He Makes Me (Queen AU)

Chapter 9

Right on cue, the pair doomed for disaster stepped outside. Roger leaned in and planted a quick kiss on Jo's cheek, sending her off with a hand that lingered down her arm and fell limply to his side as he watched her hop in her car and drive off. As the vehicle turned the corner, the blonde hugged himself and scanned the neighborhood with narrowed eyes, an uneasy feeling forming in the pit of his stomach—like he was being spied on. He wasn't entirely wrong.

As his baby blues trailed towards Tim, the brunette instinctively ducked down, sitting flush against the wheel of the car he'd been using for cover. He hadn't noticed it, but ironically, the car was a police cruiser. His heart began to race, and with his chest rising up and down rapidly, he tried to listen over the sound of his quick breaths for the click of the complex door—or better yet, a slam.

He heard neither.

When what Tim could only estimate was three or four minutes passed by, he dared to take a look over the hood of the vehicle. Sure enough, the stoop was cleared—Roger having slipped back inside to the comfort and safety of his girlfriend's flat. With the coast clear, Tim shot up from behind the car and darted across the street, rushing into the flat complex that was much nicer than his and shutting the door behind him.

His eyes flickered around the entryway, looking for something that would give him some sort of indication as to which flat was Jo's. In absence of a felt board similar to—and most likely, more helpful than—the one his building had, letter boxes lined the wall. He approached the collection in hopes of finding the box labeled with her name and flat number, but much to his disdain, the labels corresponded only to the unit numbers—not the tenants.

Tim huffed in defeat and turned for the door when, suddenly, a solution crossed his mind. He slowly glanced back at the letter boxes, a devious smirk curling at the corner of his lips. Soon enough, he was sifting through the mail, going through the assorted envelopes and packages and looking for the names and addresses scribbled across them. About halfway through, he stumbled across a letter sent to Jo, Apartment 3A.

The syringe burned a hole in brunette's pocket as he threw the mail back into its place and flew up the staircase. He reached the landing for the third floor and took a moment to revel in the buzz coursing through his entire body. It was electric. In fact, he was so giddy that he almost forgot to disguise himself, stopping just before he made contact with the door with his raised fist to grab the ski mask out from his coat and pull it over his head, his eyes and mouth peeking through the holes cut into the black fabric.

With a sigh that made clear there was no turning back, Tim began to knock—relentlessly, keeping up the incessant pounding until the door swung in. The bassist barely caught the perplexed expression that washed over the drummer's face before he charged forward and tackled the unsuspecting blonde to the ground.

Roger's resistance and earnest attempt to fight back only urged Tim on, exciting the brunette who was most eager to overpower and sedate him. It was more difficult than the bassist had imagined to hold the drummer down with only one arm—the blonde thrashing underneath his attacker—but somehow, Tim managed it, using his free hand to dig the syringe out and stab its sharp needle into the blonde's exposed neck. Without a second though, he pushed the plunger down with a trembling thumb and watched the clear liquid empty into his bloodstream.

It took no time at all for the drummer's body to relax, falling limp beneath the bassist. Tim smiled, relieved in knowing that the hardest part was over and done with. Now all he had to do was get him back to his place, where he could begin to live out the fantasy he'd been constructing for over a year.

"Roger?"

Tim's head shot over his shoulder, his wide eyes descending upon an older man dressed in a flamboyantly blue, polka-dotted, long-sleeve button-up, a white sailor's hat, and a matching white, satin ascot. The forty-something-year-old man's equally wide eyes hid behind a pair of oversized glasses, and in one hand was a cigar—the other pressed against his chest in concern.

Before the stranger could react, the brunette shoved his hand into his jacket and grabbed his chest, growling, "Walk away or I'll shoot."

The older man threw his hands up in surrender, replying, "Oh, honey, I'm just walking by. I didn't see a thing."

Tim swallowed the nervous lump that formed in his throat and slipped his hand out from the coat, choking out a barely audible, "Good." He tipped his masked head toward the stairs. "Now get on."

Jo's neighbor didn't need to be told twice to bugger off, turning his back to the horrifying scene and escaping down the hall with a haste that Roger envied. If only the blonde had been able to move, even just his eyes, he could've gotten the older man to do something, or say something to someone who could, but motionless, he was subject to his friend's left-field torment.

With the neighbor out of sight, Tim clenched his jaw and picked himself up off the ground, staring down at his friend who wanted to shed a tear but couldn't—paralyzed both physically and in fear. Roger listened as the bassist's heavy footsteps walked over him and into the flat, the sound of drawers being ripped open and their contents being rifled through hitting his ears with an anguish he couldn't express.

Before long, the brunette returned, securing a tube sock around the blonde's immobile head and pulling it over his eyes. "There," he grinned triumphantly, sitting back and admiring his work. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

After pinching Roger's cheek, Tim jumped up from the ground and lifted the blonde over his shoulder, carrying him out of the apartment complex and onto the deserted street, where he rounded the corner where his car was parked and laid him down in the backseat. As the brunette stepped back and slammed the door shut, he spotted a pair of cops across the way. Smiling, he waved at them. The policemen raised unsuspecting hands back, letting the bassist slide into the driver's seat and ride off without raising an air of suspicion.

Stealing a quick glance at his passenger spread across the seat behind him, Tim smirked. "You're all mine, now, Roger—" A solemn expression washed over his face and twisted his smile into a frown, his voice dropping and his attention returning to the road as he added grimly, "—just like you should've been from the start."