Chapter Text
George assumed that when two big guys in ski masks knocked on the door of his dorm and dragged him out to the lake at 1 am, it was just some kind of initiation ritual. He started having his doubts when they started to duct tape his arms and legs together.
It happened so fast; he didn't have time to react at all before he was lifted off the ground and thrown into the water. He only had time to gasp in a lungful of air before he sank in a flurry of bubbles.
George knew how to swim, of course. You didn’t get very far as a kid growing up in Newfoundland without knowing how to swim. He'd been on his high school's swim team. He’d worked as a lifeguard at his local pool for two years. He knew how to swim. So, if he had the use of his arms or legs, getting out of his situation probably wouldn’t have been a big deal.
He’d just never learned how to swim without his arms or legs. Most of his swimming lessons didn’t involve immobilizing him with duct tape. Maybe they should have.
It was too dark in the murky water for him to see anything, the tape around his legs was too tight for him to even think about trying dolphin kick, and for a few panic-filled seconds, George was sure he was going to die.
And then he started floating.
Right. If he could move his arms and legs, and if he wasn’t about a meter underwater, he would have danced a jig. Oh, buoyancy, you beautiful thing. If you were a person, I’d kiss you.
He flipped himself over as he broke the surface and took a deep breath. Breathing felt amazing when you weren’t sure if you were ever going to do it again. He quickly learned that he couldn’t tilt himself too far in any direction or he’d end up face-down in the water again. Craning his neck, he managed to figure out where the nearest shoreline was, and he got to work wiggling like some bizarre snake trying to channel its inner dolphin. It wasn’t pretty, but, surprisingly, it worked, and soon, his rear ran aground and he sat upright.
By that time, water had seeped under the tape and it wasn’t too difficult to twist his hands free and un-tape his legs.
He noticed a red, plastic chair sitting by the shore, with an envelope sitting on it, addressed to him, or rather, to Murdoch’s Roommate.
Flapping his hands to dry them off, George picked up the envelope and tore it open. There were three things inside: the keys to his building and his dorm, and a note written hastily on a sheet of lined paper. All it said was: Thank your roommate for this.
Shakily, George got to his feet, streams of water pouring off of him as he trudged through the grass. His foot slipped, and he lost his footing, hitting his head against a tree root sticking out of the ground. He groaned, stood up and kicked the tree. He instantly regretted it when his toes exploded in pain.
Breathing a dozen curses, he crumpled the note in his fist and made his way back to the residence building, his soaked socks slapping against the pavement, his ears ringing.
Thank your roommate for this. He rolled his eyes. Of course this was Murdoch's fault. George had only just met him, but already he gave him some major serial killer vibes, what with how detached and cold he was. George didn't trust him, and that note only confirmed his suspicions.
He got to his building, unlocked the door and stabbed his thumb into the elevator button. Normally, George took the stairs, but he felt that, after almost drowning, he deserved to treat himself.
When he got to his dorm room, there was a soft light pouring out of the crack under the door. George unlocked it and pulled open the door, standing in the doorway with a glare.
William Murdoch, his roommate, glanced at him over his laptop screen from where he sat on his bed. “How was the water?” he asked nonchalantly.
Staring at him murderously, George sloshed into the room, pushing the door closed behind him.
Murdoch blinked. “What?” he asked innocently.
“How was the water?” repeated George, in a passable imitation of Murdoch’s voice. “Are you freaking serious? I could have drowned!”
“Look, George,” shrugged Murdoch, typing away on his laptop. “That’s just how initiation goes in this building. They toss you in the lake at night, you swim back and you’re all wet. It happens to every first year who moves in here. It happened to me last year. It’s all in good fun.” He gestured towards the closet. “You might want to get a towel. You’re dripping on the floor.”
“All in good fun?” George’s voice began to rise, but, remembering that it was 1 am, he lowered it to a hissing whisper. “Because I don’t know about you, but getting duct taped and tossed in a freaking lake so you can drown isn’t my idea of fun!”
Murdoch’s eyes flew away from his laptop screen, staring at George with a furrowed brow. “They duct taped you?”
“Yeah.” George snatched a towel from his closet and shook it through his wet hair. “They taped my arms and legs. I couldn't swim. I thought I was going to die. I had a great time.”
Slamming his computer shut, Murdoch leapt off his bed. “They could have killed you!” He looked horrified. "They're not supposed to do that! They're just supposed to throw you in and run!" He swallowed, shaking his head. "You could have drowned."
“Yeah. I know.” George grabbed a black BuzzFeed Unsolved t-shirt, grey sweatpants and a dry pair of boxer shorts out of his closet and pulled off his wet shirt. “Oh, they left this.” He tossed Murdoch the crumpled, slightly damp note. “I’m apparently supposed to thank you, so, thanks a lot. I love almost dying,” he spat sarcastically, whirling around on his heels and stalking out of the room. He shoved open the door to the communal bathroom, locked himself in a stall and got to work drying himself off. Once he got himself into his dry clothes, he let out a breath. He didn't really want to go back to his dorm; for all he knew, Murdoch had straight-up instructed those guys to tape him up like a mummy and chuck him in a lake. He wasn't too keen on spending time with him.
George had only just moved in three nights ago, so he didn't have a super good idea of who was in his building and where, but he did know one person and he knew exactly where they were: Thomas Brackenreid, the resident assistant for their floor.
Shuffling out of the bathroom, George made his way down the corridor to the end of the hall, relieved to find that the RA's door was open a crack and the lights were on. He knocked on the door.
"Yeah," came the tired-sounding response, and George came in.
Thomas Brackenreid was a big, muscular British guy with red hair that stuck out in every angle around his face. He was currently sporting a stubbly, unshaven beard, which George assumed would be gone by morning, since he'd been clean-shaven the last time he saw him. He was sitting cross-legged on his bed, his laptop open in his lap and several empty cans of Red Bull lying on the floor.
When George walked in, Brackenreid glanced up, looking slightly concerned for a moment, before a smirk pulled on the edges of his mouth and he breathed a chuckle. "Went for a swim, did you?" His British accent wasn't one of those posh British accents like on BBC news, more like the downstairs cast of Downton Abbey .
George sighed. "No," he said, a hint of annoyance tugging at his voice. "I got taped up like someone's sick fetish and left to drown in a lake."
Brackenreid frowned. "How'd they tape you?"
George stuck his forearms together and plastered his legs into one shape. "Like that."
Brackenreid's eyebrows rose. "Bloody hell," he mumbled, taking a sip from an open can of Red Bull. "Did you see who did it?"
"Yeah, two guys in ski masks. Very helpful."
Brackenreid scratched his chin. "Well, you could report it to campus police…"
"I'm sensing a 'but' coming."
"But—" Brackenreid closed his laptop. "I'm not sure you want to do that. You really don't want people to think you're a snitch, especially not when you're a first year."
"So, what, I'm just supposed to sit here and pretend like nobody tried to drown me?"
"Oi, I didn't say that." Brackenreid got up off his bed and pulled his chair out from under his desk. "Sit," he said.
George sat down.
Brackenreid bent down and pulled open a mini fridge plugged in next to his closet. "Want one?" He asked, holding up a can of Red Bull.
George was about to shake his head, but, thinking it would make him look lame, nodded instead. "Sure."
Brackenreid tossed him a can. "You know you've got a bruise right there?" He asked, pointing to his forehead.
"Figures." George rolled his eyes. “I did hit my stupid head on a stupid tree.”
Brackenreid paused momentarily, then reached into the fridge and tossed him a second can. "Pretend that's an ice pack."
Opening his can, George took a sip. It tasted like citrus-flavoured battery acid. He pressed the other can against his temple, which was getting sorer with every passing second.
"Look," said Brackenreid, perching himself on the edge of his bed. "The only thing that going to the campus police is going to do is let everybody know that you're a bloody rat." He took a big swig from his can of Red Bull. "You've got to play their game."
"What do you mean?"
"They're playing sneaky, so you've got to play sneakier. Find out who did it and get them back."
"Like, throw them in the lake?"
Brackenreid laughed. "Poetic," he said. "But a bit predictable. And, no offense, but I doubt a skinny lad like you would be able to pick someone up, let alone throw them." He loudly swallowed a mouthful of Red Bull. “Nah. I meant something worse. You’ve got to hit them where it hurts.”
“What do you mean?”
Putting his can on the floor beside his bed, Brackenreid leaned forward. “Well, if I was trying to get my goat, I’d probably start with tossing all my energy drinks. Draw in all my sketchbooks, maybe.” He pointed a finger at George. “You’ve got to figure out what matters to them and take it away.”
“But—”
“Oi—” Brackenreid looked at him sharply. “You’re not in high school anymore, Sunshine. There’s no teacher who’s going to solve your problems anymore. Chances are, your professors won’t know your bloody name. You’ve got to look after yourself now. It’s not pretty, but this is how things get done around here.”
George sighed. He took another tentative sip of Red Bull. It tasted slightly better than before. His head throbbed, and he pressed the other can to his forehead again. “They said… or well, they left a note saying they did it because of my roommate.”
Brackenreid breathed a chuckle, shaking his head. "Bloody Murdoch."
"You think he might be behind this?"
Snorting, Brackenreid smirked. “Definitely not. Murdoch’s not batting on a full wicket, but he’s not a bad person.”
“I have no clue what you just said.”
“He spends all his time thinking about coefficients and physics and all those other engineering things I don’t understand. I don’t think there’s room in his bloody head for drowning his roommate.”
“Great,” mumbled George. “Now I have to apologize for being a sarcastic dick.”
Brackenreid smirked. “If it’s any consolation, Murdoch doesn’t seem like the type of guy to hold a little attitude against you.”
Pushing himself off the bed, George’s head spun as he stood up, and he had to brace himself against the edge of Brackenreid’s desk to avoid falling. He mumbled a curse under his breath.
“Oi, you all right?”
George blinked slowly. The dizziness was subsiding, but a different sensation was growing, a very familiar feeling in the pit of his stomach. Glancing around the room, he spotted a trash can near the door and dove for it. It was only after he threw up into it that he realized it was made of wire mesh. "Shit," he breathed. “I’ll clean that up.”
Brackenreid blinked at the mess for a moment, then stood up, drained the last few swallows from his can of Red Bull and snatched a ring of keys off of his desk. “I think you’ve got a concussion,” he said. “C’mon. I’ll drive you to the hospital.”
“Pretty sure I don’t need to go to the hospital.”
“And I’m pretty sure you just puked in my bloody trash can after almost drowning and hitting your head.” He pushed George out of the door. “C’mon. I’ll let you ride shotgun.”
George didn’t remember much from the trip to the hospital. According to Brackenreid, he spent most of the car ride apologizing over and over for throwing up in his trash can. George remembered the emergency room, or well, he remembered how stupid bright it was. The doctor took one look at him and promptly diagnosed him with a concussion. She instructed Brackenreid to let George sleep and to wake him up every two or three hours.
George fell asleep in the car on the way back. Several hours later, he awoke to a gentle shaking of his shoulder. He blinked, groaning. It felt like someone was taking an ice pick to the back of his skull. He squinted up at the figure standing beside him. The dark combover and button-up shirt gave him away as his roommate, Murdoch.
“Hi,” George mumbled, rubbing his eyes. “I have a concussion.” He pushed himself upright, ignoring the dizziness.
“I know. I had to help Brackenreid get you in bed.” He breathed a laugh. “You’re really tall, you know?”
“Yeah.” George wouldn’t call himself really tall, but at over six feet, he knew that everyone else saw it that way.
Murdoch clasped his hands behind his back, sucking in a deep breath. “How do you feel?”
There was a pulsing in George’s ears, like he’d turned up his headphones too high and the bass notes were reverberating around his skull. “Pretty shitty,” he said.
Murdoch pursed his lips.
“Sorry.” George had quickly found out, when he moved in, that his roommate was about as comfortable with swearing as George was in tight clothes. Extremely uncomfortable, that is. Even the mildest, most PG curses would make him flinch. George tried his best to filter himself, but the occasional swear would sometimes sneak its way past his mental radar. His concussion had evidently made his filter even thinner than it normally was.
“Sorry?” repeated Murdoch.
“For the swearing.” George swallowed. His mouth tasted like stale crackers. “And for… earlier.”
Murdoch frowned. “What about earlier?”
“I was being a dick.” George closed his eyes. “Sorry. A jerk.”
Looking slightly confused for a moment, Murdoch suddenly blinked. “Oh, you mean when you yelled at me?” He smiled, shaking his head. “Don’t worry about it, George. You almost drowned. A little bit of yelling is understandable.” He pulled a chair out from under his desk and dragged it next to George’s bed, sitting down with a slow exhale. “If it’s any consolation, I think I know who tossed you in the lake,” he said.
“Who?” George was feeling way too spacey to say more than three words at a time.
Murdoch sighed. “There’s this guy,” he said. “Davis. Third year business major. He lives on the first floor. We…” he paused, squinting as he tried to find the right word. “We butted heads last semester.”
“Butted heads?”
“I may have punched him.”
“Why?”
Murdoch glanced at the floor. “He insulted my girlfriend,” he said.
“Girlfriend?” blinked George. This was the first he’d heard of any girlfriend. He smiled. “I kinda thought…” He fought through the dots dancing in his vision. “You liked guys.”
Murdoch blinked, looking slightly taken aback for a second, before grinning. “George, you wish I liked guys.”
George laughed. “I wish you liked guys and I was remotely in your league.” A stab of pain shot through his head. God, I need to shut up. “So, your girlfriend?”
“Yeah?”
“What’s her name?”
“Liza.”
George squeezed his eyes shut. “How long have you been dating?” The effort from a seven-word sentence made him dizzy.
“We… aren’t dating anymore.”
“You broke up?”
Murdoch looked uncomfortable, sitting like a stiff, cardboard cutout. “She’s dead,” he said quietly.
Crap. George stared at him, feeling like a terrible person for bringing it up. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Murdoch shrugged. “She was sick for a while. Lung cancer.” There was silence for several agonizing seconds.
George couldn’t say anything. What the heck was a guy supposed to say to that? Maybe if he was all there mentally, he would have thought of something nice, empathetic and helpful to say, but with his scrambled up brain, he decided not to risk it. He didn't want to dig himself into a deeper hole than he already had.
Murdoch took a deep breath, crossing one leg over the other. “Anyways, Davis is out to get me and any of my friends.” He gestured towards George. “Evidently that includes you.”
“Great,” said George, leaning back into his pillow. His mind was so confused that his thoughts jumbled up and, without any trace of sarcasm, he said, “that’s good.”
Murdoch breathed a chuckle. “You should probably go back to sleep,” he said. “I think I was actually supposed to not make you have any kind of intense conversation. Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” George closed his eyes. “I forgive you,” he said, not really knowing what he was forgiving Murdoch for, but he’d been trained to forgive people who apologized. As he drifted off, he heard Murdoch say, “at least somebody does,” but he fell asleep before he could think about what that could mean.