Chapter Text
@FederalBureauofInvestigation_Official: Dayton, Ohio resident reports seeing black SUV with tinted windows and suspicious broken back right taillight day after Shane Hollander’s kidnapping and believed human trafficking. The Federal Bureau of Investigation has extended the search to the states of Ohio and Indiana. Any information please contact the tip line at (xxx)-xxx-xxxx
-~-
Waking up the second morning is not any better than the first one. Shane wakes up when the light from the window hits his eyes, making him immediately wide awake.
Everything still hurts. His wrists are still rope burned from the day before. His ankle was on fire. His shoulders and nose ached.
He can’t help but be thankful for the little things as his kidnapper was obviously too agitated last night to do much more than lock him in what was supposed to be ‘his bedroom’ after all his yelling. He had only pushed the wheelchair that Shane had been sat in again through the door, then the man had turned and locked the door behind him. Shane had listened as the back door slid shut as the man left.
Last night, in the dark of what was totally the grandma’s old bedroom, Shane had peeled himself from the chair and shuffled toward the door to try the lock, just to make sure. He had balanced using the chair until he could lean against the door to the room. The knob hadn’t turned, never mind opened, and Shane had taken the time to slam his shoulder against the door a couple times, just to see if it was stuck or if he could get it to move.
Shane had stayed quiet for a moment, listening carefully to the sounds of the house. No footsteps came back, so Gaten must have left the house.
Breathe in for 7, hold for 3, out for 10.
Shane had braced himself, shoulder slamming next to the lock.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.
When it didn’t budge, Shane had used the wheelchair as a crutch, hopping on one foot, to get to the one window in the room. He had traced his fingers around all its edges, but the window didn’t open and had been upkept very well, no cracks along its seams and flush to the wall.
He had ended up dropping himself into the slightly musty bed, the nerves, the stress, the fear, the depression, at the entire situation pulling him down into the mattress. Shane had fallen asleep fast, his brain still recovering from a concussion and processing all the information in his head.
Now he just laid here, in a bed he hopes an old woman hadn’t died in, not moving as the sun beam glared into his eyes. The Advil the man had given him had worn off, leaving his entire body heavy, his nose twitching.
Shane doesn’t know how he’s going to get himself out of here if he can’t move without screaming in pain.
But he has too, Illinois is far from Ottawa and for all he knows the police still think he’s in Canada and aren’t even looking for him anywhere near. So, he must come up with something, some way to at least get someone’s attention or even just make it to the street outside.
The back door was sliding, blocked by a wooden beam for extra security. There would be no way for him to move it without causing some sort of noise. Shane is also not confident he would be able to scale the man’s back fence with one foot.
His window was sealed shut, so it was obviously not an option.
The front door was his best bet, if there were not too many locks on it or extra secured to keep a hostage in.
It would be hard to go for the front door without being grabbed again and tied up, so Shane would either have to hurt his kidnapper somehow or cause a big enough distraction to get himself out the front door with a headstart. He didn’t have many options to do either, however, as everything that could possibly be used to hurt a man had been locked up in the basement. There were no kitchen knives out, heavy pans stored downstairs, even the kitchen scissors Shane had grabbed, and the fork during dinner he had tried to hold on to were moved down below a locked door. It’s not like he had many chances to break anything, perhaps the mirror, but Shane figured he would hurt himself more with that than anyone else.
Plus wasn’t that bad luck. He didn’t really need that.
It’s a backup plan.
The heavy knock on the door startles him, sending him out of the distracted headspace he had gotten into; a way to minimize the pain he felt.
Gaten pulls the door open without waiting for a response, eyes falling to Shane still laid out in the bed, blankets pulled up to his chin. The man rests his head against the doorframe, a bad mimicry of some sort of fond admiration of seeing one’s new puppy sleeping in their cage.
Breathe in for 7, hold for 3, out for 10.
Shane scowled, heaving out a heavy breath as his ankle throbs. Anger is the easiest emotion to feel.
He’s quiet as they move out of the bedroom and into the living room, chair squeaking as normal, light dancing through the hall. Gaten acts like this is a typical day, humming under his breath as he pushes the chair down the hallway.
When a hand comes up and runs through his hair, unwashed and oily, Shane moves away from it, squeezing his eyes shut as the fingers find him again.
It’s not often Shane forgoes his typical routine, a shower before bed and a face wash in the morning, but now he has none of it and he feels dirty, on his skin and in his bones.
Gaten doesn’t stop humming.
Breakfast is simple; fried eggs and frozen hashbrowns all cooked in the same pan.
They settle together on the old worn couch, side by side, thigh to thigh, and turn on the news. The local station drones on, and old man before a green screen predicting cooler temperatures as the end of June came through.
Shane watched the man on TV speak, the movement of his arms, the way his suit was tailored. The weather forecaster was enthusiastic, excited about the next coming days.
Shane wasn’t as excited.
“You warm enough?”
Shane nodded softly, fingers picking at the individual yarn threads visible throughout the blanket he had picked up off the back of the couch and placed half over himself. The weight was nice, and while the temperature didn’t call for it, the added coverage and warmth was nice when it felt like he was constantly in danger and freezing. The lines of the knitted afghan were easy to follow with his finger.
Over and under. Over and under
Breathe in for 7, hold for 3, out for 10.
“My Granny made that for me when I was 8, I think I slept with it every winter night till I hit 15.”
Shane holds his breath and keeps following the threads.
“My Granny was the fucking best; she took me and my older brother in when my mom stopped kind of caring. She did a lot of drugs, usually heroin or cocaine, and honestly, I don’t even know if she’s still out the somewhere…” Gaten trails off with a thoughtful expression.
Shane turns to look at him, brain trying to listen as his body tries to process greasy food.
He shrugs, “Honestly, I don’t blame her for the cocaine usage, it’s a hell of a drug, but then again, she could’ve stayed around, I can do it and be a normal person, yah know? My brother used to get real fucked up on it, though, my grandma said he left Illinois to follow the buzz,” The man stops to think for a while, then chuckles “honestly knowing my old woman he probably OD’d in the shed out back and she buried him in the front garden to keep collecting his government assistance checks.”
Shane’s going to fucking die here isn’t he.
“I stayed home to take care of her, dropped out of hockey, went to trade school and all that stupid shit, then she goes and dies on me only a couple of years later,” Gaten scoffs to himself, “I gave up so much shit for others. I could’ve gone pro. Beer league isn’t the same, they just don’t know hockey like you and me.”
He turns to study Shane again with focused eyes, looking for him to twitch.
Shane hardly moves, the man’s life story making him afraid to interrupt.
“I went to that charity signing you did with Montreal back in 2012. Do you remember me? I was like a foot shorter back then, bad teeth and everything.”
Shane nods quietly.
“God I was the biggest fucking fanboy, honestly, I still am, I run a fan account for you on twitter that’s pretty popular. You probably don’t go online much so that’s why you don’t know about it. It’s the best way to talk to people who actually care about hockey and its players. Then again, half the people on there love to talk shit. Bunch of assholes.”
Gaten’s sigh is heavy.
“See baby, that’s why I needed you here with me, we’re perfect for each other and I can treat you better than any of those assholes out there in the world. Those Ottawa fans don’t give a shit about you like I do, Montreal threw you away the first moment they could, they all love to watch you hurt out there. And don’t even get me started with that stupid fucking Russian.”
The smile on Shane’s face is so forced its painful. It hurts his nose and his muscles and internally he’s panicking.
Breathe in for 7, hold for 3, out for 10.
The man claps his hands, like a thought just came to him, “Now let’s check your ankle! How’s it feeling? I know it’s not going to get better for a while, but like, any major aches or pains?”
Gaten lets the words hang in the air, the silence growing uncomfortable. Waiting for an answer.
Shane hesitates at last, “Uh, ya it kind of hurts, I guess.”
Gaten stands, patting his hands on his own knees as he goes, then stands taller and imposing over where Shane sits on the couch still. The man’s hands rest on his hips, his usual pose for studying him.
“Well, I’ll give you some pain meds and then I think I want to do something fun.”
As the man strides off, heading for the basement, Shane sits there shivering. He looks around, and there is not much in the way of objects to grab as a weapon. The front door was to his right, knob locked and two sliding ones above it.
It looked standard.
“Alright here you go baby, these should make you feel a bit better, then I thought we could play a game or something.”
Gaten walks back into the room, swag in his step, with only a little white pill and a water bottle in hand. When he holds both out, Shane doesn’t move, just stares at where the pill sits in the man’s palm.
When he raises his eyes to the man’s face, his eyes are the usual dark intensity that the man adapted when he particularly wanted something from him, and Shane was messing up his part. With shaky fingers, Shane holds out his hand for it.
The pill falls into his hand, and Gaten watches him closely as he pops it into his mouth, only then unscrewing the water bottle and handing it to him.
He tries to keep the pill under his tongue, tries not to swallow it, but it’s chalky, and dissolves in the small amount of saliva still in his mouth.
Shane takes it, taking a quick sip, before trying to hand it back.
Gaten raises an eyebrow, “Don’t be difficult baby, I want us to have fun together. It’ll help that ankle of yours not to feel so bad, plus I’ll even give you the chance to have the ropes off your hands! If you’re good for me, you get more privileges. I don’t want to have to lock you in your room for a day or two.”
The man tilts the bottom of the bottle, gesturing for him to finish the entire thing, and it sends the pill down his throat eventually.
Gaten smiles when he hands back the empty plastic water bottle.
“Good boy, I didn’t want to have to share my cocaine stash with you, I’m running out a bit.”
Shane gags a bit, throat retching.
The man ignores him and picks the tv remote off the side table, switching through a couple of the channels before finally settling on an old episode of Jeopardy. Shane can hear the cheering of the crowd like they’re in the room next to him.
He’s getting cold so he pulls the blanket more on top of him.
The light from outside is really bright in his eyes.
Gaten turns back to him after answering one of the questions wrong, eyes scanning over his face, then standing back up in front of him.
Raising a finger in the air to make a point, his grin is wide, “A reminder of our rules!” Gaten counts on his fingers as he goes, “No going near the front door or backdoor, and especially no trying to get into the basement.”
The man points at him, “I will not be happy if you even try to open that door… okay? I lock it for both our safeties.”
Shane nodded silently at him, shivering at the look in his dark eyes, the man’s pupils large. When he bobs his head the edges of his brain blur, concussion still in place behind his eyes. His head throbs a bit, but it honestly was starting to feel a bit better, he could admit.
“And remember, no hitting, we’re not trying to make things difficult, are we?”
Shane can feel his shoulders loosening, fingers relaxed. His ankle didn’t hurt as much anymore.
Gaten crouches down in front of him, knees cracking loudly, childlike grin wide. Nausea rolls through Shane’s stomach at the man’s giddiness.
“How you feeling baby? They kicking in yet?”
Shane tries to meet his eyes, his own wide, but he thinks he misses, “What… what did you give me?”
“Oh, just one of my grandma’s old medications. We had to hide them cause my brother kept stealing them, but then she forgot where she hid them. Never know when things are going to be handy again, ya know?” He pats Shane’s thigh, friendly, “Now let’s see if we can get you up.”
“Wha… what?” The words tumbled out from his mouth, lips starting to feel a bit numb.
Gaten just tips his head to the side and smiles at him.
“Remember? Game time! I’ve seen you play this one before!”
The man’s pries his relaxed fingers from the fibers of the afghan, Shane whining under his breath as it’s tossed away from him. He’s shivering, cold and shaky, the room growing cold and claustrophobic.
“C’mon, it’ll be fun, maybe it’ll be more fun with me that idiot communist. I’ve been thinking about this since the night you won the Stanley Cup last week! Stand up baby!”
Gaten’s hands grab his wrist tightly and he uses the grip to yank Shane up from where he’s sitting on the couch.
Shane moves with a yelp, shoulders having been pulled roughly, and now balancing on one foot as he hangs his right ankle uselessly.
The man points down at it, no worry in his voice as he says, “You’re going to want to try to put some weight on that spatula under your foot, you’re going to need both feet for this.”
Against his better judgement, and with the fuzziness in his head, Shane looks his in the eyes and give him a very confused, “What?”
“Well, were going to play a game, you’re going to run around the house for me and I’ll chase you down, then we don’t need to get out of bed for the rest of the day! I’ll give you a 5 second head start baby.”
Shane can feel his jaw drop. Gaten’s face is serious.
In fact, he almost looks annoyed with him.
“I want you to run baby, then I can catch you and I’ll make it good for both of us.”
Shane’s eyes are wide, searching the man’s face for what the man fucking wants from him, hazy through the drugs.
“One”
That sends it clear through his mind, and he doesn’t wait to watch the man say the next number, turning and using the living room chair as a crutch to propel himself halfway across the room.
“Two”
Shane grabs the doorway into the hallway to steady himself, almost slipping as carpet gives way to wooden floorboards. He hops on his left foot.
“Three”
In the hallway he doesn’t bother to watch out for the photos lining the walls. He braces himself back and forth hopping on his good leg, tapping the spatula only when he needs to. It still hurts through the drugs.
“Four”
He swings open the first door in the hall, but it’s obviously the man’s bedroom, bedsheets unmade and half on the floor. Shane yanks open the door next to it, the lights already on in the bathroom. He doesn’t hesitate to throw himself to the tile floor.
“Five, baby, here I come!”
Shane closes the door with a slam, first turning the doorknob lock, then the old little sliding one that’s seen better days. Then he presses his back to the door and gasps for air.
In. Out. In. Out.
Is he going to die in this fucking bathroom?
In. Out. In. Out.
Had the man really watched him and Ilya have sex that whole night?
In. Out. In. Out.
What the actual fuck was wrong with this dude?
In. Out. In. Out.
The footsteps are heavy to the door. The knocking was even louder. It picks up pace as the repeated shouts of his name go unanswered.
In. Out. In. Out.
“You weren’t supposed to lock the fucking door, what’s the fucking point of that you stupid slut!”
Shane presses his back hard against the wooden door, shoulders pressed tight as he tries to pull himself away from a panic attack. He can’t have one here, he needed to keep his head. His feet slipped against the tile floor sprawled out in front of him, he couldn’t curl around himself, his knees weak, legs jelly, ankle throbbing.
“You give it up willingly for that jackass but play the nun act when it comes to some who actually fucking loves your dumbass!”
The pounding on the other side of the door keeps going, louder, closed-fisted, and getting faster and more desperate the longer Shane keeps the door shut and locked.
“Baby fucking listen to me, don’t fucking do this to me right now!”
Shane can’t feel his face. The blurriness in his eyes tells him he’s crying.
In. Out. In. Out.
In. Out. In. Out.
In. Out. In. Out.
In. Out. In. Out.
Oh god are his lungs collapsing.
The banging continues, the door shaking behind his back.
“I’m sorry baby, it really is my fault. I should’ve known you were a bit skittish still; I just moved too fast and wanted to play with you. I really am sorry, and It’s also my fault that you’re locked in that bathroom baby. All scared and terrified, not letting me comfort you up close. I should’ve known better than to leave the locks inside the door baby, the temptation, I’ll fix it in the morning I promise.”
In. Out. In. Out.
In. Out. In. Out.
“Just unlock the door, baby.”
In. Out. In. Out.
In. Out. In. Out.
Oh my fucking god I’m never getting out of here.
In. Out. In. Out.
In. Out. In. Out.
In. Out. In. Out.
In. Out. In. Out.
Shane’s still trying to pull air into his lungs when he realizes it’s gone quiet. The only sounds were him gasping, voice croaking as he sobbed. He lets his head fall back against the door, the pressure of pushing against it helping the throbbing of his head go away a bit.
Breathe in for 3, out for 3.
Breathe in for 3, out for 3.
He not too sure he’s much fonder of the silence of the house, he can’t hear Gaten’s footsteps, doesn’t know where the man was. It’s almost scarier not knowing what the man was up too.
With shaking sweaty hands, Shane slides away from the door to the bathroom, dragging his legs behind him across the tile, heavy with that chemical feeling.
He stops to pull open the lower cabinets of the sink but finds nothing in there but extra toilet paper. No chemicals, no heavy products, not even a plunger to hit someone with.
Breathe in for 3, out for 3.
Don’t fucking panic.
He settles down in front of the combination shower and bathtub, pushing the bathmat to the side against the wall. Shane lays his right temple against the tile and tries not to think about the grime that is probably still there, now on his skin.
He tries not to think about the sound of the screwdriver taking off the door handle.
-Света-
They all waited for the phone to ring in Hollander’s parents’ house, tension felt in every corner.
It had almost been 48 hours since her best friend’s fiancé was kidnapped from their shared home, blood stains and no clues left.
As soon as the news hit her phone, she had booked plane tickets, the fastest ones she could find. Svetlana had missed Rose’s first couple of calls during the first flight, but she called back as she sat on her transfer and waited to take off.
Rose had sent her Shane’s parents’ house address, because she knew Ilya would not have been able to sleep next to a crime scene.
Seeing where Shane Hollander, NHL Star, Shy Guy, and her best friend’s fiancé, grew up is a marvel. Everything is clean and homey, decorated colorfully. His mother had fed them all scrambled eggs and sausages for breakfast, then chicken stir fry for lunch. His father sat in the old recliner by the windows and read the newspaper and filled out the crossword puzzle.
She can tell why Ilya loves to spend time here, even in the depth of grief and sorrow for a missing son, the house felt like a home, one someone would raise a good man in.
It’s why it makes it hurt even worse, watching Ilya fall into despair and agony about the unknowns, wrapped in a family-loved blanket on a well-used couch among the throw pillows.
She had finally convinced him to do something with his brain besides pace, wait for the police to call with news, and scroll through news apps on his phone. She knows he redownloaded them, but he won’t admit it to her.
Now he’s playing his hockey video game. Ilya doesn’t even smile when his character, Ottawa 24, scores.
Now she was laying on the Hollander’s couch with him, her toes tucked under his leg as he played. Hollander’s parents were preparing dinner in the kitchen, and she was making sure not to eavesdrop. She had ended up on Twitter after Instagram, having scrolled through Shane and Ilya’s last couple posts’ comment sections.
Twitter was a little more hostile when talking about hockey; old men writing slurs and angry fans with long threads. Svetlana didn’t go on it much, her account practically blank, but she was thankfully still logged in.
She scrolls through the Ottawa police account and then America’s FBI account, looking through reactions of fans to haters to other celebrities. It’s a lot of shouting and disbelief, and she scrolls past the gossip sites and their articles.
When she looks up the term ‘Shane Hollander’ there are thousands of posts. She scrolls through them quickly, most incomprehensible yelling or stupid theories.
She adds on to her search term. ‘Shane Hollander fan account’ brings up less results, but a lot of it is pictures upon pictures of him, as if he was already dead.
The TV screen cheers loudly as Ilya’s team wins the game. She watches him quietly start another one, choosing the same team and player again.
Typing in ‘Ilya Rozanov hate account’ gives her even less tweets, and she scrolls through slowly, scanning each one. One of the top posts is from someone who is obviously a Hollander fan, thousands of likes on it, in reply to a tweet made just about when Ilya had been out at his BuzzFeed video thing, a couple hours before this all went to shit.
-
@HockeyHollander1: I thought this was a Shane Hollander fan account not an Ilya Rozanov hate account
-
Svetlana presses on the reply and it opens, showing many more replies to the same tweet. It doesn’t have many likes compared to comments, obviously not being a very popular opinion.
-
@HollanderHockey_Updates: Ottawa Team Captain Ilya Rozanov steps away from family to attend media session with Alternate Captain Zane Boodram and the Ottawa Centaur’s media team. Team captains talk vigorous training sessions and the mistreatment of teammates in Buzzfeed video.
-
Svetlana’s taken aback by the tone of the tweet. Whoever posted it obviously did not like Ilya very much.
It’s not like the fans hadn’t known they were filming the video that day, some Buzzfeed employee having posted a selfie with the guys as soon as they had showed up, but still, it’s not like this person would have known what they had talked about? Were they an employee too who got to sit in on the interview, or did they just take a lucky shot to insult them?
The account itself doesn’t regularly post about Ilya it seems, much more focused on what Shane Hollander was up to, retweeting gossip magazines and ESPN articles alike.
One of the top posts is from just about a week ago, Shane Hollander in his Ottawa jersey holding the Stanley Cup above his head, large smile on his face as he gazes out on the fans.
-
@HollanderHockey_Updates: All-Star MLH Shane Hollander, newly traded to center for the Ottawa Centaurs, helps lead his team to victory in the fifth game of the Stanley Cup Finals. Emotions were high as Hollander held the cup aloft during only his first season with a new team after facing scrutiny from his former, the Montreal Voyageurs, for his relationship with fellow MLH player Ilya Rozanov
-
In the background of the photo is half of Yuna’s body, out of focus, cropped out in the editing of the photo. Svetlana had seen the originals posted by the NHL, and Yuna had been standing with her husband, Ilya between the two of them as they had all gazed at Hollander.
Why would a Shane Hollander fan crop out the man’s fiancé, especially the first cup with them out of the closet?
The comments are more mundane on the post, most celebrating the win, others raving about the couple and their win together. A couple comments down, with quite a few likes points out that the tweet only mentions Hollander, despite not being a captain, but giving him full credit for the win.
Svetlana rereads the tweet, but she doesn’t see anything too wrong about it, it’s just a fan account focusing on their Star.
She doesn’t really know why she keeps scrolling, moving through some more retweets before finding another post, this one later that same night.
-
@HollanderHockey_Updates: The Ottawa Centaurs were seen partying it up in downtown Ottawa, attending various music bars and clubs to celebrate their win against the Detroit Angels tonight. The real question is what is the effect of the Centaurs of their newcomers? Rookie Kyle Young was seen propped up by long-term Centaurs members and Shane Hollander was last seen with a beer in his head, a big difference than his previous years of sobriety at public events
-
Svetlana reads it twice before moving into the comments, and many of them are not exactly positive. While some are cooing over the attached picture of Shane and Ilya on the dance floor, others are ridiculing the poster for how they talked about the team.
She had to agree, who insults your favorite players team during a Stanley Cup celebration? Shane was not even holding a drink in his hand in the photo.
Looking closer, it’s obvious the photo wasn’t professionally taken, camera lens unclean, the lights streaky. It’s taken from far away, across the bar perhaps, and the other Centaurs can be seen behind them crowded in booths.
Svetlana hadn’t remembered many paparazzi photos coming from the celebrations, she knows the bar they go to is private and good with security.
Something settles cold in her stomach, and she tucks her feet further under Ilya’s thigh.
She screenshots the tweet, then sends it to Rose.
Svetlana keeps scrolling, multiple celebratory articles are reposted, congratulating Shane Hollander on his fourth Stanley Cup.
Then another post, odd in tone.
-
@HollanderHockey_Updates: Shane Hollander seen out for dinner with ex-girlfriend Rose Landry, without fiancé, after Ottawa Stanley Cup Win
-
She rolls her eyes at first, the poster obviously trying to imply some sort of scandal. Just like every other gossip site. She can’t help but think it’s weird that a fan account would post in such a negative light about the focus’s relationship.
The rest stops her in her tracks. Staring at the photo attached to the tweet, Svetlana feels her hands start to shake around the grip on her phone.
A very blurry photo of Shane out with Rose, the same night Rose had told her that Shane had been acting all jumpy despite the recent win. Paparazzi had tried to get in the front door.
But this was the back of her head, red hair curled in the back perfectly, and fully of Shane’s face, the man’s eyes focused on the woman in front of him. The lights of the restaurant were streaking like the phone was moving fast as it was snapped. Unprofessional in quality.
How close was this picture taken?
Ilya looks over at her as she fully sits up on the couch, feet moving to the floor, her head bent over her phone, the situation now too weird to stay laid out on the couch.
Her thumb shakes as she scrolls hastily to the top of the page to look at the most recent posts.
-
@HollanderHockey_Updates: Hockey Star and Four-time Stanley Cup Champion Shane Hollander missing from home. Police called. No valuables taken and no sign of a struggle.
-
Her heart drops. 9:41 pm.
Shane had only been reported missing at what time? She screenshots the tweet then goes back to Ottawa’s official account. 9:25 pm the missing person’s report was filed by the police.
Ilya had gotten home to police in front of his house only 5 minutes before that.
Articles about Shane’s disappearance had hit the news only about 10 minutes after the report, everyone from TMZ to the Prime Minister responding in minutes.
The police’s press conference wasn’t held till the next morning, 6 am. No details had been released beforehand, TMZ pushed pack and paparazzi stopped before the street even started.
No valuables taken.
That was true, but it wasn’t like the public had known that, the report still having had potential burglary on it.
No sign of a struggle.
Her stomach flips, nauseous at the scent of the cooking food in the next room.
The blood on the wooden floor of the cottage. A smashed phone. Headphones thrown aside. Glass shards on the carpet.
Who the fuck would say there were no signs of a struggle, hours before details are given out? No struggle, when there is blood on the floor?
Without thinking her hand reaches out for the controller still held in Ilya’s hands, accidentally sending it skittering across the floor.
“Что за хуйня?” What the hell?
“Ilyusha get the fucking car, I’ll explain on the way to the police station. Mr. and Mrs. Hollander, turn off the oven, we’ve got to go!”
-~-
The third day is no better.
His head was pounding from lack of sleep, his skin shaky with adrenaline, his wrists burning, nose aching. Mostly his ankle was killing him, burning bright and hot beneath the dish towels. The heavy arm laid over his waist wasn’t tight, just lazily thrown over him, as to make sure he’s still where Gaten last left him.
The door to the bathroom wasn’t allowed to be closed anymore, no matter what Gaten had said last night. Shane thought the rule was stupid, it’s not like the bathroom even had a door anymore.
No, that had been taken off the hinges and set aside as the man who kidnapped him stormed the bathroom, only to see Shane curled up on his side, head pressed to the floor, shivering through the side effects of the opioids the man had given him only an hour or two earlier.
He wasn’t nice about dragging Shane out, and the drugs and stress were leaving him loopy and loose, so Gaten had taken him under the arms and pulled him backwards to the room a door down.
Not his room.
Shane had kicked, albeit weakly, as he was dragged over the threshold of the man’s own bedroom, carpet blue and dusty. His brain was pounding behind his eyes.
He had fought the hands pulling at his clothes, only letting the man take his shirt before conceding to Shane’s swats. He had been given a new one and pulled it on slowly. The movements felt monumental as his muscles jellied below his skin.
Now he woke up for the third morning, held hostage in a cigarette scorched house in Illinois, with a delusional man who thought they were in love with each other.
Maybe the lack of sleep was a good thing. That and the adrenaline, the stress, the anger, the fear, the need to see his parents and fiancé and tell them he’s going to be okay. Cause he has to be. He had thought about it all night, running through the possibilities in his head, his own stamina with his injuries. Something of a plan had formulated, it was dodgy, and he was going to probably ruin his ankle even more in the process.
Which means Shane really only had one shot at this if he ever wanted to play hockey again.
He keeps silent as the man unlocks the handcuff keeping his wrist close to the bedpost then helps him into the wheelchair he retrieved from the living room.
Shane just follows the movements.
The first stop was the bathroom, the door still leaned up against the wall next to the open doorway. Hard wheels slid gratingly across tile. The arms barely fit through the doorway. Gaten stopped them in front of the tub, leaning forward to turn the faucet on and cranked the water to hot.
Dark eyes under bushy eyebrows turn to meet his, careful and calculating, scanning over Shane’s face. Shane gulps at the sight of it and clutches the arms of the chair.
Breathe in for 7, hold for 3, out for 10.
I can’t fucking do this.
Breathe in for 7, hold for 3, out for 10.
Eyes still on him, Gaten reaches out to feel the water temperature. Satisfied, the man turns to plug up the tub, letting the water start to collect, and turns to walk out of the bathroom without another word.
Shane doesn’t turn to watch him leave; he just watches the water start to rise.
Breathe in for 7, hold for 3, out for 10.
When the man returns it’s halfway full, water carefully steaming. He puts clothes on the sink counter, carefully balancing them, and has a towel thrown over his shoulder.
Shane gulps, but this time, when the man hands him the small white pill, what Shane knows is a prescription opioid not intended for nonpatients, he takes it without hesitating.
Gaten’s eyes light up, grin widening, watches him swallow.
“You’re doing so good baby, I knew you would come around. I’m just trying to keep you happy and comfortable. No more fighting, no more stupid cameras, just us and watching sports and making love for the rest of eternity.”
He tries to keep his face neutral, focuses on the feeling of the drug going through his body. The feeling would last a good couple of hours, but he really only needed to the afternoon, at least he hoped.
“Now how about a bath? You’re still in the same clothes as two days ago, which I bet you feel pretty gross about, and you can wear mine! I grabbed all my oversized stuff, so you’ll be extra comfortable. Let’s get you out of that gross stuff.”
Shane’s smacking his lips against the tinge of numbness when fingers go to the hem of his t-shirt. He bats at hands, leaning further away, but the man’s hand grabs his shoulder and presses him back in the chair. He keeps shoving at his kidnapper as the fabric is brought up under his arms, but Gaten uses it to his advantage and yanks the shirt over his outstretch arms. It gets flung somewhere behind him.
The man’s hands are in tight balls on his hips, “Are you going to make your sweatpants as fucking difficult? Sweetheart you can barely fucking move, let alone get yourself undressed. I told you I would take care of you, but you’re making it real fucking hard to not just lock you in the shed outside for a while till you figure your shit out. I’ll even leave your boxers on while I wash you, if you’re so worried about your goddam modesty. You’ll overcome that shyness one of these days.”
Shane holds back his nausea. The drugs and this man’s delusional words were getting to him.
The man’s hands go to the tie of his track pants, and Shane’s hands go to push at the man’s shoulders again, sending him off balance. Dark eyes glare at him, then refocus on his waistband as Shane keeps pushing with arms that were quickly growing relaxed and uncompliant.
It’s when the man’s left hand goes down to apply pressure to his right ankle that Gaten gets the advantage over him and shoves the left side of his pants down. Shane is too busy grabbing at the hand on his ankle and groaning loudly that by the time it lets go his pants are already around his knees.
Panting from pain, Shane just lets the man take them off the rest of the way. At least he had left his underwear on.
“You can be real fucking difficult, baby, can’t you?”
Shane keeps his eyes closed. If he opens them, he might puke.
They work together to get him into the bath, Shane not keen to brain himself further, pushing himself up out of the chair and the man helping him swing around to sit in the warm water.
It’s nice for all about 2 seconds as Shane lets the heat sink into his skin and his eyes shut.
Gaten’s eyes are heavy on him. Admiring. Fond. And more things Shane doesn’t want to think about.
Shane takes one of the washcloths sat on the side and wets it, then suds it up quickly with a bar of soap just off to the side. He fights the drooping of his eyes and the weakness in his body as the drugs kick in more, scrubbing his chest weakly.
When Shane’s head starts lolling to the side a bit, and he puts more focus on avoiding slipping and keeping his head above water than washing. Gaten takes the washcloth from his limp hand and soaks it in the water nearby his ankles, eyes dark and intense on where Shane’s eyelids are fluttering.
The man isn’t gentle as he scrubs it over Shane’s forehead, wiping down the sides of his nose and his cheek. Shane doesn’t watch his face, knowing that the smile there was probably some mix between fond and dangerous, definitely delusional.
The cloth washes over the tip of his nose, then one side of his mouth. Gaten rewets the washcloth then cleans his neck, then back over his lips.
Shane isn’t expecting it when the hand presses over his mouth, fingers pinching his nose.
It sends his eyes flying open, weak right arms attempting to grab at the arm braced against the rim to hold the cloth over his mouth. When he tries to suck in air, there’s nothing but water.
When Shane’s own hand gets a hold of the man’s arm, another hand comes down hard on his shoulder, sending him slipping further, left foot bracing against the opposite side of the tub to keep himself upright. His fingers are slipping and loose.
He can’t fucking breath.
“What’s so fucking good about everyone else, huh? You let everyone touch you, let that stupid fucking braindead moron come inside you then leave you there? Letting him fucking have you, put a ring on it so he knows he’s got a fuck at home?” The next shove is harsher, “We could’ve had such a fun time together last night, but you had to go and ruin it, didn’t you. I’d do fucking anything for you, don’t you fucking understand baby?”
When Shane finally gets nails on Gaten’s face he lets go, dark eyes furious, red scratch on his cheek from the one finger Shane hadn’t chewed the nail off yet. The wet washcloth is thrown to the tiles with a wet slap, and the room goes silent except for the still agitated water splashing about and Shane’s heavy breathing.
In. Out. In. Out.
In. Out. In. Out.
In. Out. In. Out.
In. Out. In. Out.
The man continues to watch him catch his breath a moment longer before getting up from his knees and storming out of the bathroom. It’s all too quiet, wordless. There’s no door to slam behind him.
-~-
Shane takes the opportunity of being left alone in the tub to wash the rest of himself, scrubbing under his arms, across his neck, and down his legs. He also uses the time to starve off the panic attack lingering under his skin.
He’s not going to sleep well tonight.
When he’s as clean as he’s going to get, Shane pulls the drain of the tub and watches the dirty water spin in circles. Shane tries not to go headfirst into it as it swirls, head still foggy from panic, gasping breathes, and what must be a strong fucking opioid.
The doom of it settles under his skin, he’s driving himself insane.
Shane dries himself off quickly, still sitting in the tub, before sliding his wet underwear off and replacing them with Gaten’s sweatpants.
He kneels up, not bothering with trying to keep his pants dry, and clumsy hoists himself out of the bath. It takes a bit of focus to get the foot over the edge without tripping, but he gets it. With another swing he gets himself in the wheelchair and pulls his wet and damaged ankle out of the tub.
Shane takes the moments to rest, lean back in the chair and breathe.
Because what the fuck was he going to do. Yesterday the adrenaline had made it so much easier to move.
When his kidnapper comes back Shane doesn’t open his eyes, he just breathes through the panic, pain, and dizziness. It’s either things will continue as normal, or the man will lash out again.
“How was your bath, baby? I bet fresh clothing feels good!”
He hates how his shoulders relax at the tone in relief.
Shane is brought back into the living room, Gaten’s hands unhelpfully trying to hold his shoulders as he transfers himself, swinging his ankle a bit. It was really starting not to hurt. Wordlessly he grabs the knitted blanket again, pulling it across his own lap to follow the threads. The man leaves the room, without fanfare, and Shane’s eyes trace up to watch the man leave then over to the front door.
Two upper locks, sliding.
On lower lock, twisting.
As far as he knows and heard, there was no screen door on the other side.
Breakfast is served on the couch today, just a bowl of frosted flakes in milk. Shane drips milk on his shirt as he tries to get the spoon to his mouth, and his kidnapper giggles at him. He ignores it and keeps eating. The TV is playing Wheel of Fortune, and Shane answers in his head and the man next to his calls out weird letters.
When they’re finished with the food, the man brings the bowls back to the kitchen, again piling them on top of the previous day’s dishes. He didn’t seem to bat an eye at his own actions, despite the sink being full and the pile spreading to the countertop nearby.
Shane keeps his eyes on the television as Gaten sits down next to him, picking up the edge of the blanket and tossing it over his own lap.
Shane’s voice is quiet, hesitant, “Would it be helpful if I maybe did the dishes later?”.
His kidnapper’s eyes are immediately on him, dark and direct, scanning over the side of his face. Shane very slowly turns his head from the TV to meet his eyes.
He could do this.
“I just think I could maybe help out around the house, while my ankle is feeling a bit better”.
“You tryna be my little househusband?” The man’s laugh is grating, “Baby, how the hell are you going to stand there while you wash? I know I got you on the good shit, but yesterday you ended up crying from all the pain of it all.”
Shane remembers crying for a very different reason.
“Well, I can just keep something like a… uh like a chair or something to kneel on so I don’t have to put pressure on it.” Shane hopes his smile is convincing.
Maybe it being combined with words makes it so, because Gaten’s face lights up and his head tips towards him on the couch cushions. One heavy hand is draped over the back of the couch, fingers lightly touching the back of his neck.
“You’re the fucking sweetest baby. Maybe after we eat lunch and watch the game.”
-точка зрения влюбленного-
Ilya is still sitting in the police waiting room, head in his hands, his sweatshirt hood pulled over his face the next morning as the sun rose. He had watched Svetlana pace through the beginning hours of the night, screenshots on her phone, practically begging for an officer to listen to her.
Ilya himself had tried to get their attention first, but when he started losing his grasp on the English language the officers had started to get jumpy, so Sveta had taken over.
The old fucks were just as unlikely to listen to her. When not even Yuna or David could get them to listen to their ideas, they had sent the Hollanders home to sleep for the night while the two of them would bully and wait out the cops.
They had so little to go on that it pissed Ilya off that they weren’t taking any sort of lead they could get, no matter how much it may seem like jumping to conclusions.
Svetlana’s finger is in an older man’s face, the guy’s wrinkles barely moving as she yells and lectures, her phone clasped tight in her hand. The man doesn’t uncross his arms.
Ilya’s leg shakes up and down, his hands are sweating like crazy. He’s had a headache for almost the last three days, sleep far away and too much espresso in his stomach.
The younger man behind the officer is starting to shuffle where he stands, and as Sveta raises her volume higher he visibly goes to scratch the back of his neck, nervous. He stays where he was when his partnering officer walks away, eyes rolling and hands up in the air, back turned to them.
When the older man is down the hallway and out of sight, the young man rings his hands as he steps forward.
He scratches the back of his neck again, eyes almost popping out of his skull as Svetlana rounds on him, he shoulders back and chin up.
“Are you going to at least look at what I found? Are we all going to just assume a woman can’t be of any help and social media is too much for law enforcement?”
The young man clears his throat, fingers shaking, “Uh, I can, I can talk to you guys in room 3, we can look at those pictures and take a look at the account, if you’re so certain.”
“Yes, I’m fucking certain!”
The walk to room 3 is deadly quiet. Ilya follows along a couple paces behind.
-~-
When Gaten sets him up in the kitchen at the sink later that day, the man does it with a prance in his step. He pulls a dining chair over to where Shane is still sitting in the wheelchair, setting it up beside the sink and gesturing to it with an over-the-top wave of the hand.
Shane gives him a small nod and quiet ‘thank you’ as he’s helped to stand and kneel his bad leg on the chair.
When he’s settled, Gaten turns around and heads to the basement door, unlocking it with a key from his pocket, then heading downstairs.
Shane hops back half a step, opening the cabinet beneath the sink. No cleaning supplies. No extra sponges or a hand duster. No fire extinguishers.
When he can hear the steps coming back up the stairs he straightens up quickly, quietly closes the door, then reaches over the pile of dishes to turn the tap on and grab the half-deteriorated sponge next to the faucet.
Gaten locks the basement door again behind him, then moves back to where Shane is testing the water temperature to see if it was actually going to heat up.
Leaning with one hand on the counter, the man cocks his head at him, eyes trailing down the side of his face to his bare forearms. Then he lifts his hand and lets something dangle from his fingers, the chime of it tells Shane what it was without glancing over.
“It just so I can make sure you don’t try anything stupid, baby. I know you’re not, but I’m going to be in my bedroom fixing the window, and we rather be safer than sorry, don’t we?”
Gatens movements are slow, like approaching an injured animal. Shane feels a bit like one, leg caught in a trap.
He’s about to gnaw it off essentially.
Shane doesn’t move when the man carefully ties the bell the rope around his broken ankle, he just grits his teeth and focuses on the fuzziness of the drugs in his system.
He’s just got to add adrenaline.
Once the bell is secured, Gaten nods approvingly at it with his hands on his hips. Shane ignores him and tests the water temperature again.
Warm, but not hot. Good enough.
The first bowls are easy to get clean, fresh from this morning. The pots are harder to get the starch off, having dried to the insides.
Gaten walks out of the room, whistling as he goes like he’s in some fucking cartoon.
Fucking wait a bit longer Shane, just wait.
He grabs a couple of plates, scrubbing them roughly then placing them in the drying rack on the other side. Shane moves through all the same sized plates first, before moving to the smaller ones that don’t match.
With one arm he sweeps the last few cups and bowls sitting on the counter, the clanking as they fall in loud and grating. It covers up the click and spark of the stove as Shane’s other hand lights the gas stove to his right.
He stands quietly for a second, listening. When no footsteps come, he slowly cranks the dial up, the flame growing in his peripheral vision.
Shane moves a couple of the dishes around, cringing at the sound of ceramic against ceramic.
The dish cloth sitting to his left gets tied into one big knot, clumsy and loose, but enough.
He pivots away from the sink with small hops, just enough that the bell doesn’t ring too loud as he turns ninety degrees. Still no footsteps in the hallway.
The kitchen table is still stacked with papers; bills, receipts, print outs, and whatever else the man kept out all the time. They cover the entire surface, requiring you to move them to eat at the table. Shane keeps his eye on the hallway to the bedroom as he sticks one end of the towel knot into the flame of the gas stove, the fiber quickly catching fire.
He doesn’t hesitate to give it a slight toss, landing on the nearer end of the table amongst the stacks.
The fire catches on the paper quickly. It moves from one stack to another, moving down junk folders and singing the wood table below them.
Shane slowly backs up, pulling the chair with him under his knee, as the wood of the table is slowly catching with the flames of the papers. The bell tied to his ankle jingles lightly, but he doesn’t reach for it. The chair screeching a bit on the tile, but he ignores it, eyes on the table. The smoke is clouding towards the ceiling gray and black, smoky and sharp smelling, but sending off no alarms.
He keeps moving further on the tile, then onto the carpet of the living room. Slowly, little movements. One small hop, shift the chair. Shane’s closer to the couch now as the dining chair pushed in close catches fire as well.
“What the actual fuck?!”
Gaten comes barreling in from his bedroom, turning sharply around the corner. His eyes quickly scanned the quickly growing fire, sparking towards the wallpaper, then glancing over to the sink. When he sees Shane gone, his eyebrows tighten, but when they land on him in the living room, Shane simply points a finger out at the clearly bigger problem in the house.
With quick movements the man turns to the basement door, fumbling with his keys as he tries to unlock it.
Shane hops a bit more than scoots the chair.
The basement door gets thrown open wide, Gaten speeding down the steps.
Shane can’t quite feel his face, but he can feel his blood running hot below his skin. As the man’s foot hits the top stair, he lets go of the dining chair and grabs on to the back of the living room chair. He swings himself around to the back of it, balancing on his left foot as he reaches for the door.
One slide.
Two slides.
His fingers fumble with the third lock, but as it comes undone, he spins the knob and wretches the front door open.
Shane doesn’t bother to look back to see what’s going on in the house.
One foot in front of the other is all he really tells himself, ignoring every feeling in his body that tells him to stop fucking moving it hurts. He’s barely keeping himself upright as he moves across a small walkway then a driveway, pavement easier under a fucking makeshift cast than grass.
Shane doesn’t really know if he puts much weight on it really, more so just enough to propel the other leg forward.
Once he’s off the driveway he just turns right, not thinking about it, just moving. Shane doesn’t think he’s ever felt like this since he was in the hospital on morphine that one time or his first rookie game.
Shane’s slowing down as he passes the third house, no car in the driveway, but he can’t stop now. He doesn’t look back, and honestly, he couldn’t hear a thing over the rushing of blood in his ears.
He loses his balance and almost falls into the street as a large black pickup truck pulls up alongside him, horn honking, and Shane knows his eyes are wide and probably crazed at this point.
Without really wanting to he looks at the person currently rolling their window down.
Shane doesn’t think he’s ever been happier to see the most generic fucking frat boys in Illinois.
“No fucking way, dude, are you Shane Hollander?!”
-~-
@FederalBureauofInvestigation_Official: Shane William Hollander has been found by local college boys in state of Illinois and is currently receiving medical care. He is believed to be in stable condition. Suspect is still at large, known vehicle is large black SUV with tinted windows and broken rear taillight. 2:56 pm