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vi.

“But a gang? What would they even do?”

Niall stretched out his left leg, making more room for Ubbe to rest his chin on the meat of Niall’s thigh while his other leg was preoccupied with her throw pillow, strategically balancing a plate of nachos atop of it. He chewed slowly, his jaw moving and stirring in these drawn-out motions a bit like a cow. He’d come over with a twelve-pack, had gotten pleasantly buzzed on about four of them, before ordering them both something to eat, and then they delved into the real topic of discussion -- Gibson’s profession, and what the big burly men who filtered in and out of his room were doing. It’s what they talked about most when he came over, next to purulent wound beds, pressure ulcers, and colostomy bags. 

“I dunno -- money, drugs, sex, kidnapping -- mob shit, y’know?” He twiddled his fingers around the top of the plate, choosing his next chip diligently, “You’ve seen Goodfellas ‘avent you?” 

Y/N scrunched her face up, “When I was about 15, yeah.” 

“How aboutThe Departed?” 

“I was kinda too busy lusting after Leonardo Dicaprio to pay much attention.” 

Niall looked at her with a disappointed gaze, “Well, I reckon s’like that, but I now know you would not be my go-to to handle a situation like the one’s them blokes must get in. They just seem scary -- the lot of them.” 

Y/N remembered how Harry had bud out his cigarette when she told him to, how he laughed brightly at her jokes and complimented her often. She had been infiltrated with that warmth -- those fuzzy, buzzy feelings that she had no business getting for someone in any relation to her patient, “Harry’s not too scary.” She told him with a shake of her head, despite how obvious it probably made it that she liked him, “He’s nice, isn’t he? Has a laugh too.” 

“You just think he’s cute.” 

Everything was much easier then. 

It was easier when she was inviting Niall over in a panic to stress over the possible details of their acquired hospital resident. Easier when she had found out additional information and felt, for some reason, it was necessary to maintain this secret and no longer came to Niall with worries about his profession, instead telling him that their story checked out -- just some boring business career. The men following her around had been wondering about Gibby but it just turned out they were old mates and were worried about him, the man in the river was an addict -- she had conjured a story to feed him. . .Niall believed it without any qualms. 

”Well that’s shite, innit? Sort of wanted him to be in a gang, that would’ve been a healthy dose of excitement. Hey, could you bring me a coffee t’morrow morning? I’ll pay you for it, I just don’t feel like wakin’ up to get it.” 

Hell, it was even easier when Harry, Mitch, and Mickey were showing up at her door all bruised and cut asking for her help. 

But this. . .being blindfolded with a tie in her mouth in the back of a car that’s engine purred but heater rattled with a sweltering heat that made her feel like she was suffocating, after she’d been taken from the patio outside of a wedding -- well, that was a bit more difficult wasn’t it? Her heart hammers against her rib cage, hard enough to shatter her sternum to shards that pierce into her lungs and make it hard to breathe. For the first time, it feels that she could understand what her patients with a pneumothorax must feel like, where no inhale brings in enough air to inflate her lungs. 

She’s scared; a sweat builds at the nape of her neck as she begins to thrash in place. From what she could tell lacking her vision, she was laying down unbuckled in the backseat of the car they had her in, which was some solace. At least she knew there was nobody sitting beside her then, and the blindfold around her was loose enough that she could rub it off against the seat, but did she want to? She didn’t know much about these guys -- just that they could potentially either be Gibson’s sons or working for Gibson’s sons -- so she didn’t know how they would react if she knew what they looked like. Would they be fine with it? Not bother with the blindfold anymore because the secrets are out and that’s the end of it? Or would they decide that her seeing them meant they had to kill her? 

They had told her from the start they weren’t going to hurt her -- that if she didn’t want to kill Gibson, they would find someone who would -- but have conditions changed since? Would they have grown annoyed with her participation in Gibson’s ring of people now? Or did they think she was just the little nurse who had access to enough morphine to put an elephant down and Gibson’s IV? 

Her mind is nothing but a tattered jumble as her body moves with every uneven slice of pavement the tires hit and for a moment she wonders if it might be better to pretend she’s still asleep. The question answers itself when one of the men, from where in the car she wouldn’t know, answers a phone that barely vibrates before it clicks over. A formless voice speaks over the rattling heater, the sound of him gruff and unfamiliar, “Five minutes out now, coming down the road,” from the sound of his voice she can tell he smokes, but with her cheek smashed to the leather seat she knows that whoever is driving doesn’t. That gives a croak to his throat that suggests he’s moments away from a hacking cough fit -- she doesn’t know how long she was out but she figures long enough for a chain smoker to be craving a cigarette, “She’s in the back. Yeah -- yeah. . .I don’t fuckin’ know, it's my first time here.” Straining to hear the other voice, she can only make out indistinct murmuring that clips off with a heaving, wracked cough that he sucks from the base of his lungs. 

“Fuck sake, mate,” another voice utters, before the unmistakeable glide of the window opening, a brush of chilled air slides into the car and she can’t decide if it’s a pain or a blessing. It cuts into the smoldering air that she’s been suffocating within but pimples her skin with gooseflesh. 

“I’d reckon they’re already lookin’ for her, yeah? Been watchin’ for a few days now and the lot of them seem to kiss the ground she bloody walks on. Must be putting out or summat,” the other voice responds, he cuts off with a deep chuckle, “Yeah, even the old fuck -- greedy as he is would be demanding it twice a night.” 

Y/N could vomit. . .she could roll off and soil the carpet of the vehicle with the contents of tonight but she swallows the bile down thickly. The taste of the fabric in her mouth is dry, like sucking on the hem of a shirt, and her salivary glands overwork to keep her mouth wet. Her eyes water beneath the cotton as the car bumps to a stop, toes curling only to find that the heels she’d crammed her feet into were missing. She feels helpless and hopeless, almost more than she does when someone is dying in front of her and there is physically nothing she can do to stop it. When she’s stood at the bedside with a crying family, her and another nurse, possibly a doctor having to follow the DNR filed in their paperwork even though the knee jerk reaction is to immediately start CPR. It was similar in some ways, though the situations were in stark contrast -- her hands were tied behind her back. No matter how much she wanted to do something about it, there was nothing to do right now but wait. 

She needed to be smart about what she did next -- tactful. Whatever they did to her that made her pass out in the first place, they could do again, and she didn’t like her chances if she wasn’t awake. Y/N needed to be at a healthy level of compliance. . .if they didn’t want to kill her then she didn’t want to give them a reason to, but she couldn’t be so compliant that they were suspicious (she never trusted a usually averse patient who suddenly is just fine “taking their medicine” and has them drink a full cup of water with it too -- maybe get them in a conversation where if they were holding a pill in their mouth, they might accidentally spit it back out and give themselves up). There was no way to really come up with a plan when she has no idea what she’s going into exactly, but she could be strategic -- take things as they come. 

The door beside her head pops open and nearly makes her jump out of her skin, but she isn’t grabbed by her hair and drug out of the car as she expected to be. Instead, she hears a heavy, worn sigh, like someone who’d been up for too long and was properly exhausted -- she had half a moment where she felt a bit bad for them until she remembers the situation she’s in, and then it’s kind of hard to. 

“Listen,” it wasn’t the smoker -- it was the driver, which. . .well, she’d preferred him after the other made his shit comment, “I don’t feel like carrying you and the idiot m’with would pop his lung if he did, so I’m just g’na trust that you’re blindfolded, I’ll lead you in by your arm, we try to lessen the theatrics of it, yeah?” He sounds older but not old enough to sound as over it with the world as he does. . .she wonders if kidnapping someone was really that strenuous of a job when she’d been out for a majority of it. 

She swallows, working her best to wiggle herself up to a sit, and clears her throat in a desperate attempt to speak around the cloth, she mumbles a muffled version of,, “Can I have my shoes back?” 

“I’ll be honest, have no idea where the fuck they are,” his hand grips her bicep and she flinches from him, the cold air seeping beneath her skin, “Come on then.” 

Y/N follows reluctantly, but he doesn’t rush her. He allows her the time to slide out comfortably, finding her footing on the ground and she’s pleased to find that it’s pavement at the very least — then maybe she isn’t in some nondescript woodsy area. She’d heard Swedish forests could be deadly; you could get turned around and lost in them easily, so she couldn’t imagine trying to escape in one. No, where they were, sounded fairly populated — she could hear a highway somewhere nearby, cars speeding by.

There’s just the thin layer of her tights as the only barrier between the soles of her feet and the ground, so every stray piece of gravel pierces her. She does well keeping up with him apart from a stumble every now and again; due to the fact that he was going a little quick while she was blindfolded because any trace of the alcohol she had been feeling had vanished. The pavement changes to grass for a little while, an iron gate groans when it's pulled open and she’s ushered past it. In his tired voice, he warns her of the upcoming step and makes sure she lifts her foot at the right moment, but otherwise, he says nothing. 

With a rustling sound, a twist of a knob and a robotic voice that calls out, “Back door, open,” and suddenly the bite of a Swedish winter is replaced with a rush of warmth, the smooth pavement turns to sleek flooring, the sound of his shoes clicks and echoes in what she wonders might be a large house. It had to be, right? From what she could tell, being associated with Gibson in any way -- even enemy-wise -- meant that they in no way lived in squalor. It was a world of high dollar, possible embezzlement schemes, promised company merges, and fearless takeaways. Were guns, drugs, and sex apart of it? She doesn’t know, but she reckons that not even millions worth of coke could get someone a house like Gibson’s.

She can hear water, gentle and patterned like a fountain and the distant murmur of a TV somewhere deep within the home, but otherwise, it was eerily quiet. Her body is pulled off, deeper into the home, further from escape, and her heart raced in her throat as another door is opened and she is more or less pushed inside of it, “There,” her escort declared, “I’m not a fuckin’ hackney, don’t ask for this again.” 

“Thanks, Warden,” another voice appears and she jumps at it, neck twisting to where the sound had come from, “You can leave. Have ‘em come in when they arrive.” A huffed grunt is the only reply before the door is shut, and she’s alone with another stranger, “Think how they did you up is a bit unnecessary; reckon the ties were enough. I’ll take the blindfold off.” She senses a presence nearing, her whole body goes rigid but she allows him to remove the tie from her head and even the fabric from her mouth that had been soiled by her saliva. 

When her vision gets clearer, she feels her mouth dry up all over again.

What stood before her, might as well have been a carbon copy of Gibson. From the deep-set furrow, to the pattern in which his facial hair grew. They had the same reddened undertone, with patchy flushes on their throat, and similar ears with lobes detached from the head. The only difference was the man before her had silver-rimmed glasses and was significantly younger (he couldn’t be more than thirty, she’d place a bet on it), but wore deep bags under his eyes that might suggest he’d been missing sleep. He’s built slim, limbs long and face thin, with dirtied blond hair a wrecked muss atop of his head and he wore regular jeans and a t-shirt, which doesn’t quite match the opulence of the room they’re in. Cherry wood bookcases that reach towards a high ceiling, a matching credenza desk with “knick-knacks” that were easily thousands each. For fuck sake, she thinks she even saw a quill and ink! Was this his house? Did they live in Sweden or had he rented the place out? 

“Right then,” his voice startles her from her reverie, “You’re gonna sit down and stay while we wait for them to come ‘round. My only intentions are to bleed that old fuck’s pockets dry, not hurt you, but if need be. . .well, let’s not find out, yeah?” 

Y/N swallows thickly. 

                                                    .                                .                            .

Harry could scream. 

“What the fuck do you mean she’s missing?” 

He could yell. 

“She was here, and now she’s not here, that’s what I fucking mean.” 

He wanted to stomp. 

“Who was with her last then? Who the hell let her step out?” 

He wanted to cry. 

“Why are you all so upset? Maybe she just stepped out for a wee? Has anyone checked the bathroom?” 

If it could have been as easy as Niall suggested it, Harry reckons he would be elated. That would have been much better circumstances if the sweet little thing had just gone off for a wee -- if he hadn’t watched her head to the patio after tears clouded her vision admitting to him that she (italicize this) knew about the kiss that he had supposedly “forgotten”. If he hadn’t gone out to check ten minutes later when he was concerned that she hadn’t come back inside. If he hadn’t gotten a message from an unknown number with an address and an amount. 

His heart had dropped to his stomach, souring in the acid just as the others began to realize something was amiss; that she wasn’t drunk and giggly on the dance floor, or snuggled close to him, or sing songing a newly taught Swedish tune with a rare smiling Gibson. Bile crept up in his throat as the two flutes of champagne returned to a fizzle in his throat that he swallowed back harshly. He struggled not to let tears creep at the back of his eyes as the hoard of questions were suddenly being thrown at him, wondering how he could possibly explain to them that she’d been taken because of him. 

Gibson locks eyes with him when Harry finally lifts his gaze from the imported marble floor, “Niall,” he says, though his stare is undeviating, “Take me to the bathroom, yeah? Need a piss.”

“Yeah, yeah, maybe we’ll bump into Y/N while we’re there, you reckon?” Niall regrips the rubber handles of the wheelchair, kicking the lock from the wheel, “Probably having a wee.”

Unenthusiastically, Gibson hums, giving Harry one last pointed look that is an amalgamation of “you’re welcome” for getting Niall out of the situation and “fix this”. 

When they are a good enough distance away, Mickey steps into Harry’s vision field with a furrowed brow on his face, “What the fuck man?” He’s shaking his head and before Harry could inquire what he might be having a row with him for, he continues, “I heard you too before she ran off. S’fucked innit? You just had to fucking pretend that you didn’t kiss her ‘cos you’re too fucking scared to admit you’ve got feelings, and she’s run right off! Right out and they have her now.” Mickey was a man of even temperament -- it was rare that he ever really got mad about anything, and it was even rarer that he’d show it -- no matter the situation, he managed to keep a cool, level head, normally the one to soothe the worries of everyone else. 

And Harry knows why he’s upset. Mickey and Y/N had grown close, and on many occasions, Mick revealed that she reminded him much of his little sister who he hadn’t seen in years for reasons Harry had never been privy to, but he knew it was a sore subject and that it hurt. For him to put such appraisal on her meant that he shared a deep connection with her, and for her to be put in harm’s way? Harry would act just the same if it had been someone else who let her out of their sight -- he’d fucking kill them, wouldn’t he? 

But he knew it was his fault -- he knew, and he didn’t need to be reminded. 

“Fuck off, Mickey,” he seethes, “Just fuck off, I don’t have time for this, we need to find her.” 

“We wouldn’t have to if you would’ve just came out with it! Four years I’ve fuckin’ known you, seen you off your arse and not once -- not fucking once have you ever forgotten the night before. You were nowhere near blackout that night and because of that? If they’re willing to kill one of their blood men then what do we think will --” 

“I fucking know, Mick! You don’t have to tell me, ‘cos I fucking know, I fucked it, she ran off because of me and I feel like shite, is that what you wanted? You want me to sit and tell you I’d rather be shot in the foot than stand the thought of something happening to her?” He’s speaking through his teeth, loud enough that Mickey could hear her but not enough that those enjoying the ongoing reception would be intrigued any, “I swear to god, I’m going to fix this and I'll spend every day for the rest of my fucking life trying to make it up to her for it, kissing the ground she walks on but I can’t do that having a row with you, yeah?” He heaves a sigh, shaking his head and stepping back, looking between him, Mitch, and Oliver, “Got sent a message with an address and a price, and I reckon it’s Elias -- he’s the only one of Gibson’s kids that has my number -- gave him a call when Gibson got ill. But we’re not givin’ in. . .we’ll fake ‘em out so we've got Y/N safe but we don’t let them get away with it. Just don’t know how yet.” 

Mitch cleared his throat a bit, raising his finger up to garner Harry’s attention, “Think I have a way about that. Could work if we’re sly about it.” 

Harry wishes there was a way he could contact Y/N right now, to tell her they were coming. That she would be okay, that he’d never let her be in danger again, that he would get her back and hold her so fucking tight tonight that she would be well sick of him. 

That he loved her so much he didn’t know what to possibly do with himself. 

                                                  .                               .                            .

An hour in and Y/N is growing more anxious. 

Had they noticed her absence yet? Would they assume she’d run back to the hotel? If they had, then it would take them around thirty minutes to get back to their rooms, realize that she wasn’t there and have to come up with some sort of plan to get her back. From what the man who sat but a few meters away had said they would wait until they came, so they had to have had some clue eventually right? 

The man who now sits silently at his desk, the click of his keyboard echoed against the cold walls as she shifted and shuffled. She couldn’t stay still, and from the fleeting glances that he gave her, she could tell he was becoming rather annoyed, which only served to piss her off. Had he ever had his arms tied behind his back? As scary as it was, she found herself more so irritated by the aching pain in her shoulders from the bound position they’d been kept in. The rope is cheap, frayed twine that cut dry into her wrists rubbing them raw, all while her fingers were numbing -- it was much too tight. 

And while she could have done without them, they gave an opening for conversation, at the very least. Her goal was to pry information out of him, for no benefit other than her own -- she needed to make sense of it. Y/N would be damned if she would let this man have her tied up and not poke and prod in his head just how she did with her patients; she would coax out what she could.

“Your fellas tied this too tightly -- if you’re not looking to hurt me, that is,” she shuffled again, a spike of fear that struck her belly when he turned his head to look at her, “My fingers are going numb; cutting off circulation can be deadly.” 

He looked so much like his father it was eery; she wonders if when he looks in the mirror he wants to crawl from his skin. The same gruff grunt of a response that Gibson meets her with, he does almost perfectly, “Took you four years to learn that, then?”

“That n’how to leave the room just on the side of too cold,” she countered, which was definitely a joke that she might use on Gibson, and she got a huff of laughter from the man across from her. Was he cut out for this at all? Y/N feels as if she ought to fear him more, but after sitting here, observing him, finding more similarities in mannerisms between him and his father who she had grown comfortable with -- she finds a false sense of solace. She shouldn’t feel it. . .he’d kidnapped her for fuck sake, but he wasn’t intimidating. No, he was a bit more. . .skittish, wasn’t he? Fidgety and jumpy, tapping on his computer while he tapped his foot on the wood, checking his clock, then his phone, opening a tab and closing it, flipping open a folder and shutting it. Hell, he was just as shuffly as she was but she reckons it always intensifies the annoyance for another restless person. 

Though it did let her know that he was not like his father. . .Y/N would bet her nursing license that he had hired the men who have been following her around. 

“You’ll have to deal with it. Don’t need you trying anything,” he shakes his head, “And they’re not “my fellas”.” 

“Yeah? I figured -- they’re a bit more brutish, aren’t they?” 

He nods a bit, stretching his arm toward a pen that had been off beside his phone, clicking it three times, “What’re you playing at, hm? Think you’ll stroke my ego and I’ll tell you all my secrets?” A roll of his eyes follows, “Anything I tell you makes it right back to them and m’not in the bloody mood.”

Y/N’s brows pinched like that wasn’t exactly what she was doing, “What?” She feigns innocence, “I was just saying you didn’t really seem to fit in with them -- they’re rougher around the edges from what I could tell. . .or feel I guess.” She nudges her head to the blindfold, “Lost my shoes even; think I might have cut my foot and bled a bit through my tights.” 

“Lift your foot.” He orders and Y/N does so, and he gives a short nod before turning back to his computer, signifying that he was finished indulging her, “You’re fine.”

“Thank you.” Y/N murmurs quietly and the room falls silent again.