Chapter Text
TK frowns, trying to keep his sigh inaudible to the phone pressed against his face. He takes a seat on the couch. “Well don’t burn yourself out, baby. The same information will still be sitting there tomorrow morning.”
“I know,” Carlos says, and the stress in his voice is palpable. TK imagines him sitting at his desk and rubbing one hand over his brow, frowning over papers. “I just…”
“I know,” TK says gently. “I don’t blame you, I really don’t. I’m just…” worried about you. “Well. Will I see you tonight? I have a shift tomorrow that starts at eight.”
“Yeah,” Carlos says, “I’ll be back before you go to sleep. Look, I’m really sorry. I know it’s been a while since we’ve had dinner together. I’m just… in a weird headspace right now. I guess there’s no point being at home if I’m still caught up in work, and not really home. I think I need just a couple more hours, then I’ll see you, okay?”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” TK says, and he means it. “And who says we can’t have dinner together? I had a late lunch. Dinner will be ready when you get home, alright?”
“I love you,” Carlos says, and he sounds less strained. “Alright.”
“I love you too,” TK says, and feels that the weight on his own chest has been relieved, too. “See you- oh, wait - would you mind picking up some ice cream on the way home?”
“Those caramel ones?” Carlos asks, and receives an affirmative hum. “Yeah, I’ll see what I can do. We needed some stuff anyway.”
TK smiles into his phone as they say goodbye, then hangs up and puts it in his pocket. Of course he’s worried about Carlos, but he really doesn’t know what to do about it - is Carlos simply doing his job, or is he obsessing too heavily over the murder of his father? But isn’t that a situation that excuses any sort of obsession? If TK was in Carlos’s place, he wouldn’t stop until the culprit was found.
No; all things considered, Carlos has been maintaining a surprisingly healthy work-life balance. Though the two seem even more intertwined than usual, as of late.
TK shakes his head, snapping himself out of it. Thinking in loops hasn’t gotten him anywhere useful over the past six months of Carlos’s time as a detective, and he doubts it ever will. He should clear his head.
Carlos won’t be home for hours, he has plenty of time before he has to start dinner - and he’s considering just throwing some mac and cheese in a dish anyway, he can’t be too bothered tonight - so he laces up his running shoes and heads outside, locking the front door behind him. When he gets out of the lift and walks through the lobby, he realises it’s later than he thought - the streetlights aren’t on yet, but night is creeping in. So it’ll have to be a quick run around the block.
He keeps a steady pace and heads down one street, with the intention to do a short loop. But then the lights at a crossing change so he could just go ahead and take a longer route - and what’s the harm in that? He hasn’t been for a run in ages; it feels too nice to cut so short. The streets are well-lit and there’s at least a half-hour til it really gets dark, so he won’t be tripping over his own feet for a while yet.
TK works up quite a sweat and by the time he reaches the next crossing, a fair way from his street, he’s grateful to pause for the lights to change and catch his breath. Running a hand through his sweaty hair, TK idly observes the quiet street - then his gaze snaps toward the car creeping down it. A grey SUV, slowing down to approach despite the green light. Didn’t he see that car a block back?
Adrenaline still pumping, TK feels unsettled. Though he shouldn’t be - it’s really nothing. His brain tells him he’s overreacting, but his gut tells him to haul ass. So he compromises and turns back the way he came, jogging away from the crossing and down the street. And from behind him, he hears the car go through the lights at a regular speed. See? It’s nothing. But then the SUV takes a left turn to go down his street.
Still perfectly excusable, just a coincidence. TK swallows, the anxious ache in his stomach growing. He turns around again, jogging back to the crossing in time to get a green light and head over it. The patch of darkness between two streetlights feels all-consuming - since when did the sun set? He swipes a wrist over his forehead and continues jogging. It’s quiet here, but just three blocks away is one of the main streets, always teeming with cars. If he can just get there, it’ll put his mind at ease. It’s in the opposite direction that the SUV was going, so of course he’ll be fine.
He hears a car behind him again. His stomach flips. He itches to look over his shoulder, but can’t work up the nerve to. Instead he keeps on running, picking up his pace. Around another corner, he’s nearly at the main road. Why is it so quiet here? Why aren’t people coming home from work? Apart from the distant hum of the busy atmosphere blocks away, the only sounds that fill the street are his feet hitting the ground, his breathless pants, and the slow crunch of tires over a road. Getting closer, getting slower. But it could be a different car, couldn’t it?
TK finally leans into the impulse to look back, and sure enough it’s the SUV. The same SUV he saw at the crossing, the same SUV he saw ten minutes ago. And, come to think of it, he’s pretty sure he saw it parked outside his apartment block when he left. And maybe when he got home in the afternoon, too.
He keeps moving, keeps running, but feels frozen. Where can he go? His heart thuds painfully in his chest. Inhaling painfully for more air, he pushes his legs to go faster. When running, he knows he shouldn’t breathe only from his mouth, lest breathing turns into hyperventilating. He’s pretty sure he’s hyperventilating. Can he turn around, run past the car? He can turn back faster than a car can. But god it’s so slow now, it’s nearly stopped, and he can’t bring himself to go right past it. It’s right up against the pavement, and TK’s legs and lungs are burning.
Car doors open behind him and TK is fit to throw up. He keeps running, keeps running, but his jog is no faster than walking now. His knees buckle. Footsteps race up behind him. Please let them pass, please let me be overly paranoid. His hands are shaking. His whole body is shuddering.
Strong hands land on his arms and back, and TK thrashes. But the person behind him yanks him around in a circle, making him face the car. They barely grunt against TK’s best shin kicks. His arms are firmly, painfully pinned back. He stumbles, falling to his knees, but he can’t break free. And in front of him, when he looks up, isn’t just the SUV with its passenger and back door flung open - there’s a man, and in his hand is a gun, pointed right toward him.
TK blanches. “I don’t… I don’t have any money. I’m sorry.”
The man behind the gun laughs. He’s wiry and pale, long hair tied back in a ponytail. Above one eyebrow is an ornate tattoo of a cross. He looks familiar, but TK can’t place it.
“I don’t want your money,” the man says, and takes a step forward, holding the gun an inch from his face.
TK’s whole body clenches, his lips trembling. He squeezes his eyes shut as the cool metal barrel presses against his forehead.
“I’m…” TK inhales. “What do you want from me?”
“You just need to come along with me and my friends for a little drive,” the man says. His voice is mocking, playful. “Are you gonna sit still in the car?”
“Y-yes,” TK mumbles.
The gun presses harder into his face, then draws back. The man laughs. “Of course you’ll sit still. You know what happens if you don’t.”
TK’s eyes open again, in time to watch the man tuck his gun underneath his belt. He jerks his head toward the passenger seat, and the guy pinning TK’s arms suddenly yanks him up to his feet, strongarming them both the few steps to the car. Under instructions from the gun-wielding man, the guy behind TK pats him down, yanks the phone and keys from his pocket, and shoves him into the car with enough force for TK to slide through to the other side. Then the guy gets in beside him and shuts the door.
TK sits up straight, hands splayed innocently out in front of him. The guy beside him is huge - his bald head nearly grazes the car’s ceiling. He wears just a white singlet and jeans.
The car reverses suddenly and TK jerks forward, barely stopping his head from colliding with the back of the seat in front of him. The man with the gun and face tattoo is in the passenger seat, and a third man is behind the wheel in the seat in front of TK.
TK reaches slowly up to over one shoulder, and the guy beside him watches suspiciously.
“Seatbelt,” TK croaks out, and slowly pulls it over himself, clicking in the attachment.
The man in the passenger seat snorts a laugh. To the driver, he points at a corner up ahead. “Alright, stop there.”
The gunman hands TK’s phone over to him. “Unlock it.”
He doesn’t exactly have a choice, so TK goes to type in his pin. But his hands are shaking too badly to hit the right buttons, and after a few attempts his phone falls into his lap. When he picks it back up, the guy beside him takes the phone and looks questioningly at him. TK mumbles his password, and the guy hands the phone back to the man in front of him.
The gunman taps around for a moment, then pulls out a pen and scrawls something on the back of his hand. Then he opens his window, leans through it, and tosses TK’s phone and keys into the trash can right outside. He gestures for the driver to continue, and the writing on his hand looks like digits. A phone number?
“No, no, idiot, go the other way,” the gunman hisses to the driver, jabbing a finger toward the windscreen. “You really want to get stuck in traffic? No, I didn’t think so. So go around. Moron.”
TK’s hands eventually settle in his lap, each movement carefully tracked by the guy beside him. His palms are sweaty - hell, all of him is still sweaty - and he laces his fingers together, picking at his nails. The car turns through quiet streets, and eventually TK can’t tell where they are. Apart from occasional spat instructions by the guy in the front, and the sound of his own heart hammering in his chest, the drive remains silent. A couple cars pass them, but TK doesn’t dare to give any sort of signal. He just looks at them, eyes wide, and hopes someone will, impossibly, take notice of his predicament.
“Speed limit, fuckwit.” The guy with the gun reaches over and taps on the speedometer.
What had Carlos said, while investigating kidnappings? What move is best for TK to make? He’s outnumbered three-to-one, at least one of his captors is armed, and he feels too shaky to even attempt to unlock his car door. He runs a hand anxiously over his scalp, a few loose hairs catching between his fingers, and-
That’s it. Carlos talked about finding evidence of the missing person. Hair, blood, clothing, belongings - TK should leave as much of his DNA behind as possible, in case it helps them find him.
TK imagines how his case will be investigated. No one will know he’s missing for another three to four hours, when Carlos gets home. It’ll take a while before his disappearance warrants a call to the police.
His phone and keys are in a bin a few blocks away from his home - they’ll be able to find the phone easily. Carlos will probably do that alone, before he thinks to involve the police. Then what?
Security footage - there must be cameras somewhere, catching TK jogging and the SUV a few streets behind. Maybe even footage of him getting forced into the car. And then…
TK’s imagination runs out. So he scrapes his hands through his hair, trying to catch any loose hairs. The guy beside him barely pays TK any mind, as he itches his scalp and struggles to yank out some strands.
Eventually, they pass a few streets TK recognises, and he realises they’re in the northmost areas of Austin - they just took the long way round and avoided the traffic. Which probably made the drive quicker - it’s something Carlos always suggests when they drive to see his parents.
Carlos. Fuck. Poor Carlos, what will he think when he gets home to an empty house? TK isn’t sure if the droplet that runs past his nose is sweat or a tear. Either way it tickles, but he doesn’t raise a hand to wipe it. The drop slides down then hangs off his top lip, and he wonders distantly if today is the last day he’ll sweat, cry, breathe. Did he eat his last meal today? See his last sunset? Say his final “I love you” to his husband?
They make it onto the highway, and TK’s frown grows deeper. How far are they going?
TK thinks. What else can he leave in the car? Hair, done. Clothing - he doesn’t have anything he can leave behind. Maybe his shoelace? But no, he shouldn’t hinder his ability to run. And he can’t unlace his shoe while being watched, anyway. Blood?
There’s a little, half-healed cut on the inside of his smallest finger, where he nicked himself while cutting fruit the other day. Not a big wound by any means, but placed in an irritating spot. He was glad when it had finally started to close over. Now he picks at it, trying to reopen it.
TK presses his stinging hand into the car seat, a bit of blood oozing from his finger. More than when he’d initially cut himself. Enough, he hopes, for someone to find. It’s slightly visible against the grey seat.
They’ve been driving for well over an hour now, TK thinks. It’s pitch black outside, other than the brake lights up ahead. The booming of his heart, the trembling anxiety, has settled slightly into a deep, deep stomach ache and the thrumming beat of his heart in his ears.
He hasn’t spoken a word since getting in the car. Would it hurt to ask something? He takes a few minutes to work up the courage, then asks, his voice cracking, “Where are we going? What do you want from me?”
The wiry man laughs. “You don’t need to know either of those things. But hey, I’m a reasonable guy, I’ll tell you that I don’t want anything from you.”
‘Reasonable’ isn’t the first adjective that springs to TK’s mind, considering the guy kidnapped him, but he swallows and presses on. “So… why?”
“I need something from your husband. Something rather important to him, and to me.” He cranes his neck, turning around to face TK. His eyes are wide, blue, and empty. “Do you think you’re more important to him? I guess we’ll see.”
He turns back around and laughs again. So Carlos is involved, TK thinks, heart dropping. It doesn’t sound like the man wants money. So it would be through his police work, almost definitely. Maybe he put the gunman behind bars?
More time passes in silence. “Do we go through Waco?” the driver asks eventually. TK hadn’t heard him speak before, and the guy has a high, scratchy voice that makes him sound young.
Waco is nearly a two hour drive from TK’s place, which gives him a rough idea of how long they’ve been driving. And it means they’re definitely going north, just as he suspected.
“Nah, go around. Take the next exit, then I’ll direct you from there.”
“You could just drive,” the driver suggests.
“Yeah I could, couldn’t I? But I’m not. Just keep your damn mouth shut and drive.”
TK shuts his eyes and lets out a shuddering breath. He yearns, so badly, to be home. Sitting on his couch, peacefully flicking through TV channels, feeding Lou II. Tossing mac and cheese into a pan to make a mediocre dinner. He longs to hear the keys in the door, to greet Carlos with a hug and a kiss.
Tears spring to his eyes. He and Carlos haven’t had their free days line up in a while, so they’ve only seen each other in snippets of waking time over the past week - mostly, TK arrived home and wrapped himself around his sleeping husband, or went to bed alone and woke up with his husband wrapped around him.
Last Wednesday was the most recent full day they spent together. It was a warm, sunny day, so they went out to the park to enjoy the nice weather, since the autumn chill has been creeping up on Austin. They sat on a bench together, hands intertwined, talking and laughing, leaves drifting through the air, golden light shining down on them.
Carlos had pointed a husky across the park out to him, and turned back to smile at TK’s delighted reaction. TK can’t imagine a more beautiful thing than Carlos’s smile - the way his eyes crinkle, the slight show of his dimples. TK wishes, beyond anything else, to see that smile again.
TK thanks the darkness of the car as tears slip down his face, and leans his head against the window. The churning anxiety has given way to full-body exhaustion. The shivers of fear have turned into shivers of cold - the sweat from his run, and the nervous sweat, have both left him damp and freezing. His limbs ache, his head aches, his whole body aches.
The gunman directs the driver, off the highway and through a web of empty streets. It’s rural, but TK loses track of which direction they’re going by the time they break out onto another highway.
“I need to use the bathroom,” the other guy in the backseat says. It’s the first time he’s spoken - his voice is surprisingly soft.
“You need a potty break?” the gunman snorts. “Too bad.”
“We’ll be stopping soon, Roy,” the driver says, hesitantly. “Felix can use it there.”
“Whatever,” the gunman, Roy, says.
Roy. Recognition makes TK jerk up straight. He knows why the face struck him as familiar - he’s seen the guy’s mugshot.
Carlos was poring over papers, sorting them into folders on the coffee table. TK was sitting on the couch beside him, idly scrolling through his phone. At some points he’d looked up. One of the folders was full of printed suspect profiles, each a few pages paperclipped together. The top paper’s mugshots were of a man - thin greying beard, blue eyes, and a cross tattoo over one eyebrow.
Carlos, occasionally speaking to TK about the papers, had pointed at that one. Roy. He’d been told the full name, though the surname now escapes TK’s memory. Carlos had said that the guy had been out for a few years, with no recent arrests. He was involved with some gang that Carlos was investigating, in relation to his father’s death.
TK rolls his shoulders, in an attempt to loosen the stiff muscles. With the movement, he spots a clock over the centre of the dashboard - 9:46 p.m. He left the house nearly three hours ago. Carlos will be arriving home soon, or already has.
He slumps back into his seat, heart yearning. He’s an unrestrained prisoner, but unable to make any moves without endangering his own life, and possibly Carlos’s. What if someone else seizes Carlos when he gets home? TK flexes his hands, spins his wedding band around its finger. He doesn’t care what happens to him, so long as Carlos is fine. His captors have business with Carlos, but he hopes, prays, that they won’t go after him directly.
Far from home, lost and alone, grief settles deep in TK’s chest. The car speeds on along the highway, the world pitch black out his window.