Chapter Text
Tom used to be very good at hide and seek.
A popular choice, among all the foster homes he floated through during his childhood. For one reason or another.
He would always find the best places to hide. Tuck his tiny body into the smallest corners, and do what he did best, make himself something small and unnoticeable. Even if it was uncomfortable, static eventually dancing along his sleeping limbs. The urge to move twitching in his legs. So dark he couldn't see his hands in front of his face.
The game was easy, all he had to do was wait.
Wait until the seeker gave up; either with a high-pitched whine from across the house, or until he heard the familiar thud of a body hitting the floor followed by druken snoring.
There was only ever one person who could beat Tom at hide and seek.
He will always remember being found for the first time.
He was hiding in a closet. Tucked behind large boxes, and his garbage bag of things he never bothered to unpack. Listening to small footsteps pad across the carpet. It'd been a spot he'd chosen at so many other houses, so many other times. No one ever saw him behind the piles of stuff usually shoved half-hazardly inside. A shadow stops infront of the doors, and there's a loud, drawn out creak as they're opened. Only a sliver of light could reach Tom there, not enough to expose him, he'd been sure.
At least until a voice giggled from the doorway, and the garbage bag crinkles as its shoved to the side.
His heart drops, and his spot is revealed. All at once he feels too open, too exposed. Here was supposed to be safe. Supposed to be his.
"Found you!" The voice grated his ears, all too proud at having caught their prey.
Tom looked up at their toothy grin, and grimaced.
—
When the van doors finally open, that's the only thing Tom can compare the feeling to.
He's curled in on himself, after hours of screaming and clawing at the inside of the van. Voice hoarse, and nails nearly filed down from tearing at the van's interior. Replaying the last thing Pat told him on loop.
"We're Tord's brothers."
Tord.
He's not sure if it's the alcohol still lingering in his stomach, but something inside him lurches. Nausea bubbling at the mere thought of blonde hair, and the smell of cigarette smoke.
Tord.
An all too familiar spot on his forearm aches.
The van doors open, and cool air hits Tom like a truck. Pat and Paul block his only exit, not bothering to hide their weapons anymore. The pistol Pat had pointed at his back earlier now held at his side, while a large rifle hangs around Paul's back.
Tom thinks he could make a grab for one of them. If he's fast enough, maybe he can take them both out.
But he hears voices not too far from the van. Lots of voices. Shouting commands, and idle chatter mix into an indistinguishable hum. The low rumble of vehicles he can't see behind Paul and Pat's silhouettes. As well as the sound of distant gunfire, which means even if he could somehow take his captors out, there is most likely an army of others who'd be more than happy to pull the trigger for them.
"You gonna just sit there all night day dreamin'?" Paul quirks up a brow. They must've been calling to him.
He doesn't dignify him with a response. Just leaning forward enough so he can spit on the man's shoes. Which does nothing, but earn a disgusted twitch of the nose from Paul and a light chuckle from Pat.
"veldig moden," He grumbles, making a grab for Tom and yanking him forward enough so Pat can click a pair of handcuffs around his wrists. "—No wonder he started acting like such a brat when he moved back in with us."
Paul says more to Pat than to Tom. His face scrunches up at that. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Oh, so he speaks."
Tom is pulled out of the van and to his feet. Though he stumbles a bit, legs shaking after being cooped up in the back of that van for hours.
A blinding light immediately hits him as he stands. He recoils, hovering his hands over his eyes, as he tries to adjust to his surroundings.
Gravel crunches beneath his feet as he's already being pulled along by Pat like a dog on a leash. He realizes the bright light wasn't from the rising afternoon sun, but instead the many spotlights that dot the entrance. Barbwire fences almost a story tall line the area, people all dressed in a uniform that makes something uneasy twist in his chest run about, heavy boots drum against the concrete.
Any dread Tom has doubles as the pair pulls him towards the entrance of a large building. 'ReDeux Operative Force' is engraved over one of the walls like any other typical office building he'd see lining the streets back home—
Glancing back at the fence gate, where large vans, like the one he was brought here in, line the small parking area beside it, and the distant sound of gunshots still ring somewhere inside the building. He looks towards Paul and Pat, guns at the ready, steely expressions painted on as they lead him forwards in his cuffs.
—He has a hard time believing it to be anything of the sort. But the puzzle pieces are slowly sliding into place.
"What is this place?" He forces himself to ask, despite how the words feel like sandpaper in his throat.
The inside of the building is a stark contrast as he's brought through the entrance. While the outside was dark, and dreary; made up of grey brick and concrete. The only speck of color being the blue and red of the uniforms everyone except Paul and Pat seem to be wearing. The inside is bright. Fluorescent lights hum above them, reflecting off the white tile. And the company logo, a large, red symbol thats hard to distinguish at the pace he's being dragged along is plastered in every space it could possibly fit— he's pretty sure he even sees someone drinking out of a mug with it on it.
"You can ask questions later." Paul grunts.
Pat cuts in sharply, tugging on Tom's cuffs. He glances back at their captive, smile all too bright for the situation they're in right now.
Tom shudders.
"You hungry?" He asks. "We should have enough time to stop by the cafeteria before your meeting."
His what?
"My what?" Tom's eyes narrow at the taller man.
Paul is quick to interrupt. "Nothin' for you to worry about. Just be happy we're feeding ya."
Tom glares down at the cuffs around his wrists. "Didn't say I was hungry." He bites back like it's some kind of insult. It's not. He's just too confused and too tired to think of one right now. He just wants to wake up from this nightmare, and he—
He wants to go home and sit on the shitty couch he and Matt dragged home one night in their senior year of college and never bothered getting rid of. Watch bad movies, and eat shitty food with his roommates on either side of him. Their laughter echoing in his ears, the smell of Matt's Way Too Expensive hair spray in the air, and the sticky feel of that Cola stain Edd spilled on the couch and never bothered to clean beneath his fingers.
But he doubts, even if he manages to get out of here, that he'll ever get that again.
—His thoughts are interrupted before he can delve too deep into them.
"You're eating. Doubt you've had much other than half a bottle of brandy." Paul looks Toms way for confirmation, though the glint in his eye tells him that he doesn't need any. He already knows.
"How did you—"
"We did our fair share of research before collecting you, Tom." Pat chimes in. "You don't think we know what you did last night before ending up in that cell?"
Paul snickers. "Or what you did every night this week? I'll tell you what, at least you're reliable on that front."
Tom's eye twitches. Glowering at both men, he wants nothing more than to wrench himself out of their grip and see just how much damage he can do before somebody shoots him.
Not much, his brain idly shoots back at him. It'd be a pathetic little show of rebellion, he knows that, but his hands still twitch for it anyways.
"You don't know shit about me." Tom says through gritted teeth.
Paul eyes him for a moment, expression unchanging before he faces forward again. "Maybe not." He answers coyly.
Before Tom can ask him what the hell that's even supposed to mean. They're stepping into a large room populated with a handful of people all spread throughout, sitting at benches and eating. Some of them have small piles of paperwork sat beside them, taking small bites of food between filling out forms. Others are scarfing down whatever is on their tray in a blur, before they leave in a rush of hurried footsteps out a pair of twin doors opposite to the ones they just entered through. It looks sort of like the cafeteria he had in his old high-school. (If he squints, he can still see Edd's shitty old haircut, and Matt's acne ridden face.)
"You two go sit, I'll grab our guest a tray." Pat says, waving them off.
Tom grunts as Paul suddenly tugs him in the direction of the benches. Dark eyes narrowing at him as he's forced to trail behind the man.
Paul, much like his brother, seemed all too calm for the situation they were in. Or, at the very least, the two were completely confident in their plan— whatever that may be. Shoulders slack as he finds a place in the furthest corner of the cafeteria to sit. He sits, and drags Tom down with him, who struggles for a moment to get himself properly situated on the bench.
"Didn't think kidnappers fed their victims." He lets his arms go slack, resting his cheek against the cool surface of the table.
Paul raises an eyebrow at him. "You complainin' that we're feeding you?"
Tom turns to face away from Paul, who keeps his grip tight on his cuffs. He's tired. And he thinks he's ready to wake up from whatever drunken nightmare he's having right now. "Just an observation, don't need to get pissy."
"Well, if you'd prefer a more authentic experience we can lock you in the cells for a few days. Though you must be used to that by now, hm?" The voice behind him is smug. Tom grits his teeth.
But before he can spit anything back at the man, a tray is placed right in Tom's field of view. He sits up, eyeing the food with an unimpressed glare. Then he looks up at Pat, who is already gingerly taking his seat beside Tom.
"I'm not eating your poisoned shit."
"Not poisoned."
Pat slides easily into the bench beside Tom. Still all too bright for the dreary, corporate atmosphere they're in.
"And I'm supposed to know that, how?" Tom can hear Paul sigh.
"Because I got it from the employee buffet? I mean, it's nothing to write home about, but I doubt it's been poisoned." Pat argues, though there's no real heat behind it.
His gaze turns towards the tray in front of him. And sure enough, Pat wasn't kidding when he said it was nothing much; a package of peanut butter crackers, an apple, and a small serving of salad sat in the divded sections of the tray. His options were plain, but Tom would be lying if he said that factor wasn't at least a little bit appealing to his still nauseated stomach. Maybe just a few bites wouldn't hurt. If he was lucky— or unlucky depending on how he looked at it —he'd puke the contents back up onto one of his wardens as payback.
Raising his cuffed hands, he awkwardly grabs the apple. The burning stares on either side of his head make eating like this a much more uncomfortable ordeal than it already was, but he swallows any snide remarks he wants to make down with his bite of apple.
It's not bad. A bit refreshing actually, despite his earlier protest of saying he wasn't hungry, Tom houses the fruit quickly until only the core is left.
By the time he's finished, he starts to notice the low hum of conversation coming from elsewhere in the cafeteria has stopped. He looks around, glancing at all the benches, only to find them all empty.
"Where'd everybody go?" He asks, already starting to struggle opening the peanut butter crackers. Now he's gotten a little bit of food in his system he realizes that he's not hungry, he's starving.
Pat's fingers drum against the table. Paul glances at wrist, before pushing himself up from the table. "Off to do far more important things than babysitting, lucky bastards."
Tom chooses to ignore the blatant insult in favor of attempting to open the package with his teeth.
Paul shoots a glance towards Pat, and suddenly they're both getting up from the table. "We're leaving. I trust you're not stupid enough to try anything?"
Tom whips his head around toward the pair. Eyes darting between them to make sure he heard correctly. "You're leaving?"
Pat snickers. "Don't sound so upset, lillebror. We'll be back to retrieve you."
"There's been a small change in plans. You'll be having your meeting here in the cafeteria." Paul clarifies.
Right. His 'meeting' that these two have been so mysterious about since he got here. He almost forgot.
It's extremely tempting to push for anwers. Cause who in the hell would go through all of this trouble just to talk to him? No one that Tom knows that's for sure. But from the way they're both looking at him, he doubts he'll get a real answer. But he didn't plan on sticking around long enough to find out.
They were going to leave him alone. Sure he had cuffs on, but it's not like he was cuffed to anything. He was free to roam. This was his chance, possibly his only chance, at getting out of this hell hole. He just needed to play his cards right.
"Yeah, alright. Will I at least get to finish my lunch first?" Tom finally tears the packet of crackers open, spitting out the plastic, before popping one in his mouth. Crumbs litter the corners of his lips and fall into his lap.
Paul's face scrunches up, but he makes no comment on Tom's eating habits. "Not up to us. He gets here when he gets here." He says flatly, pulling Pat along with him as they head for the door.
"Don't do anything you'll regret."
Is the last thing said before the pair exits. Tom listens to the sound of their retreating footsteps. Once it's gone quiet, he's on his feet, rushing toward the exit opposite of the one Paul and Pat just left through. The doors slam open with the sheer force of his body colliding into them and he sprints down the hallway. It leads into a section of the building he hasn't been through yet, but he cant risk tracing his steps and bumping into any familiar faces. So, he runs blindly through hallways hoping for once in his life his luck won't be somewhere in the negatives, and that he'll somehow stumble his way into an exit.
Oh if things could only be so simple.
It doesn't take much running before someone calls out to him. Only drawing more attention his way as he makes a sharp turn around the corner. And soon, he's got a whole gaggle of people chasing after him as he sprints through the labyrinth of a building. Turns out a man sprinting through your place of work in handcuffs is about as suspicious looking as it sounds.
A gunshot rings out behind Tom, and a bullet just barely misses grazing past his head. "Fuck!" He curses, ducking down and sparing only a passing glance toward the group chasing them to see one in the front still has their pistol raised and ready to fire another round.
Tom turns sharply down the nearest corner, ready to keep barreling forward until he hears voices echoing from the other end of the hall. Just his luck.
Screeching to a hault, Tom has only seconds to try the nearest door. Almost crying out with relief when it opens. He shuts himself inside, and meer moments later he hears a litter of footsteps rounding the corner quickly approaching and retreating as they continue down the hallway.
Tom lets out a sigh of relief. Stepping further into the room, as his eyes try to adjust to the darkness.
He seems to be in some kind of janitorial closet, given the strong, chemical smell that hits him the second he enters. Shelfs full of cleaning supplies and miscellaneous storage line each wall. It's a tight squeeze, leaving just barely enough room for Tom to stand in the center of it, but it will have to make do for a hiding spot for now. At least until he's sure the coast in clear.
Speaking of, he can hear the group that'd been chasing him at the furthest end of the hall. Their voices ring out, but Tom can't make sense of what they're saying. Shit. They must be telling whoever was at the other end of the hall what's going on. Great, as if he didn't have enough people after him as it was. It was only going to be a matter of time before they started searching for him.
At least, that's what he thinks until the voices start to grow quieter and quieter. Until, he assumes they must've left, either having given up, or gone to look for him somewhere else. Still, Tom waits, listening for any signs of life.
And he's lucky he does because a single pair of footsteps starts to make their way down the hall. They're slow, and unbothered. He doubts whoever this is was part of the search party from earlier. So he'll just wait for them to pass and continue his escape— though, maybe a bit more stealthily this time.
Tom holds his breath as the sound gets closer. Pressing his back against the furthest shelf from the closet door, eyes glued to the small crack underneath the door. Watching the shadow start to cross the doorway—
then stop.
No.
No. No. No. No.
Nobody saw him go inside the janitor closet. They shouldn't know he's here, not without checking a few of the other doors first at least. But no, the shadow stops right outside the door, and Tom's gaze darts around the room. Its too small for him to hide in without being spotted immediately. So he'll just have to hope that, if the person on the other side does open the door, he'll can push right past them and make a break for it.
The doorhandle starts to move.
Slowly, almost as if whoever is behind it is teasing him, they pull the door open and Tom braces himself.
The smell of cigarette smoke is what tips him off first. Even after all these years, he can't stand the smell. Not without being hit with a barrage of memories he'd be more than happy to forget. A large silhouette blocks the doorway. Silver eyes gleam down at him, and a smirk Tom thought he'd never have to see again stretches across his seekers face.
Only one person had ever been able to beat Tom at hide and seek.
"Found you." Tord says, all too smug for a dead man.