He Makes Me (Queen AU)

Chapter 57

"You can't let him do it," Roger whispered harshly under his breath. He leaned against the cold bathroom wall—the pair of stockings clinging to his legs, and his torso bound uncomfortably in the flashy corset.

It was only the two of them in the small, dark room. The other three had left, heading for the stage with Tim's instructions in mind. Brian had draped an arm over each of the teenagers' shoulders, still not strong enough to support himself. They took each step as a unit, pushing through the pain to reach the opened door at the top of the stairs and immerse themselves in the fresh breeze that blew at their tired, beaten faces.

Tim stood at the sink, and had been since the boys walked out. He held onto the porcelain edges with a deadly grip, staring at himself in the smudgy mirror. His reflection was dark, and the distinction between reality and fantasy had once again started to blur. The blonde's remark had flown right over his head—the brunette too consumed by his own storming thoughts to welcome or entertain any others.

This was all wrong. Nobody was supposed to die. All Tim wanted was Roger's attention, that's it. He wanted the drummer to see him, to feel him, to know him, and if last night had proved anything, it proved that he did.

It was too late, though.

In just a few moments, the two of them would join the others on the stage. Brian would be holding Nana's gun behind his back—John having passed it to him after taking it from the old woman, distracted by Neil's lament about how he wished she would come by more often, and how Tim wasn't as mean to them in her presence. The guitarist would then wait for the right moment to pull it out, and when he did, he'd point the end of the barrel at Tim instead of Nana. He'd pull the trigger, slick with sweat, and the bullet would fly out with Tim's name written all over it. If he was lucky, the bullet would lodge itself in just the right place, knocking the brunette out in one blow. If he wasn't, he'd shoot again, and again, until the man who kidnapped, tortured, and betrayed him lay motionless on the floor in a growing pool of his own blood, staring up at his victims with lifeless eyes as they crowded above him.

Tim's knuckles turned white as he envisioned this with frightening vividity.

It couldn't end like this, but he knew he had to let the others think that it would. He had to let them think they were clever; that they could pull a quick one on their defeated captor and hit him when he was down.

However, this false surrender of power troubled Tim deeply. He couldn't stand the thought of any of them believing that they could outsmart him; that they could turn the tables on him. It was humiliating, demeaning, and just thinking about it brought a tear to his eye.

"I mean it, Tim," Roger snapped when his concern about Brian was met with silence. He peeled himself away from the wall and crossed the room, grabbing Tim's shoulder and attempting to turn him his way. However, as soon as he applied the slightest pressure, the brunette's opposite hand flew up from the sink and connected harshly with his cheek. A loud smack echoed through the basement, and Roger stumbled to the side.

"He offered," Tim reminded him coldly.

"I don't care that he offered," the blonde shot back, his stinging cheek growing red behind his trembling hand. He met the brunette's dispassionate gaze and continued through clenched teeth, "You can't let him be the one to kill her."

"Why not?"

"Why not?" Roger repeated with a chuckle, recovering from the slap and straightening his crooked posture. "Tim, it's murder!"

The bassist turned his back to the drummer and sighed, picking up the clothes from the sink's basin with a frown. "No one's gonna know."

"Everyone's gonna know," he corrected him, stepping beside the sink with arms crossed over his half-exposed chest and craning his neck to catch his captor's gaze. "You can't let him take the fall for this."

"Do you want to?" Tim lifted his head. The venomous question struck the blonde silent, and when his response got lost in the back of his suddenly dry throat, the brunette smirked. "I didn't think so."

He unbuttoned his jeans and ripped the zipper down, letting the pair of trousers fall to the floor with his underwear in a pile that pooled around his ankles. He kicked them to the side and grabbed the sheer leggings out of the sink, sticking his foot into the first one and looking up at Roger.

"It was always going to be one of us, you know," he said, folded at the waist while the drummer's brow arched in suspicion, uncertain of who he was referring to by us.

"For a while, I thought it was going to be me." The smug grin on Tim's face only stretched out farther as he straightened his back, bringing the stocking over his knee. "Sometimes, I'd even try to beat her to it." He picked up the matching sock and bent over once more, continuing, "I almost did once, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it." When he stood back up, his smile fell into a straight line. "Do you think I should've?"

Roger stared at Tim, trying to make sense of his story shrouded in vagueness even with the knowledge that it was him and his grandmother he was talking about. All he could muster, though, was a meek, "Should've what?"

"Ended it."