Chapter Text
Your hands were shaking, still attached to the lapels of his biker jacket, still even as the motorcycle had stopped in front of an apartment complex. You couldn't stop the erratic movement, your anxiety reaching an unprecedented level that you weren't mentally prepared for, so you just held still for dear life and prayed that he wouldn't think you were as terrified as you were coming across. Anxiety has always been a long-standing battle within you long before you started boxing lessons, way before the relationships and actual hardships of life, you've always had a slight shake to you, a nervous flutter in your stomach to even cross the street. You've always tried to rationalize it, try to reason that whatever was rattling you couldn't possibly be the worst thing in the world. It's not like you were dying. But now it is like that. All of your old rationalizations were proving to be true, every horrible conclusion you've ever made up in your head was true. So, you clenched your trembling fingers to Killmonger's jacket and used your proximity to discreetly wipe the unwelcome tear in your eyes on the back of his jacket. He sighed but didn't move.
"I'm sorry." You whisper against him, so low and croaked that you think he doesn't catch it. You don't know why you say it, you have nothing to be sorry about, but you've been having random anxiety attacks all night. At some point, you believe he'll snap at you for it, probably get so annoyed that he'd just point his gun and finish what he started. Your whispered apology isn't met with wrath, though.
He grabs your quivering hands in his own and grips you tightly, enough to snap you back into the moment. The contact is unexpected, but you fear it's not unwelcome. He has a reassuring touch when it's not for the intent of murder. You lift your face from his back and stare straight ahead to the dark parking lot full of parked cars.
"Deep breaths," he reminds you as he gently guides your hands back to you. You breathe in, counting the seconds, then breath out, counting the seconds. He lets you calm down and you're not sure why. "You're safe." He says. And when he says it like that you could believe it, for a moment. You bring your hands back to your body and finish with one last long exhale before sliding yourself off his bike. He follows after you.
The air is uncomfortably still. Killmonger doesn't say anything else reassuring to you now that you've come back to yourself, he all but shoves past you, muttering for you to follow him. You have to skip to meet his fast-paced walk, shadowing him as closely as you could without feeling like a creep. Your eyes are permanently marked to the ground as you chased after him. You didn't care to see where he lived much, nor did you care about the neighborhood or the people living in it, all you cared about was keeping up with him and not tripping over your feet. Your lungs constricted uncomfortably as you skipped to match his pace, a painful reminder you clearly weren't as in shape as you wanted to be. Maybe if you'd focused your energy on jogging. Or slept with a gun.
You could make all the excuses in the world, coming up with ridiculous things that you could've done to avoid this situation, but it's all unrealistic. A coping mechanism. There was no stopping this.
You went from gravel to sidewalk to linoleum. The glossy floors reflected a dim fluorescent light from above, flickering on and off, in desperate need of a replacement bulb. You could hear faint conversations from around you, black shoes passing you by, a suitcase on the floor beside a lounge chair - you couldn't bring yourself to look up. Your eyes followed the large black Timbs that graced your quiet, still slightly bloodied kidnapper. You stopped as he did, letting your misty eyes wander from his boots to your demolished slides covering your dirty feet. You were sure the rest of you looked worse for wear, made even worse by your submissive demeanor beside the imposing man to your side. You hoped someone would notice and swoop in like Captain America to save your life. You let yourself get lost in this daydream of freedom before a sudden dinging noise snapped you back to reality.
The elevator had an ugly blue carpet. You hated it. Hated the silence that followed you into the enclosed space. Killmonger's foot tapped to a beat you couldn't hear. The doors couldn't open fast enough.
As you walked across the more glossy linoleum, you wondered what the hell this guy's problem was. His mood seemed to change every other minute, fluctuating between wanting you to be hurt and want you to feel comfortable, something so frustrating that you had half a mind to confront him about it. If he means all of his hurtful words and intense glares, why does his hand search for yours in your frightful moments, squeezing and reassuring? He talks about killing you, about hurting you in ways no one else could, all the while helping you breathe through anxiety attacks, preventing you from flying off the handle. It's sick, sick that he does this to you, and sick that it actually helps you. You wonder what that ulterior motive is.
Killmonger hits an abrupt stop. You bump into his body and move your hands out to steady yourself from falling on the floor. His hands reach out and grab your arm, pulling you back up better than you could've on your own. You finally glance up, meeting with his confused eyes and your face heats up immediately. He's unlocking a large door with a keycard, but his expression towards you is somber yet indifferent.
"You're tired." He comments. You don't have it in you to respond.
He pulls you forward with him all too quickly. You pass by rooms swiftly, only catching half-baked ideas of what each area looked like. A living room with a leather couch set surrounding a television, an open kitchen offset to that with its own island, a dark hallway with a few pictures lining the walls. He pulled you into a room with a large bed. You squint up at him.
"I'm not sleeping on your bed, I don't care how tired I am."
"Well, you sure as hell aren't sleeping on the couch unsupervised."
"I'm not a child."
"Then stop talking back."
You twist your mouth to stay shut before you could say something that could get you killed.
He gestures for you to settle into his king-sized mattress.
"Stay." He orders like he would a pet. You're tempted to growl at him like one, too. His leave his abrupt and you're left sitting stiff as a board on his plush blankets.
The room isn't horrible, not exactly as grimy and disgusting as you imagined as you had packed your backpack.
Your eyes widened. Your backpack had been carelessly tossed aside in your dramatic scuffle at Ian's house, so on top of everything, you didn't have any clothes either. You huffed and kicked your feet at the floor, but even that subtle movement caused exhaustion in you.
Killmonger returned with a tall glass of water which he set on the bedside table. The silence grated at your nerves and you couldn't control your mouth anymore.
"You're really gonna stay up all night to make sure I don't escape?" You ask. He chuckles a bit at your words before moving towards the door.
"As if you're worth the trouble." He mutters. "Try leaving if you want." And with that he closes the door, footfalls fading further down the hallway as you struggle to realize what he meant. He tells you to stay and tells you to go? You jump up and rush to open the door again to confront him, but it doesn't budge. You twist the handle and pull, but nothing happens. He locked you inside.
Perfect.
Despite your extreme fatigue and drowsy eyes, you couldn't find it in yourself to unclench your teeth and fall asleep. Your mind was racing through the night all over again, of the possibilities regarding your life and how you could explain this all to the police without getting jail time. You've never felt more uncomfortable in your life, no matter how plush his bed covers were or how surprisingly sanitary he kept his home. Your body ached for rest as your narrow eyes watched the sky brighten through the window. Birds began chirping and you were still awake, shocked still, afraid to move even a single muscle for fear that you might let your guard down. You ground your teeth together and blinked away the dryness of your eyes. There was only one other time where you'd been so out of it.
4 Years Ago
It was a murky fall evening, the kind that caused goosebumps and inspired horror movies, and you were in a state of anxiousness. You'd finally left from your sister's empty apartment and decided to enjoy a night with one of your friends, something so rare that it needed to be addressed in a fifteen-minute discussion via facetime with your sister. She was always the outgoing one, the one who wouldn't hesitate to go on an adventure with only ten dollars in her pocket - somehow she made things work out in a way you were completely clueless too. You preferred to focus your time on the things you deemed important, like school. But that wasn't an excuse as to why you never went to parties or had many friends. Your friend, Mari, dubbed you as her antisocial another half when she was begging for you to go out with her. A few more encouraging words and you were changing into a slightly itchy sweater dress and your favorite leather boots, a look that Mari yelled wasn't sexy enough for a night out.
She left you on a bar stool, twiddling your fingers together and looking around wide-eyed at the frantic environment. It almost disoriented you, the number of people occupying the bar, the booming music that hurt your ears, the drunken shouting. It made you cave into yourself as Mari occupied herself with some guy.
You'd never felt so out of yourself before, so dissociative, blankly watching the evening play out as you scratched your arms beneath the sweater. A grown ass antisocial loser waiting for her friend to give her attention.
You contemplated on calling your sister, but you knew she was with her boyfriend. And who else did you have? Mari? She ditched you fifteen minutes into the night to make out with a guy she claims is bad for her. You felt like a lonely idiot and you got the sense that you might as well get used to it, it's probably going to be like this for the rest of your life. And with that depressing thought, you stood from the bar stool and pushed your way out of the crowded bar. The night was chilly and you regretted not bringing a jacket along, but you stuck it out and began walking towards the nearest bus stop.
The neighborhood wasn't pretty. Sidewalks crackled from wear and tear, liquor stores lined the streets, trash littered in empty lots and abandoned homes. You only thought to call a cab a moment too late, before you felt a looming presence behind you that made every hair on your neck stand. You turned in alarm only to stare down the barrel of a gun, the first one you'd ever seen up close.
It was surreal how easily you'd turned into a child, hands raised and pleading, no instinct for fight or flight, only begging and tears and pathetic whining. His voice was gruff and cracking as he demanded you follow him towards an alleyway. Your heart dropped into your stomach. You'd hear about these things, but never could you imagine being in it, so you were frozen in fear. He was shouting at you, words that all seemed fuzzy in your brain, words that made you want to die instead.
He almost grabbed you, but by some stroke of luck, someone knocked him over, slapping the gun from his hands and fighting so violently that you finally found the voice to shout.
The gunman's face turned bloodied and bruised, his eyes closed in defeat as the man above him continuously delivered scathing blows. He didn't stop until the man was immobile, and only then did he turn to face you, hands dripping with blood, but with the most innocent light brown eyes you've ever seen.
"Are you hurt? Are you okay? Did he touch you?" The man asked, voice filled with worry and sorrow. Despite your constant flow of tears, you shook your head trying to assure him that you were fine.
"I've gotta get home." Was all you could say before turning in the opposite direction and walking as fast as your boots allowed you. You could hear his footfalls behind you.
"Woah, hey, slow down!"
"I have to get home." You muttered, repeating that mantra in your head to try and distract from what almost just transpired. You knew you'd be safe to break down in the comfort of your sister's home, probably in her arms.
"The next bus stop is four blocks down. It's late, let me drive you wherever you need to go, you're in shock." His words came through your ears like velvet, reassuring and confident, but you didn't feel so trusting to mysterious men in empty streets. You used your long sweater sleeves to wipe the mascara run tears from your cheeks and glared at the man.
"I'm fine, leave me alone." You grunted through clenched teeth, positive that he'd leave it at that and let you wallow in self-pity, but he stood there with an unchanging stature.
"Fine. I understand that you don't want to go in some stranger's car after what that sick motherfucker did. But I'm walking with you."
He made no room for discussion as he followed along with you on the slow journey towards the next stop. You didn't get why he was so passionate about not letting you run away, why he even cared so much. Maybe you weren't used to good Samaritans. Either way, you began to feel extremely bad about how rude you were treating him when he basically saved your life not five minutes ago. He walked beside you and you couldn't help but keep staring up at him, periodically. His eyebrows were very thick and expressive, like his attitude, and his eyes were so naturally wide and innocent looking, you'd never expect his personality from his face alone. You could make out the beginning of an intricate tattoo on the left side of his neck, disappearing beneath his black t-shirt. Your eyes traveled to the dried blood on his knuckles and you blushed from embarrassment. He didn't notice your staring and if he did, he didn't speak on it. You gulped.
"I'm..." You started, voice croaking from abused vocal chords. He turned, looking down at you with a small reassuring smile.
"I know. You don't have to speak to me, okay? You don't owe me anything for this, I just want to make sure you get back home safe. This isn't a good neighborhood, assholes like that are around every corner." He said as if what he did hadn't changed your life.
"I do have to speak to you." You say, surprising yourself. His eyebrows do a little twitch that makes you feel so warm and safe. "You saved my life. Thank you." You whisper. He just smiles.
You walk side by side until you get to the bus stop and you both sit down on the wooden bench. The silence is extremely uncomfortable for you, hanging over your head, making you feel worse as time passed by. You wanted to turn and say something to him, but every time you started to speak you closed your mouth and let the silence linger on. He noticed your struggle and nudged you with his shoulder.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
You shrugged. "I don't know. I wish I didn't freeze up like that. I wish I didn't look so pathetic."
"You're not pathetic." He said too easily like he's known you forever. "And you never have to feel pathetic." He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a shiny, metal knife. It was so small and compact, but lethal looking. "Ever had one of these?" He asked. You shook your head. He flipped it so expertly in his hands, an ease that only came from years of practice. You watched, mesmerized. "It's my favorite. Really does some damage when you know how to use it." You were too distracted to dissect his words, eyes focused on how he twists and turned the knife before jutting it out to you.
"But...I don't...I wouldn't," you stuttered once he offered the knife to you.
"You could. Come on, take it. How powerful do you feel right now?" He asked.
"I never feel powerful."
You pouted down at yourself. It was a harsh reality, never feeling strong enough, and to even admit something so hurtful aloud brought a mist to your eyes. He took your hand in his, the contact shocking you. He slid the knife handle carefully in your hands, forcing you to grip it as hard as you could. The metal was icy and it tingled in your palm.
"What about now?"
Your bus pulled up in front of you before you could answer. The stranger smiled as he gestured to the bus. You stood up on shaky legs and he walked you to the door. But you couldn't end it there, you didn't want to leave him so soon, you didn't care about the bus so much anymore. You grabbed him before he could leave and wrapped your arms around his midsection, effectively trapping both his arms to his side in a very awkward position, but he laughed through it and accepted your affection.
"Thank you...for everything. You never told me your name." You say as you step onto the bus platform. He smirks.
"Neither did you."
The bus door closed on your conversation, but you were too shy to yell for the driver to let you finish speaking. Instead, you settled for a sad wave goodbye from behind the doors and he did the same, an abrupt end to your instant connection. You made it home fine and you thought about everything that happened all night, not even getting a wink of sleep. You thought of how lucky you were and how nice the stranger was. Most of all, you thought of how he made you feel, with your hands clutched around the tiny butterfly knife all night long, feeling in control, feeling safe. You cursed yourself for weeks for not getting his name.
Fast forward one year later and you were moving in with him.
You pushed down the sudden fond memories of your boyfriend, trying desperately to forget that once upon a time you would've never allowed any harm to come his way. It was an explosive, spontaneous, fast-burning love, something that even now could still make you blush like a schoolgirl. You'd never been in love with anyone like you'd been in love with your boyfriend, never thought you'd ever find love at all. You went through life without many friends, neither popular nor invisible, there..existing without many purposes, only a few close friends. You never expected someone as beautiful as him to ever pick someone like you, someone so mediocre and boring in comparison. He made you feel like you were existing for a reason, and for that, you'd grown this undying loyalty to him - solely because you weren't convinced that anyone else would ever see you as anything more. He saw you for so much more. You thought that you would easily die for him. And now.
Three heavy knocks snap you out of your thoughts, jolting you upright.
"Get up!" Killmonger's voice booms through the door, making you roll your eyes. "Come one, let's go!" He calls out again, basically forcing your exhausted body to kick the covers away and slouch to the door, which was now open. Killmonger was already dressed in average streetwear, some sweatpants and a jean jacket, smelling of soap and faint cologne. He sneered down at you like you were a speck of dust in his cleanly world, then laughed.
"Didn't get enough rest?" He questions, and it makes you want to hide your drooping face in his pillows. You regret not falling asleep last night, now you have to deal with a psychopath so early in the day.
"What do you want?" You ask, impatient. He raises one brow, then smirks.
"I've gotta handle some business, so I might be gone all day." He says.
"Lucky me." You mutter.
"But don't get any ideas, Ian's here." At that, you stand up straight, hesitantly trying to peek down the hallway. "It's cute how much you trust him, despite the fact he's been lying to you since day one."
"He had a good reason." You find yourself defending Ian, feeling as though you're the only one who could bad-mouth him. "He's naturally a loyal person, I wouldn't expect anything different."
He huffs.
"So naive." The comment strikes a nerve in you.
"Don't you have somewhere to be?"
The smirk he sends your way as he backs down the hallway is intimidating, but you keep your glare focused on him until he was out of your sight. The nerve of this man.
A little step towards the kitchen, you found your former friend sitting on the island stool, a guilt-stricken expression on his sharp features as he held a plate of waffles. You glared at him, remembering how harsh and depressing last night was, how you basically found out that you know nothing about anything that happened in your life for the last four years.
"Woah, did you even get any sleep?"
And that's the first thing that comes out of his mouth.
"Fuck, I didn't mean it like that. That was... a horrible place to start." He scratches his neck awkwardly. You clear your throat. "I made you waffles." He lifts the plate in his hands towards you. "And I went to Trader Joes and got that bougie ass syrup you love, you know the one in the glass bottle."
"You'd have to be really fucked in the head to think I'd forgive you just because you made me breakfast." You snarl, hoping that your voice invoked fear into him. But, sadly, he knew you too well. He sat the plate on the counter and picked up your favorite brand of syrup, pouring it gratuitously over the steaming Belgian waffles. Your mouth watered instantly.
"Did you get whipped cream?"
He nods, finally smiling as you groan and move to sit beside him, instantly shoving your mouth with waffles pieces.
"This doesn't mean shit." You garble out with a mouth full of pastry.
"Or does it mean everything?" He asks with a smirk. You shove his shoulder, but you don't let his snide comments stop you from absolutely devouring your waffles and making him give you the whipped cream can to spray directly in your mouth. You finished in minutes, uncaring of how sloppy and ugly you looked when it was all over. When you turned around, Ian was smiling at you. You rolled your eyes.
"You're so fucking annoying."
"Love you, too, apple-head."
You sigh, staring off to the door of which you were sure Killmonger left out of. "So, what? Every time that killer nigga leaves, you're gonna babysit me?" You ask.
"You should be glad it's me and not anyone else he keeps around. I actually care about you." He reminds you, but you're still not one hundred percent sold on that, so you scoff and look away from his stupid green eyes.
"All men do is lie!" You shout. And the more you think about it, the more it becomes true. Every man you've ever met or got involved with was a liar. "I hate being here! I hate that this is my life now! I hate not having control over situations like this, Ian! I hate feeling so fucking weak, so powerless." You confess. Without hesitation, Ian pulls you into his arms. Briefly uncaring of how disastrous last night was or how betrayed you felt, you returned his bear hug readily.
He pulls back slightly. "I'm sorry I can't get you out of this. I wish I could, you know I would do whatever it takes, but it's more complicated than that right now." He tries to comfort you with another embrace but you step out of it.
"I'm trying to understand this whole...whatever the fuck is happening. I'm trying to be as reasonable as possible despite the fact that you're an actual son of a bitch. I'm trying. But, right now, I want to fucking punch you in the face." You admit through clenched teeth. Ian sighs.
"Okay, do it."
"Huh?"
"I should've told you from the jump that he wasn't a good guy. I should've made up some bullshit as to why you had to leave him, anything to get you out of this situation. I should've done everything in my power to drive you away from him because I saw how miserable you were getting with him and I saw how much he didn't care. I could've saved your wasted time in that relationship! Doesn't that make you mad? That I chose not to do anything?"
Your hands balled into fists.
It was obvious how much Ian wanted you to hit him, you could see the glint in his eyes, the same one you notice when he's done something wrong. But getting you out of the picture wasn't in his job description. If you wanted to leave earlier, you could've.
"You can't tell me you haven't thought about punching me before." He jokes, though the delivery is dry and laced with worry. You shake your head.
"I haven't. Not until last night." You admit. His eyes shift downwards.
"Do your worst." He prompts, but you have other things on your mind.
"Ian, why didn't you do anything?"
He pauses. "What?"
"Why didn't you force me out of the relationship? You said you could've. Why didn't you?" You inquire, genuinely curious.
Ian shrugs. "I don't know. Just hit me."
"No! Answer my question, you're the one who brought it the fuck up." You try to catch his shifty eyes but they're looking everywhere but you.
He's quiet for a long moment. "It was easier to have you around distracting him." He says lowly, and usually, that would've sufficed had it been anyone but you. You knew Ian's tells - the way his voice lowered instantly, his eyes only focusing on your nose instead of your eyes, his fingers tapping impatiently on his pant leg.
"Fine. You don't have to tell me, then. I just think it's fucked up that you still have the nerve to keep secrets from me when I literally have enough information on you to put you in prison."
"You'd never put me in prison, you know I'm too pretty for that." He says, lightening the mood.
"You think you're too pretty for most places. And you're not. You're basic." You crack back like a reflex, then curse yourself for not staying angry at him.
"I'm literally a snack, but okay." He smiles, showing off his bright Colgate smile and the tiny set of dimples in his cheeks. You huff.
"If you're a snack, bitches gon' be starving." You lie.
Ian's always been handsome, probably the most beautiful man you've ever been associated with, but he's a true narcissus and there's no way you'd ever feed that self-loving demon inside of him with compliments. He'd hold it over your head for eternity. Besides, if he didn't have you to humble him from time to time, his head would never leave the clouds. Alternatively, if you didn't have him to gas you up over small things, you'd probably be walking around with a cartoon-ish, dreary cloud wherever you went.
"Still scared to admit that I'm the full package?"
"A package that no one ordered."
"Such a hater!" He pushes you back a step and you shove him back. A yawn forces its way to your mouth, stopping your next sentence. Ian frowns. "You really didn't get any sleep, did you?" You shake your head. He groans and drags you back down the hallway.
"Please, get some rest. I'm here, not him. There's nothing to be worried about." He says.
"Alright. I'll sleep, but --" you bite your lip, cutting yourself off.
"But what?" He presses.
"When I wake up, I want you to tell me about Killmonger. Everything you know. Everything." You reiterate. Ian's eyes widened momentarily before settling back into a look of false calm. He nods, hesitantly.
"I can't promise it'll be everything."
You give him a look, which he rolls his eyes to.
"I'll see what I can do." He mutters. "Now, get some sleep. I'll be just out here, breaking into this nigga's Netflix account."
"That's one pro of being a criminal, I guess." You say through another yawn. He pats your head softly and leaves you alone to sleep. You're passed out cold as soon as your face meets the pillow.