Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The world had, quite frankly, gone to shit. It had been just gradual enough for it to seem natural, though the power had always been given to the side of the rich and socially elite. This power had eventually tipped the scales in the favour of the government and those benefiting from it rather than the majority of the working people and their diverse needs. And this sudden imbalance had lead to revolt. The revolt had been far less gradual, starting with smaller riots, groups of people forming tight knit groups to protect those within them. But they only got larger, more frenzied, desperate and violent, leaving those in power with no other choice but to intervene to keep their place on the ladder they had created. So, they broke a few rungs, killing thousands. This only seemed to make the tension between the two groups worse, and this lead to the formation of rebel groups that were stronger in foundation, larger, and more widespread in their influence.

One such group was lead almost exclusively by two men, via the use of radio broadcasts and internet communications. While they were the ringleaders, each community on their side had people who would organize rallies and riots, plan destruction of the property and allies of the higher-ups, and keep as many rebels safe as possible. With that said, the leaders were on their own, it seemed. A partnership, a family of two. Vulnerable. An easier target, if the general public wasn't so frightful of these rebel groups. They knew they wouldn't be attacked by just any civilian, and so they allowed their anti-government propaganda to flow freely, their opinions unbarred by anything, as if they dared anyone to come near.

But, due to this, eventually someone did.

This someone was Ian. An agent of the government. Though he wasn't exactly high up, he was above the average civilian, even if his bosses did consider him entirely disposable. Disposable, but useful. He wasn't ever shown on television, his involvement hidden, so he wouldn't be suspected strictly by appearance. They were to send him in, after these unknown rebels, and have him destroy and disband them the best he could from the inside. Whether that was by brutal force or quiet analysis remained to be seen. Even the proper information in these times was considered valuable and dangerous. Ian had no choice but to agree, even if he didn't want to. Refusal would mean immediate death, and he personally would've much rather died a hero’s death anyways. At the hands of the rebels, he would have at least been thought to have given a valiant effort. So he agreed, and began the appropriate preparations. Their last broadcast was traced to be located in the centre of the slums of the city. The common-folk’s territory, overrun by poverty and general crime and chaos. Ian would be sent there, but posing as a civilian on their side of the war. To catch them before they relocated again, they had to act quickly.

But, Ian couldn't pass as a civilian without some modification. He was too clean, too well dressed, too unmarred and seeming too healthy. They would have to rough him up a bit. And this was the part he dreaded. It wasn't hard to understand why.

After he was dressed in the appropriate commoners clothes, they had to rough him up. Security personnel were far from gentle with him. He was struck repeatedly with a board across the body, until he laid prone on the floor. After this, he was made to kneel, and take a punch, the ring the assailant wore catching his lip and cutting through it, leaving it swollen and bleeding. Though that wound ceased flowing after a short while, the next to be inflicted would not. Ian couldn't calm his trembling when the knife was unsheathed. He was held by the arms as he was slashed at, cries and muffled grunts of his agony reverberating through the room and the hallway it was attached to. It wasn't uncommon to hear these sounds anymore, desensitization was so rampant that nobody would've so much as bat an eye had they heard.

When all was said and done, he had impressive bruises, and shallow-yet-significant cuts along his torso. He gave a wary smile to the security personnel as they escorted him, stoic as ever, to the vehicle he would be dropped off in. Despite his ebbing pains, they would drop him off a few blocks away, so he could walk through the neighbourhood and seem more organic when he arrived at his designated location. This he did, getting all but shoved out of the car into the dark before it sped off, picking himself up off the concrete shakily before starting the trek. The area didn't put him at any sort of ease, each new street only seeming worse than the last as he neared the centre of it all. Most businesses were just husks, smashed windows, the interiors trashed and looted. Homes seemed in about the same state, some windows boarded up. Ian assumed these fortified buildings housed civilians. He tried not to linger, and his hand lingered over where the knife he had was concealed on his person more often than not. Trash was everywhere, and the smell of the area was that of something distinctly unpleasant, and gasoline fumes.

Soon enough, he neared the building. An office building, bottom windows smashed, some on the second floor meeting the same fate. It loomed over the others, easily twenty floors high, and though it could likely house many, it didn't seem like there was anyone about. So, on edge as ever, he took a few steps inside the front door. Upon further inspection, besides the permanently fixed reception desk, a torn-to-shit couch, and a few chairs upturned and scattered, there wasn't anything in the room. No other furniture. No supplies. No people. Or at least, it seemed that way.

It didn't take long, maybe only a minute or two of Ian being in the building before he could hear deliberate footsteps. Oh, he wasn't alone, that was for sure. And these footsteps were surely intentional, whoever was making them was definitely cocky, knowing how their footsteps would echo on the linoleum in the otherwise eerie silence of the deserted building. It was designed to fit droves of people. And now it just seemed there were two. No, three, one set of footsteps breaking from the rhythm of the other, near sprinting down the hallway to his right. The other was walking, calm, calculated. Ian stayed back towards the entrance, chewing his fat lip so it bled, tugging his tattered tank top so that it pulled free from where it had dried to his wounds, hissing as the action broke several of the wounds open yet again. He needed to look like he was seriously hurt. And though he could be considered it to almost any normal person, he knew there was a decent chance he'd have to actually be dying for either of this pair to care about him in the slightest. Presuming this was them, of course.

Ian tried to make his breath as irregular as possible, near panting as he managed a pained expression. He knew he had his blade tucked away on his person, accessible. But that didn't stop his heart pounding in his chest with adrenaline. This was it. The faster footsteps soon came careening into the room, a figure sliding sideways to slow himself on the tile, facing the entrance. He was holding something, wielding it above his waist with fervour, and after a moment of his eyes adjusting to the sudden addition to the musty darkness, Ian saw it was a bat. It, being deadly, was the first thing he noticed. Even more concerning was the fact that this bat seemed to have long, sharp nails sticking out every which way along the body and tip. Some were just silhouette, rusted over from water and wear, but some gleamed in the dim light, as if they had been polished. Or, maybe they were just new. Regardless, Ian swallowed thickly, not sure what to do or say. For once in his career of being stoic and strong of will, he felt nervous, almost scared, but he kept the pained yet apprehensive expression. He didn't need to fight them off. Not if they ended up pitying him.

The man with the bat spoke, aggressive, loud, and with a somewhat heavy Australian accent. “State your business, cunt, or lose your fucking head…!” Ian almost shuddered at the volume. Christ, this guy didn't seem to have any sort of calm in him at all. Raising a hand wearily, he choked out some words, trying to sound weaker than he actually felt.

“Fuck, man, easy…! I-I’m...Hurt, okay?” It was almost shocking the way the bat-wielding maniac before him seemed to immediately soften somewhat. His expression became casual, less wild, though Ian couldn't really see it all that well. This man was in the dark, concealed enough to obscure features by the shadows. Ian, from the light, could still tell that his body language eased up significantly. And then, still holding the bat in a position to allow ease of swinging, though not as directly threatening, he stepped forwards and into the light. Ian blinked.

This was...Not at all what he had expected. A part of him wanted it to be some older guy with a beard and more tattoos to count, with fucked up teeth and some kind of horrifying scar or something. What he saw instead, was Max. One of the prime influences of the rebel movement. A young man, wearing a dirty tank top that clung right to his skin, and-were those leather pants? Whatever they were, they were slightly shiny, and very tight. Ian felt a sort of awkward heat rise in his face.

What was he, fucking gay?

Who dressed like that, if they weren't? This all felt very strange, as if he were in the wrong place altogether. But, regardless, Ian, hunched over and exaggerating his pain, looked up to the face of the man. And found himself looking at a very feminine boy. It almost killed his willpower and forced a laugh from him. This guy? It was this guy who had his higher ups shaking in their boots, so to speak? No fucking way. Sure, he had some stubble, but the roundness of his cheeks and the plump pinkness of his lips, along with his long and messy hair really didn't scream “dangerous rebel” to Ian. He was just so pretty- No, Ian didn't want to think of it that way. Effeminate, maybe. Soft. Yeah. Max seemed soft. Ian silently found it hilarious, caught up in the absurdity until the rebel spoke. Blunt, but with less of a manic “I'm-going-to-bash-your-head-in” vibe to it.

“You got yourself hurt, didya?” He seemed to scoff, then eyed Ian up and down, lingering maybe a moment too long in areas. Not that Max was known to anyone else to be subtle. “How'd you manage that, ya cunt?”

Ian felt a indignant sort of anger rise in him at the insult, but held his tongue, instead retelling the story he had rehearsed hundreds upon hundreds of times before this whole mission started, punctuating with wheezing breaths and pained huffs. “Got swarmed, some group of assholes...More than I could handle myself. Fought my way out and ran here..” It was all a lie, but Ian knew how to deliver a lie, even one of this caliber, as if his life depended on it. And in this situation, it did.

Max didn't say anything, giving a sort of “hmph” in response, wordlessly lowering his bat a bit more, still gripping it firmly. To him, Ian did look like he was pretty well beat, with the bruises and fat lip, and the slashing cuts across areas of his torso. Consider his pity earned. That was half of it, at least. With how his muscle shirt was cut from the alleged attack, Ian’s skin poked out from beneath the fabric in places. This revealed a damn fit body, and Max definitely wanted an excuse to touch it. He would be the one to administer first aid. Not just because he would be adamant it be him, but because it was unlikely anyways that his partner-in-crime would show any interest in helping to that extent out of sheer lack of care. That partner being George, who had now made his way to the entrance of the building, walking towards them in a collected manner. This rebel was also wearing leather, but it was a jacket. He was sensible enough to wear jeans, it seemed, unlike his seemingly sleazy counterpart. But, the concern was quickly back for Ian when he noticed what George held in his hand. A pistol, some model he only remembered vaguely because it had been outlawed forever ago. It was easy to conceal, near silent in its firing.

Ian paled a bit, but he tried to play it off as blood loss, wiping his hand through the trickle on his torso and grimacing. Yeah, his knife had nothing on these guys. Max responded to his partner's quizzical and annoyed glance with just a simple statement and a question.

“The cunt got himself beat to shit, Joj. We got some spare bandages?” George grunted a bit, closer now, still holding the gun, comfortably, as if it were an extension of his body.

“Somewhere. You look for ‘em.” He eyed Max, clearly unimpressed. And then his gaze was on Ian, deep and clearly distrusting. It was almost as if he knew Ian was lying, and it nearly made the scrawny man shudder. Nearly, but not quite. He was just being paranoid, Ian told himself, nobody knew, nobody except himself and his higher-ups. And then, as suddenly as he was there, George was gone, clearly unconcerned with Ian, not imagining him being any sort of danger. Though, he did glance back a couple times, pointedly, on his way out. Max didn't even bother to watch him go, this seemed to be part of the regular nature of their interactions, from what Ian could tell. The rebel took another step closer, giving a sort of crooked smile, speaking more casually now. He was clearly trying to be friendly, but it wasn't helping Ian’s unease at all. Not one bit.

“Let’s go find those bandages then, yeah? I think I know where we've hid them.” Ian cleared his throat, and straightened up with a small nod, wincing minutely at the sudden shift of the skin around his wounds. The blood was yet again soaking into his clothing, dampening more and more of the fabric. He didn't want to risk his safety by continuing to speak, as tempting as it was to try to pry already. Being nosy was clearly not going to end well for him. So he didn't dare. Even as Max walked him down a hallway in uncomfortable silence. A sharp turn or two later, they were situated in an office, Ian sitting atop a desk as instructed as Max rummaged about in a filing cabinet, eventually pulling out a plastic shopping bag, wrapped around itself and the contents.

When Max opened it, he produced a bottle of peroxide and the packs of sterile bandages he had been talking about. Though the bottle had no label, it was unmistakable in its scent as the cap was removed, allowing the fumes to permeate the air. It was only when Max was soaking a cloth with the stuff that he tried to make any sort of actual conversation again.

“Where'd you come from, then? You got anywhere to go when we’re done here?” He dabbed at the bleeding wounds. They bubbled with the addition of peroxide. Ian sucked in a breath through his teeth. A pause.

“...No. I don't, really.” It was a lie. But he tried to make it as simple and open-ended as possible, too many details could come crashing down on him in the future, and he was painfully aware of this fact. Max made a soft sound of understanding, a low ‘hm’, and then took a step back, giving Ian a sort of sly smile.

“Give us your shirt, then..”

“...Excuse me?” Ian let himself speak again, incredulous, and he found himself shifting slightly on the desk, slipping ever-so-slightly farther from the rebel. He realized a bit too late that Max could've been asking from a purely helpful standpoint, rather than being perverse. Though, it was hard to tell through the new veil of annoyance that had come over the man’s face.

“Give us your shirt, you’ll get an infection if I bandage over your clothes.” As Ian complied, slowly, with trembling hands, Max huffed a bit, eyes narrowing. “..Dumb cunt.”

Ian felt his pulse quicken, though whether that was from just anger or fear as well was hard for even him to tell. He definitely wasn't a fan of the insults that seemed to be just as much of a part of this man’s vocabulary as anything else. Something about it coming from someone dressed so absurdly made his blood boil, and as he passed his torn shirt over to the man in question, they locked eyes. There was a moment where neither moved their gaze, steel wills put against each other in a wordless standoff.

And then Ian let himself look away. Not that he wanted to. He would've rather argued, kept the gaze, anything to help his pride. But a intact pride wasn't worth as much as safety, not anymore. So he bit the bullet to keep himself alive, in a sense. Max seemed pleased by this, and let his gaze finally move to take in the lithe angles of Ian's body. Despite the wounds being rather ugly, there was an appeal to them, nonetheless. They would scar. Max figured Ian would look good with some scar tissue on him. Ian felt more naked and vulnerable than he thought possible under the heady stare, and eventually he spoke to break the silence that only fuelled his unease.

“..Thank you.” It was a simple statement, something that once would've been received without much thought. Though, Max seemed to pause as if he hadn't expected to hear it, before going back in with the disinfectant and starting to wrap the bandages around the broken skin.

“Huh?”

“You're helping me, giving me resources, what am I supposed to say?” He allowed himself to mutter under his breath afterwards, despite the risk. “..Idiot.”

Max seemed to perk up a bit, even as he secured the ends of the bandages, in a standard attempt to keep them from fraying. His touch lingered, running down Ian’s sides slightly with the pads of his fingers and forcing a shudder from the man before pulling away.

“Fuck off...Just didn't expect it. You're welcome- Did you tell me your name?”

“No, I didn't.” Ian ran through the possibility of coming up with a new name, an alias. It would be more trouble than it was worth if it were to be revealed as such, he decided, just as Max started to speak again.

Holding out a calloused hand to the man in front of him, the least threatening gesture he had shown during this whole string of events, he somehow managed to seem friendly despite the implications of his existence. “I'm Max. Give us your name, then.”

“Ian.” Taking the hand and standing up, Ian was caught off guard when Max gripped and shook it. Even if Max didn't exactly look it, he was strong. It almost came as a shock, somehow.

“Well, at least now I'll know your name if you'll be staying in the building.”

“..What are you talking about?”

“You're hurt, you'd be fucking crazy if you went out there again. If you want to die though, go ahead, I ain't gonna stop ya.”

“You're sure, then? I'm not going to get shot or something while I sleep?” Ian tried to keep the statement all in jest, but he couldn't help the niggling fear from transferring to his tone.

Max grinned a bit, moving to shove the medical supplies back in the cabinet, and then picked up his bat so fluidly it seemed as though it were an extension of his body. “As long as you don't try anything, you'll be safe...Deal?”

“Deal.”

Chapter Text

Ian woke the next morning atop a scratchy blanket on cracked linoleum. The sun filtered dully through a filthy window, struggling to bypass the dust and adequately light the room. And for a moment, he had no clue where he was. So, he jolted upright in his spot, chest heaving before he winced at the stress that placed upon his wounds. Wounds, which had been freshly bandaged the night before. Oh. Right.

Glancing around with distrust, he breathed a slow sigh of relief when he found he was alone. For now, at the least. Allowing himself to settle back into the warmth of the blanket, he tried to sort out his thoughts. He had been here for very little time, but they hadn't hurt him yet during a direct confrontation. That was a good sign. Max seemed friendly enough. Whoever the other rebel was, he couldn't be sure of. Yet. Ian figured he needed to stay optimistic enough to keep himself sane, so he tried to hope that he would be about as much of a worry as Max was. Something about the fact that he had a gun was making that train of thought harder to keep, though. Even if that other guy was worse, all he had to do was be swift in the gathering of his information before he made a quick getaway to report it. Unless he got extremely lucky, Ian couldn't see himself having a chance if he fought the both of them. All he had to do was find some piece of information that he could use against them. Something about their broadcasts, their next planned location, he would take anything at all at this point, if they gave it to him. Though, if he wanted to get any sort of useful information, that meant actually getting up and interacting rather than shying away. He cursed that fact. It was colder in the mornings than was comfortable, and he really didn't want to leave the safety from the cold his blanket brought. Eventually, he forced himself out of the warmth, and dragged himself to his feet, idly rubbing sleep from his eyes.

Everything about the building had an eerie sort of feeling about it as Ian stepped into the hallway again. It had such a decrepit air about it that seemed to settle into the man's bones and leave him uneasy. Maybe it was just the connotation of what had to have happened to it to make it so damaged. Maybe it was the people who lived there currently. Ian wanted to find them, and wasn't sure if he wanted to be stealthy or more obvious about his movements. Either way, it could trigger an incredibly unwanted confrontation. Ian had remembered Max saying he'd be upstairs the night before, just before he was left on his own to sleep. So, he set off in search of a set of stairs. After a few short minutes of wandering down a side hallway, and with the help of one sign that was barely holding onto its post on the ceiling, he found them. A concrete stairwell, barely lit at all with the help of one small window closer to the top of the structure. It would've had gaudy fluorescent lighting in its prime, but now, along with the heating, that all seemed to be in such a state it couldn't be used. As he climbed to the next floor, his footsteps echoed in the space too loudly for his own tastes, if anyone was near any of the doors (or god forbid, in the stairwell-) they'd be sure to hear him coming from the start.

Luckily for Ian, it didn't seem that was the case.

Instead, he emerged on the next floor, looking about and listening as intently as he could. Trying to ignore the sound of his own footsteps was tiresome, and he found himself startled by them more often than not, on edge enough that he could feel his skin crawling. There were office chairs thrown about everywhere, drawers from desks scattered about on the hallway floor. Any room Ian could peer into seemed to be in the same state, absolutely destroyed and caked in dirt and dust. There was a layer of discarded papers in some areas that were deteriorating, as much a part of the floor as the tile was. It was as he passed one of these trampled piles of paper that he heard a sound. A groan. Distinctly pained, and coming from a room a few doors down to his right. Ian felt the crawling of his skin only amplify to a shudder, and he stepped as slowly as he could to get closer. Whatever was going on, he didn't want to tip off the fact he was there, holding his breath as he paused to listen again.

This time, the sound had more breath to it, an unsavoury mingling of pain and pleasure that almost made Ian nauseous. It just didn't sound right to him, and it set a seed of worry deep in his gut. It sounded a lot like Max, and Ian felt his heartbeat pick up the pace as he heard a throaty chuckle almost immediately afterwards. That was most definitely not Max. Which meant…

Shit. Were they...Oh god.

Ian definitely didn't want to stick around if what he thought happened to be true. That could've very well been a moan, and if that was the case, they were...Ian couldn't help but feel a visceral sort of embarrassment that could only come from hearing two people engaging in sexual activity. He just hoped they wouldn't notice that he was ever there. As he tried to quietly hurry off in the other direction, he again tried to sort out his thoughts. It wasn't that he was surprised that such things could be happening in situations like this, he just...Didn't realise it would be so prevalent. He tried to assure himself that maybe it didn't happen all that often, maybe he just caught them in a rare encounter, but that thought didn't seem to want to stick. There was a rumour, or a stereotype rather, that all rebels were perverts in some sense. And now Ian couldn't help himself from believing it to be true. But if it was, did that mean he also had to partake? He really hoped that wasn't the case. If it came down to it, would he? Only if it came to his life depending on it. He was sure that was the case. It had to be. Ian definitely didn't think of himself as the type to play into such perversions for just enjoyment, he had more self control than that.

He had made it back to the bottom of the stairwell when he heard the door from the occupied floor creak open again, the sound near deafening in his panic. Forcibly subduing his nerves, Ian moved to walk back up the stairs, as if he had just entered. If he was caught leaving, it would be clear he was snooping around, and he really didn't want to face the consequences. When he went up a few stairs to the next landing, he heard Max speak playfully from above him. It was clear he had been noticed, but thankfully it didn't seem he was in any trouble for it.

“Mornin’ princess, how'd you sleep?”

“Fine, Max, thanks…” Ian felt a bit of an indignant heat rise in his face. God, if he didn't need to be so subtle he'd have made Max sorry for those quips he seemed to love making so much. They really made his blood boil, though it was usually quelled pretty significantly by a fear for his life. The rebel took a few quick steps downwards, finally turning the corner into view, only about eight steps between them now. Ian had to force himself not to stare, noticing that Max seemed to be mildly dishevelled in a way that suggested he had just pulled his clothes back on in a hurry, his hair mussed and sticking up in places.

“You just get up? Bit late for that to be safe, isn't it?” Taking another three steps down, Max gave a boyish sort of smile, clearly liking teasing Ian, poking and prodding with words to see what kind of reaction he would get. Ian was interesting in that he always seemed to get angry, then immediately calm himself. Max almost wanted to see him snap, if only to see what he was holding back under the surface.

“Uh-Yeah, I guess so..” Ian tried to play it off with a shrug and a chuckle, and though he wanted nothing more than to be annoyed by the rebel’s teasing, there was something that kept him from being completely focused on their conversation.

A dark spot on Max's neck. He didn't like that it distracted him.

It was just a hickey, Ian knew he shouldn't be bothered by it. It wasn't like they were still in grade school and it was some big deal or something, but Ian couldn't shake the feeling that came with the fact that he knew where it came from. He knew who had to have given Max that mark, and it made him more than a bit nervous. When Max came traipsing down the stairs, bat in hand, to stand right next to Ian, the man only got an even closer look at it, though he forced himself to tear his gaze away and look Max in the face. This seemed to have happened too late though, because Max was grinning.

“What, you never seen a love-bite before or something?” He seemed even more amused than he usually was with his taunts. Ian felt that uneasiness come back, that fear of offending someone who had a weapon, despite the fact Max didn't seem upset at all by the staring. Taking one more brief glance he really shouldn't have, Ian ended up noticing that along with the flushed-red bruising on the rebel’s neck, there were teeth marks. No broken skin, just marks that seemed like they would last a while. He must've bitten hard. Ian took a slow breath.

“No, it's not that-” His embarrassment was clear, and Max seemed determined to only accelerate it more.

“What then, you jealous or something?”

“No, I mean I just-”

“Hey, no shame in wanting a bit of contact dude, no worries…” He had cut Ian off, and every time it only served to fluster the man more. Max took yet another step, this time wedging himself intimately-close in Ian's space. Ian stepped back.

“I, uh...I'm not like that, Max, you've got it wrong..”

Max stepped forwards at the same pace. This ended up nearly wedging Ian up against the railing in the stairwell. Max rested one hand on Ian’s side, fingers trailing down from rib cage to hip, a lilt to his voice that was dangerous and alluring.

“Sure, I hear ya. And I’m not hiding from the government. I'm sure we're on the same page here.” And just like that, he turned away and left to head down to the bottom of the stairwell, leaving Ian confused and in a daze with a flurry of a heartbeat. It almost happened too quickly for him to process it.

Ian had a feeling he was going to land himself in trouble no matter what he did, really. If he didn't speak, or if he did, it didn't matter. What seemed to matter the most here was Max. Max definitely seemed to like to be flirtatious, even if it was in a crude way Ian wasn't accustomed to. Ian didn't want to go along with it for a multitude of reasons, his pride being the first and foremost, as selfish as that was. It came first before even his safety, that concern arising from the new development that that other rebel very much seemed to be involved with Max. He certainly didn't want to piss off someone with a firearm, but that lead to his dilemma. If he were to ignore Max completely, it would save him (and his dignity) from the wrath of one, and yet simultaneously have the threat of landing him in hot water with the bat-wielding Aussie himself. Ian really didn't like the
implications of this problem he was having. He was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn't notice George was in the stairwell until his footstep echoed on one of the stairs. He was quieter than Ian had originally anticipated. Despite his instincts telling him to freeze with fear, he turned to follow after Max into the corridor, stopping before he could when George spoke up, level-voiced and stern.

“Where are you going?”

“Uh-”

“Wait there a second for me.” Ian did. George stepped down the stairs steadily, never once breaking his even and somewhat slow stride. It was an intimidation tactic, Ian wasn't stupid. But thinking of the gun made it work on him. When George was on Ian’s level, the threat still seemed to linger, though the rebel gave no indication of intent. He seemed just as dishevelled as Max had. Ian tried his best to keep a straight face.

“You need something?”

“I need to tell you something, yeah.”

“Do you?” Ian felt a lump in his throat, a solidification of his fears. Did he know? That wasn't something he wanted to wait to find out, but if he ran he'd be immediately guilty by way of his actions. So, he tried his best to keep his composure and play dumb.

“Yeah.” George stepped forwards, seeming to only revel in the fact that Ian stepped back and away from him. “You need to know that if you're planning something, against us, you'll really regret it. Nothing like that is going to go over well, not for you anyways..Would hate to have to ruin that nice face of yours.”

George offered Ian a smile, but what he said next made it seem fake, like an angler fish luring prey with vibrant bio-luminescence. “If you like being alive, I'd recommend you get the fuck out of here. You get this one chance.”

Ian moved only to turn when George passed him to go down the stairs, not daring to let the man out of his sight. Despite the fact that the threat was maybe a bit cliche, and he didn't necessarily know Ian's purpose in their space, Ian still felt very much afraid. It wasn't an empty threat. There was enough footage and proof towards rebel violence in a general sense to prove that, even without specific cases. His heart was pounding painfully in his chest with adrenaline.

For now, he just needed to survive. And given the circumstances, that wasn't likely to be easy for Ian.

He just had to hope he got lucky.

Chapter Text

The time he spent gathering his thoughts in the stairwell felt like an eternity; when Ian returned to the lobby he couldn’t help but flinch when George gestured to beckon him. Dark eyes caught his face with an intensity he could place from a distance. Ian followed and was spoken at the second he drew into earshot.

“You can’t be here yourself, so let’s go. Papa has shit to do today.”

It was a statement that explained nothing, but at least he could almost call it friendly. Ian found his mouth moving before he could stop it, incredulous words met with a scoff. George tapped the barrel back into his pistol before he could catch if it was loaded.

“Wait, where are we going?”

“Out back to kill you. Errands, obviously, you retarded?”

And with that, they were out the door, George not keen on explaining and Ian following suit if only to keep distance between himself and Max; the Aussie now having taken a liking to his personal space enough that Ian swore he should’ve felt his breath when he spoke. With death threats in jest, he was thankful he didn’t.

“You should smile more. I’ll share mine with you later.”

Ian tried to play it off with a chuckle and what he could only hope was an agreeable silence; his thoughts seemed to race ahead of them as they walked the worried streets. Each corner turned before his body did, ideas of his execution run amok and making him fight to keep from being too flighty. He no longer cared to know where they were going, just wanted any excuse to turn back before it could get worse. And just as these thoughts reached a peak, a crescendo was met with a nondescript wave of the hand from an alley and Ian found himself standing back just to watch; he tried to make it seem he wasn’t looking. So they were doing some sort of pickup; morbid curiosity was enough to almost quell the fear, an almost peaceful moment cut short by words Ian couldn’t make out. Max laughed. George didn’t.

In an instant, the gun was drawn and proven to be loaded.

And that was it; a man’s life gone with three sharp bangs and a wheeze of dead air. Blood pooled on the concrete and Max seemed to have no qualms about stepping in it to grab the bag off the corpse. And then he turned on his heel to pout, coquettish and nauseatingly inappropriate as he rifled through it like a bar crawl attendee.

“You know I hate when you do that...Looks like a good wad of cash in here though.”

And then they were walking, Ian unable to notice his own feet, notice anything; all he could do now was feel the presence of the weapon and recall the blood. He’d seen a dead man before, it was hard to find someone who hadn’t. But not like this, never like this. The way they were moving on had him nauseated. He wasn’t sure if he was even supposed to bother reporting something like this. Considering it unimportant wasn’t sitting right but it was hardly the intel he wanted. So the rebels killed someone. So what? They had weapons, it was hardly a surprise.

Only when they’d crossed the threshold of the office building and the cash was handed off did Max turn to Ian again; his glazed expression and the way his eyes trailed George as he left had the Aussie smiling. There was a pause as they stood, framed by tracked blood upon the tile. When George was out of sight Max reached for his pocket, reveling in how it made Ian flinch before he could catch it. His hand withdrew with a packet of tiny yellow pills.

“We’ve got loads to share, now. Want some candy, Ian?”

“..No. I don’t do that stuff.”

“You look tense, I think you could use some. Lighten up a little.”

Lightening up seemed impossible, the subtle clench of his jaw an anchor as he fought to find anything but his fighting words. The dusty ground felt fit to swallow him up; a step forwards from Max having him backpedal and spit a question he couldn’t choke down. Suddenly he felt he might be sick.

“What did he say?”

“Nothin. Asked me what I was doing later.”

“Like-”

“A queer? Yes. Never seen someone fuckin’ die or something? The way you came in cut up, you almost did.”

It was alarming how the rebel’s expression seemed to know so much about his mind’s turbulence. To treat a death so nonchalantly seemed heinous; Ian was almost comforted by knowing his wounds wouldn’t have killed him. It felt easier to hide behind the safety he could conjure in his mental oasis of a perfect mission of espionage. If he stuck around he’d get information so valuable it would make him a hero, and he could manage to get back to any sense of normalcy. Ian couldn’t stand the warmth with which Max was looking at him, now. Finding it damn near impossible to swallow the lump in his throat, he shook his head.

“Not over..something like that. You sound like he does that often.”

“Only when he’s feeling jealous. Be easy on George, guy’s had a tough week.”

Jealousy hardly seemed worth all the bloodshed, though something hung around Max now; there was an intent to the look he had now that had Ian fit to squirm in a completely different way. The rebel glanced towards where George had taken to the stairs, then smiled.

“You know, I think we have time. Come with us then. Don’t be a cunt.”

Chapter Text

Ian yet again let himself be corralled by people he didn't trust, and soon found himself on the isolated seat of an office chair. The parts were pushed up against the wall; he couldn't deny it was marginally better than the floor. He was beginning to expect he was being coerced to stay down here on purpose; his skin crawled thinking of what might be happening upstairs, and the strings that could be pulled.

Max settled next to him, lax in posture and beginning to toy with the seal on the bag; he kept his eyes on Ian as he popped one of the tablets into his mouth and under his tongue. Ian pretended not to notice it, but he could feel sweat cooling like ice on the back of his neck; he'd kept his whole life away from the stuff. He wasn't quite so keen on starting now, either. He had no clue what it even was, or what it was supposed to do. Help him relax, apparently. But relaxing felt too dangerous for him to feel comfortable sleeping, even alone. Ian didn't realize that Max was holding it in front of him until the bag was near under his nose; he was momentarily thankful they didn't seem to have a smell.

"I told you I don't do that shit."

"Suit yourself, I guess. Those cuts still hurt?"

"I can handle it just fine." Ian was brought back to the bandages again by the question, some grit creeping into his tone; he could still feel the ache across his ribs. As sore as he was now after a night on cold linoleum, he couldn't consider it relief. For all he knew, he was being coaxed into an attempted poisoning. It was unlikely but not impossible, and his paranoia wilfully clung to the prospect. It was clear the murderer didn’t trust him.

"Hm..Okay, tough guy." Something about Max felt slowed already, the way he spoke was with less punch; Ian wasn't sure what to expect but allowed himself to glance over anyways. The man sat with a glaze to his expression, pupils wide and directed for now at the ceiling. His face was a bit flushed, from heat or substance Ian couldn't tell; he was momentarily caught up in the subtle parting of the rebel's lips before he tore the image from his mind. He seemed blissful, and so quickly too. It was childish of him to have assumed otherwise, but Ian couldn't help it. Distrust had been so ingrained in him he may as well have taken and ingested drain cleaner from this guy. Hell, maybe it was. The baggie was, for now, left on the ground between them. The pills within it sat as an unlikely contrast against rubble and dust; a silent taunt as a particular pain throbbed in his torso at a hasty movement. Max sat up a little, seeming to redirect his focus until his gaze was again on Ian, impossibly warm; Ian considered booking it but was stopped as a hand met the arm of the chair seat he was in. He couldn't tell if he was more intimidated or confused. He must've looked so, because it pulled an out of place sort of giggle from Max.

"Sure you don't want one? You keep lookin' at em.."

"Yeah, I said-" Ian had to stifle a physical reaction to fight as Max pressed closer, leaning again into his personal space with a bit of a wobble. He almost felt he could be swallowed up by the eye contact, and tried to hastily form a protest to the man who was now seeming intent on climbing over things into his lap. "I told you I don't fucking-"

"-Want to kiss me? Too bad." And with that, Max had one hand around the back of Ian's neck; their mouths met as Ian struck a hand to Max's chest. Despite this, Max was pleased to find he softened somewhat with the swipe of his tongue; Ian flinched a bit at the bitterness on his palate and seemed for a moment to short-circuit. Max had his eyes shut tight as his grip on Ian. Ian had scarcely begun to shoulder the shock before he felt the ground seem to slide beneath him, a shift in weight seeming tectonic as his mind warmed and his mouth buzzed from something within the acrid saliva they shared. The thud of his back against the wall drew a sound that was finally enough for Max to withdraw, something smug amidst his own fogginess.

In what could be seen as an act of mercy, the rebel had relented and found his place on the wall. A lapse in social graces had Ian leaning away in a futile attempt to spit the offending substance from his system; what he managed to purge collected dust on the floor. Despite his best efforts, he could still feel the electric numbness where it had most concentrated; his mind thrummed in a way that he’d never felt, running lazy circles around his nervous system. He scarcely realized he was still hunched over until Max spoke again, managing to reorient himself on the wall and wiping drool from his lips with the back of his hand.

“You know, I’m surprised I still like you..Sorry, I guess-” When this drew no response, Max scuffed a shoe forward through the minute debris scattered on the floor; he broke the silence with a short laugh that seemed more guilty than jovial. “George isn’t usually so angry. You’d better not let him know I told you this, but he’s scared of rats. Especially now with all those new channels we’ve been connecting to, more cops and shit..Fuckin’ useless if they don’t play music anymore though, eh?”

Max laughed a bit, but Ian had hardly heard it, nor felt pain from the jab of forced camaraderie against his ribs. Any touch sent a skin-prickling rippling of warm fractals along his body. His gaze had never been so intently on a wall in his life, unsure himself if it was lethargy or some impulse to refuse to look at the man next to him. He’d heard the words uttered, but it would take him some time for them to register. When they did, he’d hardly find it funny.