#no vince
CW: Referenced hand whump, kidnapped, recaptured whumpee, beatings, blood, ptsd/trauma flashback, creepy whumper
The Same Bed: Part One: Jake|Part Two: Krista|Part Three: Chris|Part Four: Vincent|Part Five: Antoni|Interlude | Part Six: Nat
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The car rumbles under Nat’s feet, a slight soft vibration that comes right up through the bare soles and travels up her legs. She flexes her toes a little, enjoying this one piece of free movement that she isn’t allowed in any other way.
Her heart beats, under the weight of flannel and cotton, as steady as she can make it, which isn’t to say she isn’t shaking or that her pulse doesn’t race. There’s only so much she can do to stop those automatic responses to her situation.
Nat’s fingers have gone numb behind her back, pressed between her spine and the slight cushiony softness of the backseat. Sharp-edged plastic digs in along the little rounded bone on her wrist on one side, then the other, as she tries to shift and find a more comfortable position. She forces herself to move, to stretch fingers out and then rub them against the leather. They tingle, painfully, but the seats are soft as lambswool, probably custom and cost more than Nat’s entire truck is worth.
Jameson’s head is heavy against her shoulder, but she doesn’t try to ask him to sit up or to move. She knows his skin is tacky with blood by now, and for her it’s enough just to hear the steady inhale and exhale that proves he’s at least still breathing.
Hehas to keep breathing.
The blindfold bites against her nose and cheekbones, digging in so tightly she’ll be marked with red if Owen Grant ever takes it off. So far, they just… drive. They have to have left Berras - he’s driven for so long and without taking any turns that would suggest he was just trying to get her lost in her own city, the place she knows best.
No… no. She isn’t that lucky, not this time.
Owen, in his smooth shining luxury car, is leaving Berras and taking them somewhere else. Nat thinks she knows where he’s going, and that makes the cold pulse of fear inside her deepen. The farther they go, the less she can promise that the only thing she could think of - with Owen screaming and a gun in her face - will actually work.
Jameson coughs, a heavy rasping sound - the first noise he’s made in at least an hour. She thinks. Without the ability to see, without knowing where she is or where he is going, she has no idea how long she’s even been in this car.
It had been, what, eight-thirty when Owen Grant showed up at the front door? Something in the heavy weight of exhaustion in her mind makes her think it’s midnight by now, or even later. Where are they going?
You know where, Nat’s mind whispers to her.
