Roger slowly turned his head over his shoulder, his wide eyes falling upon Tim's narrowed ones. He swallowed the nervous lump in his throat, watching as his friend crossed his arms over his chest and tipped his head to the side in anticipation of an answer to his question.
"Where am I going?" he repeated, the crack in his voice working against him. The brunette nodded. "I...I'm going out for a smoke."
"Empty handed?" Tim questioned, his tone flat but his face twisted in betrayal.
A nervous chuckle slipped past Roger's lips. "Good call." He slowly gravitated towards the coat rack, refusing to lose eye contact with the bassist as he stuck his hand into his jacket and extracted the stolen box of cigarettes from its pocket. He flashed the brunette a subtly triumphant grin and gave the package a slight shake as proof of his victory, heading for the door once more when Tim cleared his throat.
"Aren't you forgetting something?" he sneered, a forced grin tugging at the corners of his tight lips.
The blonde hung his head and sighed. "'Don't think so."
"Think again."
Roger looked back at Tim and saw the lighter clenched in his raised fist. "Oh, right." Another anxious laugh emanated from the back of his throat before he dared to cross the room, pocketing the pack of smokes and shortening the distance between him and the strangely behaving bassist. The two men stared at each other, waiting for the other to strike, trying to be one step ahead. Finally, the blonde's eyes flickered down to the Zippo, and his hand instinctively reached for it—only to be seized by Tim's, whose fingers wrapped around his wrist like a snake.
"What the fuck, Tim?" Roger snapped, his eyes darting back up to meet his friend's.
Their two gazes bore into one another a bit longer, the silence in the flat deafening and the grip on the blonde's wrist growing tighter as the brunette battled the unspeakable urges raging inside of him. Eventually, he let go, and the drummer brought his wrist to his chest, cradling it in his other hand and looking at the bassist like he'd never seen him before. For all that mattered, Roger hadn't. He'd never seen Tim act this way before, or carry the tone of voice that he was. Standing before him was a stranger, and if he knew any better, he would've bolted out of there as fast as he could right then and there.
But he didn't.
Instead, Roger rubbed his aching wrist and waited for Tim to explain himself; to shake himself out of the weird daze he was in. The brunette was too far gone for that, though, his vision locked on the blonde and his thoughts swirling around the syringe he had tucked away in his back pocket.
He could see it now, reaching for it while Roger was at his most vulnerable and jumping forward, sticking the thin needle through the soft skin of the blonde's neck and pushing the plunger down with his thumb, injecting clear liquid into the throbbing vein. He could feel Roger's weight crippling into his arms as the paralyzing drug coursed through his body, his muscles tensing up but his mind screaming for relief. The thought of those baby blues staring up at him helplessly excited the brunette, but he wouldn't get it to see it through—not then, at least.
Roger scoffed at his despondent friend and escaped to the kitchen, grabbing the handle of the refrigerator—ready to gather some ice to prevent swelling—when Tim spun around and cried, "Stop!"
"Jesus Christ!" the blonde shouted. "What now?"
"You can't go in there," the bassist rattled off, quickly wedging himself between the drummer and the old appliance and guarding it with his hands extended outward.
"And why the hell not?" Roger growled, his patience wearing thin.
"Because I...I said so," Tim drawled, refusing to reveal the true reason he didn't want the blonde searching through his icebox.
The pair entered another stare down, this one much shorter than the last with Roger raising his bruising wrist and explaining, "I need ice, Tim. You fucking hurt me. The least you can do is give me some goddamn ice."
The brunette clenched his jaw, frustrated with the resistance the blonde was expressing. He wanted so badly to put an end to it and get on with his plan, but Roger wasn't like the ones before him, and therefore, Tim couldn't treat him like he did the others.
Without saying another word, Tim took one step to the side—keeping his front to the drummer—and grabbed the towel that had been draped over the counter surrounding the sink. He slid back into place, opened the fridge with one hand, and slid the other through the small crack between the door and the frame, all without breaking his gaze with the blonde. The rattle of the ice as he rifled through the dish they were in filled the air, doing little to disrupt the electric tension that buzzed between the two men.
Finally, the brunette offered Roger the makeshift cold compress, a strained smile crawling across his lips. "Here."
The blonde snatched the towel with his free hand and glared at his friend, holding the ice-filled rag to his injured wrist. The two stood there in the kitchen like that, silent, for a while, before Tim dared to leave Roger's side. The drummer's eyes followed the bassist as he retreated to the bedroom hallway for the third time that afternoon, but for the first time, he noticed the protrusion outlined in the guitarist's pants' pocket. His brow arched as he wondered if it had been there the whole time; if he hadn't noticed it when they were hanging out together prior to them retreating to the brunette's apartment. He would've if it had been there, but it hadn't. It was new, something Tim added on his first or second trip down the hallway. The question was, why?
YOU ARE READING
He Makes Me (Queen AU)
Fanfiction==COMPLETED== "Who knows who he'll make me as I lie in his cocoon . . . I'm warm and terrified, he makes me so." The flyer asked for a "Ginger Baker type" drummer, but what Smile was really looking for was the next addition to Tim's new "project." A...
