Inktober/Whumptober Day 2: Bag over Head
Full prompt list is here!
When Toby wakes to rough hands dragging him out of bed and forcing a black bag over his head, his question is not “Who would do this to me” but “Who wouldn’t do this to me?” The number of suspects is so big that process of elimination is the only way to find the answer.
The Gorodetskys hate him because he’s Black. The Ascaris hate him because of his drug habit. The O’Hares because he sleeps with men. And the Perezes because the man he is currently sleeping with is Sr. Perez’s son.
He can’t really blame them for that last one. He wouldn’t want him sleeping with his kid either. Wait. That came out wrong. But he can’t stop to worry about poor phrasing right now. There are more important things going on. Like how he’s being dragged blindly down the grated stairs of the apartment building, bare feet hitting hard against cold steel, head still fuzzy from sleep.
The only ones who don’t hate him are his own adopted Family, and that’s only because they don’t know that he’s in bed -- literally and metaphorically -- with every other syndicate in Chicago. As soon as that cat gets out of the bag, it’s all over.
Maybe it’s already happened. Maybe that’s what this is about.
Outside, the freezing wind biting at his bare torso and through his thin pajama pants still isn’t as bad as the combination of snow and rough asphalt on his feet. It’s not far to the car, but he’s shivering uncontrollably and his feet are numb by the time they get there. Oddly, the bag keeps his head quite warm compared to the rest of him.
He’s relieved that they toss him onto the floor of the backseat instead of into the trunk. The engine is still running and the heat is on -- they’re more concerned about keeping themselves comfortable than making him uncomfortable -- and he starts to thaw out again as they roll out into the night.
Honestly? This is not nearly as unpleasant as he would have expected. The car speeds gently through the night. In the darkness, time and space spiral away. As Toby drifts between waking and sleeping, it occurs to him that he must have gone to bed not too long ago, because he is obviously still high as balls.
Some time later, the car stops. It isn’t cold when they drag him out. The click of their shoes and the slap of his bare feet echo in the space. Indoor garage, he works out, then moves on to the more pressing matters. Specifically, the matter of coming up with just the right one-liner to deliver to whichever boss turns out to be behind this. By the time they push him to his knees on the softest rug he’s ever felt, he’s pretty sure he knows what he’s going to say. He just hopes it doesn’t sound too pathetic coming from a guy wearing only flannel pajama bottoms.
They pull off the bag. The big reveal. He looks up at the man sitting behind the desk in the dim leather-and-brass office. A stocky grey-haired man with a bandage on one eye. Toby’s well planned snark evaporates in sheer confusion, and all he manages is to say is,
“Who the hell are you?“
