He Makes Me (Queen AU)

Chapter 10

Hey guys! Sorry for the majorly delayed update. I got swept away in my schoolwork, but now the semester's over and I finally graduated! Things are still pretty hectic, but I'm hoping to write more now that I have one less thing to worry about. I'm planning on publishing a new story soon too, so keep an eye out for that! Thanks for reading, and I hope you like the chapter 😊

Denied of both sight and feeling, anyone's guess was as good as the blonde's as to what went on while Tim drove him to and brought him inside the building he had no desire to return to ever again. Roger didn't know that, though, and wouldn't for a while. After all, it was only when he had been laid down that his two lost senses came back, the effect of the serum starting to wear off.

The first to return was his sense of touch. While still engulfed in a world of darkness, the bitter cold of the metal table that his body lay against nipped at his bare back and the undersides of his arms and legs. He still found it difficult to move them, though, his limbs heavy; held down by gravity. Their imagined weight wasn't the only hindrance to the blonde's mobility, however. There were also the leather straps secured around his wrists and ankles, ensuring his place on the icy slab.

Footsteps echoed in his ears, growing louder and softer as they wandered around the room. He turned his head left and right, trying to pinpoint the sound that instilled in him an anxiety that not even his final exams would bring about, but his rising nerves were—to an extent—abated by the low chuckle that cut through the pattering steps. While there was a sinisterness to the breathy laugh, it gave the blonde some hope, because if there was a laugh, then there was a voice that would follow, and that voice would provide him with a hint as to who it was that attacked him. However, all that sounded was the squeaking of a handle and the eerily familiar, stunted, harsh flow of water that furrowed Roger's brows behind the tube sock still tied around his head.

Suddenly, the now steady stream of water was interrupted—by what, the blonde couldn't tell. It had to be something small, though, for it wasn't collecting the water that poured from the spout. It was simply cutting through it, like when washing silverware or hands.

After an immeasurable amount of time passed, the handle squeaked again, followed by the sound of metal tapping against porcelain. A brief moment of silence then permeated the air before the footsteps started back up, meandering about the room and being replaced by the sound of what Roger could only assume was a microwave. They returned once again, approaching the blonde and stopping by his side. Roger flinched as the clink of metal and porcelain—this time resonating at a lower frequency—rung in his ear, the tube sock being ripped from his head and regifting him his sight. The gesture was bittersweet, though, a bright light blinding him almost instantaneously.

He squeezed his eyes shut and attempted to bring his hands to his face, but because of the restraints, he couldn't. His eyes popped wide open in fear, the world around him abruptly coming into focus. Dingy, brick walls that were meant to be white appeared gray, and the bright, flickering light shining directly in his face hung loosely from the ceiling above him. This place was what nightmares were made of; Roger knew because he'd dreamt it before. He had even dreamt of the face looking down on his, and the deranged smile twitching at the corners of his lips. It never scared him before because he knew it was just a dream, and he wanted so badly to be passed out on Jo's couch, having this terrible dream with the television playing a rerun of Coronation Street and the bottles of beer he drank while she was gone scattered about the floor; but he knew this wasn't a dream. This was real, very real.

Roger swallowed the lump that formed in his dry throat, staring up into the eyes that he struggled to recognize. He'd seen them countless times before—at the audition for the band, in the corner store he'd gained a bad reputation at, and across from him at the university's library—but they never once looked like this. They belonged to Tim but they weren't his. They were someone else's, someone who looked like the bassist but wasn't.

"Hey, what—" he tried to speak, the words he wanted to say getting lost in the desert situated at the back of his mouth.

"Shh," his captor advised, reaching out a hand and bringing a finger to the blonde's lips. "Don't say anything. I'm not done yet."

Done with what? Roger thought to himself, watching in fear as Tim lifted his finger away from his mouth and retrieved the bowl that he'd placed next to the blonde, grabbing the flat, wide, wooden stick resting against its edge and picking it up out of the dish—a string of hot wax dripping from its end. The sight alone was enough to bring back the drummer to his normal self, the placating effect of the drugs overpowered by the adrenaline pumping through his veins. He squirmed on the table and tugged at the restraints, desperate to escape his imminent fate, but not only was it imminent. It was inevitable.