Archive of Our Own ^beta

Behind him, his wrists were bound, tied tightly with rope that chafed against his skin. It had been threaded through a loop in the wall, keeping his arms pinned and not allowing him to move very far.

Though it wasn't as if there was anywhere to go.

He was locked in a small, dark room. No windows. One door. Blood caked his skin, crusted across his neck where a knife had continuously dragged across it, the bleeding had now slowed to a slow sludge. It was not deep enough to do long-lasting damage, but enough to sting. His wrists had been rubbed raw from where he had tried to shuffle free of the binds, along with the rope bound around his ankles, skin angrily irritated. Every breath hurt, ribs creaking with each one, from the repeated kicks that his captors had so kindly blessed him with as soon as Max had been dumped on the floor.

He didn't doubt for a second that his body was littered with bruises. He was sore; any movement pained him since he had been tied down for so long. The back of his head throbbed from where it had been smashed against the wall, and his vision was slightly blurred. It would've concerned him more if he cared enough about himself, but he supposed he didn't care all that much if he had ended up in this line of work in the first place. Eh. He wasn't about to look into the details.

There was no apparent reason as to why he had been captured by a rival group, only for the fact that they felt some sick and twisted joy in torturing him, and the idea of having Max Verstappen in their ballpark meant they could ask for money.

Max scoffed. As if. His team would be with them soon enough; no one who captured him would be allowed to walk away alive. There was no need to try to ask for a ransom. Besides, they had already hurt Max, so any chance of getting money was null and void. When one of their own was hurt, his team decided that all hell broke loose, and they did whatever they could to get the injured individual back home safe.

The door creaked open, obnoxiously dragging along the concrete floor. Two of his captors entered: a man with only one eye, and Max could have sworn that he was the one who had given him that scar (perhaps explaining why Max had been taken in the first place), and a woman with a slicked-back, high ponytail. If she pulled it back any tighter, Max reckoned she would drag her hairline back with it. Any sane person would have kept that remark to themselves, but Max had proudly voiced his opinion earlier, and that was why his neck was still bleeding.

"Well, well, well," One-eye walked in haughtily. Too cocky for Max's liking. As if he would ever respect people who acted like that, all bark, no bite. "Ready for round two?"

Max said nothing. He wouldn't entertain them with snarky, back-and-forth commentary. His sarcastic side had left his body when they had decided to beat him senseless, torture him for a little bit, and then leave him in a cold, dark room.

The man scowled at him. "You're not fun."

Good. Max wasn't trying to be fun.

One-eye clicked his fingers, and the woman stepped into the room fully too, a bucket in her hands that sloshed with each step. She let it thud against the floor, handle clattering against the plastic. Max strained to see into it. A lot of water, a flannel draped on the side and an empty plastic bottle floating on top.

His body went rigid. He was no stranger to the various methods that people could use to hurt their prey. One-eye took note of the reaction, smirking, as ponytail just looked on. That was the dynamic Max had sussed out. The man was too talkative and saw it all as a game, as if he were the ringmaster. Whereas the woman was callous and calculated, as she quietly observed everything. The woman scared Max more.

"You're not a fan of a little water?" One-eye singsonged, grabbing the flannel and dunking it into the bucket. It came out sopping wet, dripping all over the floor as he approached. Another click of the man's fingers, and Ponytail moved herself next to Max. Strong hands wrapped around his neck and jaw, bending his head back at an awkward angle. Max pushed; he tried to twist and turn out of the grip, but he was tired, tied up, and unable to do so.

Yeah. Ponytail definitely scared him more than One-eye.

The flannel was draped over his face, and the coolness seeped into his skin. Max, once again, was shrouded in darkness. He took deep breaths in through his nose, exhaling the best he could. It was an attempt to catch his breath before it was forcefully taken away.

Plastic crinkled. The bottle gurgled as it was filled up. Then, without prior warning, cold water was being poured over his face slowly. Methodically.

Max held his breath. He hoped that the bottle would run out. It was a finite resource, after all. However, annoyingly, One-eye might have acted brash and cocky, but he seemed to know what he was doing. Eventually, chest tight, Max's body caved and he took in a breath, an accidental sharp intake through his nose.

It burnt. As the water hit his sinuses, he coughed, his mouth automatically opening, which allowed more water to force its way into him. Spluttering, his chest heaved as his body started to automatically panic. As it tried to take in oxygen, it was met with the seemingly unending rush of water. His lungs ached. With each struggle, they strained even harder, his body shaking as he attempted to free himself from the grip.

He could hear laughter. Mean and manic.

It would be a sad, sorry way to go, he thought darkly. Drowning on a water-soaked flannel by two lackies who were just having fun with him. Max had fought tooth and nail to get to where he was. He had done things no man would proudly talk about, and he had also done things he did proudly talk about. What he hadn't expected was to find love within the dark world he worked in. He had found a group that he, begrudgingly, called his family. Usually, groups like that didn't come naturally in their line of work. Yet, somehow, he had managed it.

And now he was going to die. He would never see his family again.

Dizziness took over, and Max felt himself slip until, suddenly, the water stopped and the cloth was torn away. Air rushed into him. He hacked violently. With his head still positioned under the woman's hands, the water just spurted out and coated his face. Mixed with drool and the involuntary tears, since he had absentmindedly started crying as he had struggled for oxygen on the verge of death.

Though midway through a shoddy gasp for air, the flannel had smothered him again, and the process restarted.

The cycle occurred several times. Water drizzled onto him, suffocating him, bringing him close to passing out. Then he was granted a short reprieve, a faux hope that it was the time as he tried to stabilise his breathing. Only to be interrupted midway, plunged back under the water and struggling once again.

Maybe it was the fifth or sixth round when the cycle broke; he had lost track, he was exhausted.

A loud thud echoed down the hall, and One-eye paused mid-pour. The sound hadn't been expected by his captors; that much was clear. Max laughed weakly from under the flannel. It morphed into a pained cough as he fought not to inhale more of the dampness.

"Was that—" the man started, but he was promptly cut short by a sudden influx of footsteps.

Max felt a rush of air past him, a pained grunt from One-eye as a scuffle unfolded. There was a gunshot. Then another. The woman's hands were gone, and Max's head tipped forward. It was quiet for a moment before someone was dragging the flannel off of him. He met green eyes, familiar. His love. His family.

"I made them all pay for what they did to you, mon cœur," Charles ran a hand through his damp hair as Max forcibly rasped, lungs repelling the last traces of water. Charles continued, "No one survived. I made sure of that."

There was someone else behind Max. A knife worked its way through the ropes at his wrists. Max winced when finally free, rolling the joints and examining the raw skin that was pulled and jagged. He glanced over to the second person, Daniel, now digging the knife into the bonds around his ankles.

"You know," Daniel started, "Lewis told us that if we could bring one person back alive, it would've been great for us to get information from them."

"Yes, but they hurt my Maxy," Charles said scornfully. Max was finally freed from his binds. He slumped forward and took in a croaky breath. "And they were so rude about it, Daniel. Do not lie to me, you wanted them dead too, no?"

"Well, yeah, of course. But now we're going to have to explain to Lewis and Seb why we killed everyone when those weren't the orders."

"Leave it to me."

Then both Charles and Daniel were helping Max up, cradled between the two of them, his arms around both their shoulders to keep him upright. Max wasn't a man of heartfelt words. But, with his chest finally settled and the realisation of what the worst outcome could have been today, he managed out a small: "Thank you. For coming to get me."

Daniel blinked, then a grin spread across his face. "Aww, does our little Max secretly like us! Look at you going all soft on us!"

"Shut it, Daniel, or I'll bash your skull in," he snapped. There was no real threat behind his words. They all knew that.

"Now there's the Max we all know and love," Daniel chuffed amusedly, and used his free hand to ruffle Max's soaked hair, despite the younger man's protests.

Quietly, Charles planted a kiss on Max's cheek. "Of course we would come for you," he whispered. "We stick together, no? And I don't think I can live without you anymore. Or the rest of the group either. Is that silly?"

"No, not at all," Max mumbled back. Then, hastily, as if the vulnerability would cause him to break, he added, "I don't think I can live without you guys either. We may all be fucked up, but we're all messed up together, you know? Like— well, like a fucked up family."

A beat.

Daniel beamed, "Aww, so Max does really care about us—"

"Listen, I will kill you if you don't shut up right now—"

Daniel and Charles broke out into a fit of laughter. Max was cold, limping, and his body hurt all over, but he couldn't help but smile along with them.