea starts to sound like the better possibility; Adam tries not to think about just being abandoned in a basement where no one can find him, left to die slowly and alone.
He wouldn't have thought he could fall asleep like that, but evidently he can, because he jerks up suddenly, aggravating the same cheek again - sounds, and whatever is making them is coming closer. He forces his body to take deep, regular breaths. Muscles that had been kept in an uncomfortable position protest at the instinctive tension. Adam's ears narrow down the direction of the noise - they're very faint, unnoticeable if not for the unbroken silence that he's been sitting in all this time.
There's a different sound, and it takes Adam several long seconds to figure out that it's like a doorknob being tried. It tells him where the door is: about ten feet away, far enough to be on the other side of a room. He uses his legs to wiggle back in the opposite direction, until his back hits a wall. There are muffled metallic noises, more rattling of the doorknob, and then - almost too loud - the sound of a lock sliding free.
The door doesn't creak, but the whine of the hinges jacks up his heart rate. Footsteps, definitely heading for him. Adam's tries to swallow, but can't get his throat to work. His heart is ready to leap out of his chest, the cold is seeping under his skin, his body is one slip of focus away from lashing out with all he's got-
"Adam?"
The next inhale is an audible gasp. His jaw aches and spit is trickling down the back of his throat; he's coughing even as he tries to say, "Tommy?"
Thin, nimble fingers touch his face, tracing the cloth over his eyes and mouth. Tommy is close enough that Adam can feel his body heat. He shivers. Tommy seems to understand, because he moves closer, making it easy for Adam to lean his head forward onto Tommy's shoulder while Tommy pulls at the knot of the blindfold. The familiar scent calms Adam down and makes him want to fall apart at the same time. A harder bout of shaking ripples up his body.
Practically cradled by Tommy's arm, Adam feels the momentary stillness, before Tommy says in a low, unfamiliar voice, "Fuck this. Stay still."
Before his imagination can run away with the possibilities, there is a soft snick and the blindfold drops limply from his face. He blinks, and discovers he'd been right about the darkness.
The gag has to be peeled off him, and he ends up coughing and spitting on the floor. Tommy keeps him from falling over, already at work on the other bindings. Fuck, the taste and texture of the gag cloth is permanently imprinted on his tongue. His body starts shaking, gets even worse when his arms and legs are free.
"Hey, hey," whispers Tommy, callused hands on Adam's face. Actually, his skin feels rougher than calluses. "You're dehydrated. Those fuckers." Now Tommy's body is a long line of anger, but he handles Adam gently, carefully. He stands up and takes Adam with him.
Adam can stand on his own. Mostly. "What are you-?" he rasps.
"Later, okay? Right now we have to get out."
Out sounds good. Not that he isn't already, ha ha. Figuring out where his feet should go is already getting a little beyond him. He makes a valiant effort to walk to where he thinks the door is, but gravity is a sneaky bitch and pushes him into Tommy. He feels himself being pulled in a weird waltz-like turn, step step step feel the lead's body and follow, Tommy's long bangs tickling his nose.
Another steppy dance, in a vaguely straight line, and he should tell Danielle that he's figured out this ballroom stuff, like she said he would eventually. Maybe Tommy's just a better partner.
He stubs his right toe several times before he realizes, oh hey, stairs. He's putting a lot of weight on Tommy, but Tommy is clearly stronger than he looks, and Adam's been sticking to his diet better since tour started.
Then the warm Tommy-shape under his arm turns into a wall, and the stairs, and he hears Tommy say, "Shit. Stay here, okay? Just need to... get the car ready. Sit." Adam nods. He can do that. "And don't pass out!"
He doesn't think he does, because the fear comes back when he's alone again. It really is dark; if he had been in a basement and they're not climbing up, he should at least see a bit of sunlight at the top of the stairs, right? Unless they're inside a house. But it's too quiet, it feels too isolated. He wiggles his fingers, his toes inside his shoes. It feels good to be sitting down.
Adam jerks back when he hears the unseen door open somewhere above, but it's Tommy again, and he's wordlessly urging Adam to his feet. Tommy feels a lot warmer now, his skin a little sweaty. Oh, there's more skin, too.
"Put this on," says Tommy. He's taken off his outer layer, one of his ridiculous hoodies - a baggy one - and is impatiently pulls it down Adam's head. Adam doesn't think about his size stretching the material, pushing his arms through the sleeve because he can still dress himself, thank you very much. Actually, it's not as tight as he expected, not even loose.
"Is this one of mine?" he asks, frowning down at himself.
He doesn't need to see Tommy's eye-roll to know it's happening. "Hey, you said I get free access to your suitcase."
And other things besides, he remembers. The memory makes him smile, and Adam winces when the stretch splits the dry skin of his lip.
Tommy is moving them up the stairs again. Adam's right, there's a trapdoor at the top rather than an indoor-house type of door, and it opens into the night sky. And... an empty field?
There's half a moon out, unnaturally bright after the darkness underground. Adam gulps in the fresh air, filling his lungs with it and feeling it chase out some of the fogginess in his mind. The field is not totally empty: he can make out what looks like a small house or shack at the far end, backed by a dark line of trees, and a pickup truck several feet away from them.
There are also weird dark lumps scattered over the long and wispy grass. Tommy is dragging him towards the truck before Adam can ask about them, but he figures it out quickly when one of the lumps moves, unfolds into a vaguely humanoid shape, and growls, "What the fuck?"
Adam can appreciate the feeling. Tommy gives no indication of having heard, except he doubles the urgency with which he's making for the vehicle. And it's not like Adam wants to stay and chat with his likely kidnappers, but there must be a dozen of the lumps on the ground, and only one of Tommy, and what the fuck.
He doesn't even see movement, but the next second he's been shoved forward and he's catching himself on the hood of the truck. The engine is running and the metal is warm under his palms, almost painful to his icy skin. It feels like deja vu, but he can't think of when this could have happened before.
Adam turns around just in time to see Tommy - funny, pretty, talented Tommy - drive his fist into a man's gut and, as the man doubles over, round-kicks his knee into the side of the man's head. The man doesn't even make a noise at the second blow, just collapses sideways onto the ground.
Tommy stands still for a long moment, his gaze resting on the man but clearly just avoiding looking in Adam's direction. He's not even breathing hard, though sweat is adding a shine to his bare arms, made even more ridiculously pale by the black tank he's wearing. Adam can see him swallowing before he looks up, tentatively meeting Adam's eyes.
He's staring at Adam like he's scared. He's just laid out a guy twice his girth and he looks scared of Adam. Of everything that's happened so far, this feels like the most absurd moment of all.
Which is why neither of them notice the other guy, or his gun.
Part 1 | Part 2