Three days. Three days. He’s been down here three days. Here: in the crawlspace beneath the basement stairs. It’s cement and timber and fiberglass. It’s dark. It’s always dark. Fray only knows time has passed because somewhere upstairs is a grandfather clock and it booms the hour.
It occurred to him at 4:53 that morning that he may never see sunlight again.
Three days.
He’s in his corner. Through blind fumbling and the glimpses of the space he gets when Roseingrave comes to give him water, he’s found a corner to shove himself into, back braced against the wall and his head against the slanted ceiling that covers the stairs’ underside. Sometimes he can feel vibrations that tell him someone is at the top of them, or that someone has closed the door that leads down to them. It’s not safer. It doesn’t make him feel any safer. But it’s at least something, to have his back protected.
Three days. Three days, three days, three days.
He didn’t tell anyone where he was going, because he hadn’t known where he was going. He’d just needed out of that house, where the tension and weariness hangs like smog. A bar. A club. Even a park would have been fine, somewhere he could go for a night run without worrying about tripping in the dark. That’s where he had ended up, like an idiot. Jogging on the half-lit path of a park near the edge of Baythurn, by himself, zoned out in his runner’s high. His mind was still in the place it goes when he runs as he got back to the Chariot. It hadn’t been locked. He’d figured he’d forgotten to lock it.
He hadn’t forgotten.
Whenever his exhaustion and hunger fades out enough for him to function, he tries to get out of his binds. His ankles are duct-taped together, his wrists too, arms behind his back. There’s handcuffs over the tape, Fray thinks, cinched tight and taped-over again. Roseingrave spared no caution. There’s tape over his mouth and his lips are raw from the adhesive and threads. Not that it’s doing anything to his ability to call for help. He can barely form cohesive strings of thought right now, let alone speak.
Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid Fray.
His body aches with its unmet needs. His joints throb and his muscles seize. His stomach is a sick knot of fear, his heart a nervous rhythm that thrashes like a caged animal whenever he hears footsteps.
He can’t let himself feel like a victim, he tells himself. He’s not a victim. This kind of thing happens all the time in the X-Men and nobody would call Wolverine anybody’s victim. He just has to hold out. He has to believe someone will come for him. Whatever he does, he mustn’t lose hope.
The clock strikes seven, and the stairs thud-thud-thud with Roseingrave’s heavy steps, and all hope flees into some dark corner.
It’s maddening. Roseingrave descends from the last step, and Fray can’t hear where he is after that. He does not open the door to Fray’s prison. Once or twice Fray hears sounds of something heavy being dragged. Every noise makes his pulse quicken. What’s he doing? Why is he doing this, keeping Fray locked up in a basement? Where are the retrieval agents? He’s fretted over what it would look like to be caught before: men in black swarming them, tranquilizer guns for Baj and a dog-catcher’s loop for Tin, a lifetime in the Library’s maximum security. Never seeing anyone he loves, ever again.
But this, oh.
This is worse.
The door to the crawl space opens. Fray flinches, closing his eyes against the sudden beam of the flashlight that shines in his face.
“Good morning, Freya,” says Roseingrave’s voice, low and gentle.
Now he is being pulled out of his corner by strong hands. He does his best to struggle. Fight. His overwrought body gives its best rally and then goes limp. Now a new indignity: he’s lifted when there’s enough room for it, gathered in Roseingrave’s arms like a child. When he’s brought out into the basement the dim light is blinding. He must close his eyes to it. He doesn’t know what’s going on until he’s settled into the seat of an elderly armchair that reeks of cigarettes. He blinks blearily, trying to focus his vision.
He knew he was in a house. He had even figured on being in a basement given the cement floor. He’d expected … he doesn’t know. An empty half-constructed thing with raw wood and exposed insulation. A cold, tiled room. But this, this is just … somebody’s basement, full of tools and packed-away boxes and elderly furniture half-hidden under plastic sheeting. It’s normal. It could be his parents’ basement. The thought makes him sick.
And now, Roseingrave has pulled up an old folding chair and sat opposite him. He sits with his elbows on his knees, leaned forward with his hands clasped in front of his mouth, and he stares. He looks at Fray like he isn’t sure he is real. He looks at him like a trophy he can’t quite believe he bagged. He opens his mouth to wet his lips and for a moment Fray can glimpse his very white teeth.
Roseingrave says, without a hint of insincerity, “My poor boy. You’re a mess.” The words set Fray’s skin crawling. “I would have rather had this conversation under better circumstances, you know? Not these … extremes.” He waves a hand in Fray’s direction, as if somehow he were not responsible for Fray’s current condition. “But you’re a dangerous one to hunt. Can’t risk it. Can’t underestimate you. Learned my lesson, eh?”