Winn woke up with a weight on his chest and a hand over his mouth.
Sleep paralysis wasn't a stranger; Winn had been plagued with night terrors for a decade. But no sleep demons his insomnia-riddled mind could conjure up made his blood run cold with terror the same way it did now.
"Good morning, Mr. Yale," said Michael Rembrandt, straddling Winn on the couch as he plastered a strip of tape across Winn's mouth.
Eyes wide, Winn made a muffled noise as he bucked instinctively. He'd fallen asleep on the couch on his back, still in his street clothes; his right arm was tucked between his body and the couch back, and now pinned down by Rembrandt's knee. He curled his free hand into a fist and swung upwards; Rembrandt caught his wrist all too easily. In the next second, the sharp metal edge of a knife pressed up against Winn's jugular.
"Shhh," Rembrandt soothed, as Winn struggled underneath him, trying to pull his hand free. "Calm down, Winn, calm down. You don't want me to slip."
The knife moved as he spoke, and Winn flinched as the paper-thin edge just barely broke the skin. He obediently stilled, green eyes wide as he felt himself try to hyperventilate through his nose. What was Rembrandt doing here? Winn hadn't seen him in years - he'd just gotten out, why was Rembrandt here, how did he know where Winn was now -
"That's better." Rembrandt's voice oozed like an oil slick. Winn remembered that tone too well; it haunted most of his nightmares. "I know how scared and confused you get when you have nightmares, Winn, so I thought I'd make sure you can't hurt yourself again."
His dark eyes gleamed, and Winn felt sick. This had to be a dream, right? It had to be, Rembrandt couldn't be here.
He was still talking. "Come on, now, look at me, Winn, focus," he soothed. "Take a deep breath -" His lips curved in a smile; Winn could only breathe through his nose "- orient yourself. Remember where you are."
Winn's heart beat too fast, but he was already trying to shove down the panic, focusing his power. Rembrandt, of course, on top of him - a small, but wickedly sharp knife against the left side of his neck, watch, a suit pristine even while he straddled Winn's torso on a sagging couch with one leg propped up by a piece of a cinderblock. Bag behind the couch; computer inside. Part of Winn already knew that Rembrandt wasn't alone, but now he pinpointed the other person, a large figure past Winn's field of vision. Heavy boots, coat, gun.
"Are you settled, now?" Rembrandt asked, his voice dropping to what would be a comforting murmur if he didn't have a knife against Winn's throat. "Do you know where you are? Good."
He let go of Winn's free hand, but Winn knew better than to try for the knife. Rembrandt had nothing else in his pockets, his power told him, and the only other person in his shabby basement flat had a gun pointed right at the top of Winn's head from less than a meter away.
Rembrandt eased the knife away from Winn's throat. "I want you awake for this," Rembrandt said, holding the knife out; Winn caught a glimpse of someone's hand and arm as they took the knife from Rembrandt, gun still held in the other, and then retook their spot where Winn couldn't see him. "I want you to know," Rembrandt continued, shifting his weight on Winn's chest, "that this isn't a dream."
He wrapped his hands around Winn's throat.
I'm going to die, Winn thought, as he struggled for breath. I'm going to die and he's going to finally kill me.
It didn't matter that one of Rembrandt's lackeys was just there, holding a gun that Winn's power said was aimed right at him. The second Rembrandt's hands wrapped around Winn's throat, instinct kicked in. He bucked and thrashed underneath Rembrandt, trying to squirm free. He twisted and shook his shoulders, but his right arm was still trapped between Rembrandt's knee and the couch cushions; he reached up with his left, trying desperately to pull the other man's hands away from his throat.
Fuck
Winn gasped for breath, but he couldn't pull in any air through the tape over his mouth; his nostrils flared as he tried to cough and wheeze.
Fuckfuckfuckfuck
He jerked his knees up, trying to hit Rembrandt in the back, knock him off-balance; all that did was rock Rembrandt forward, pressing more and more of his weight on Winn's throat.
I can't breathe.
Winn stopped trying to peel Rembrandt's fingers away; instead, he pushed at Rembrandt's shoulder. I can't breathe, he's going to kill me.
What did I do?
Rembrandt had put Winn in prison almost eight years ago. He'd won. Why was he here? Winn hadn't contacted anyone except Gary, and that was just to get his bike; Gary'd promised not to tell anyone, but of fucking course Winn couldn't trust him, he'd helped Rembrandt get Winn caught -
He couldn't tell if his vision was blurring from tears, lack of air, or both.
Rembrandt kept his grip tight as Winn thrashed. He tilted his head to one side when Winn finally lashed out, clawing at his face; he might have left a scratch behind, but Rembrandt hardly cared. He could see Winn flagging.
It was all too satisfying, looking down at Winn, frantic and teary-eyed. Hearing his muffled whimpers, feeling his struggling grow weaker and weaker between his legs. He could feel Winn's slowing pulse under his fingers, and Rembrandt kept a sharp eye on the squirming little bastard, keeping his grip iron-tight.
Part of him wanted to end this now. Even after years, the sheer loathing for this pathetic little rat burned even brighter now that Rembrandt had his hands on him again. Extinguishing the life in those sharp green eyes would give Rembrandt no greater pleasure.
But then, of course, it would be over all too soon.
Just as Winn fell limp underneath him, Rembrandt let go.
Watching him gasp - or try to gasp - and choke on the sudden influx of air was amusing. While Winn wheezed and coughed into his gag, Rembrandt shuffled backwards off of him. As soon as Winn reached up to tear the tape off, Rembrandt grabbed his arm.
"That will be staying on." Rembrandt hooked his fingers into the collar of Winn's ratty t-shirt and pulled him upright. Gathering both of his wrists in one hand, Rembrandt let Winn slump against his shoulder, still coughing and shuddering. He slung a companionable arm around the slim thief's shoulders.
Rembrandt glanced around. "This place is just as depressing as your prison cell, Yale," he remarked dryly. "Two months out of prison, and all you have is a single couch and a laundry basket?"
They were in a basement studio apartment; when the building had been originally built, it was clear that this was meant as a storage place and not somewhere suitable for living, but the complex's owners must have renovated it for rent some few decades ago, judging by the kitchenette's tile. A haphazard pile of laundry in the corner, half-in and half-out of a shoddy plastic basket, and old takeout bags on the counter, were the only signs that someone really was living there.
While Rembrandt was busy judging Winn's new and lackluster living conditions, Winn jabbed a fist into his ribs.
Rembrandt grunted, wincing in on himself, but as he did, he curled his arm tight, pulling Winn into a chokehold. He held out his other hand, snapping his fingers; as soon as Jonas put the knife back into his hand, Rembrandt plunged it through Winn's jeans and into his thigh.
Winn screamed into his gag, the sound further muffled as Rembrandt strangled him for another moment or two. Once it subsided to stifled sobbing, Rembrandt sighed and loosed his arm around Winn's neck.
"Why are you crying?" Rembrandt asked. "It's barely three inches long. I'm sure you made prison shivs longer than this." He dug the little knife in further as he spoke, feeling Winn cringe against him. "Sit on your hands."
Winn was still coughing, and Rembrandt wondered if he'd have to remove the tape just to make sure the idiot didn't choke on his own saliva. But at least Winn slid both his hands under his legs. Rembrandt could feel his shoulders shaking under his arm. He left the pocketknife sticking out of Winn's leg.
"You can put the gun away, now, Jonas," Rembrandt said casually. "Winn's going to behave now. Right?" he asked. When all he got in return was a narrow glare and ragged breathing, Rembrandt twisted the knife, until Winn was nodding furiously. Smiling thinly, he let go of the knife and patted Winn's tear-stained cheek. "That's a good boy."
Jonas finally stepped around into Winn's view. Winn glared almost as furiously at the big man as he did at Rembrandt, and Jonas looked very much like he wished he'd been the one to stab the thief. "I really thought you would have stolen yourself some better furniture, by now," Rembrandt remarked casually, as Jonas stomped over to the laundry basket, digging through it. Winn's brow furrowed in confusion as he watched. Rembrandt kept his arm across Winn's shoulders; this close, he could feel practically every breath, every cough, and when Winn shifted one arm, Rembrandt flicked the knife.
"Behave," he warned, in a whisper that ghosted over Winn's ear. Winn shivered. "I know you must be curious why we're here. Just know that seven years without seeing your face was the most peaceful my life has ever been."
He sighed, as Jonas pulled a faded green sweater out of the basket. "But it's a shame to leave such a useful tool locked behind bars. For fuck's sake, you still have that shitty old hoodie?"
He caught the sweater as Jonas tossed it to him. Winn mumbled something into his gag, but Rembrandt didn't really care. He curled his fingers around Winn's collar and got to his feet, pulling Winn with him. "Stand up."
Winn flinched, shifting his weight to his uninjured leg. Rembrandt glanced down, noting a lack of socks and the presence of a tracking bracelet around one ankle. Hanging onto his arm, Rembrandt arched his eyebrows.
"These are new," he noted, pulling Winn's arm straight to inspect the scars there. "Was it the prison dog that mauled you?"
He met Winn's glare with a smirk. "I'd love to see what they did to your back, but we don't have time. Put this on."
As soon as Winn pulled the hooded sweater over his head, sniffling, Rembrandt nodded to Jonas. "Left hand in your pocket," the gruff man ordered. Winn stared for a moment, but then his eyes darted to Jonas' gun. He still had that bloody knife in his leg -
As if he could read his mind, Rembrandt settled a hand on Winn's shoulder. "Do you really want to try your luck tonight?" he murmured. Winn bit his tongue, then stuck his hand into the patch pocket of his hoodie. Jonas had to tug Winn's left hand through, so that he could wrap a pair of zip ties painfully tight around Winn's wrists, linking them together. When he finished, he gave Winn's shoulder a rough nudge, forcing the thief to limp back a step with a wince. Once his hands were settled inside the pocket, it was impossible to tell they were bound.
"Sit back down," Rembrandt said, retrieving a bag from behind the couch. "Find him another pair of jeans, Jonas, we don't need anyone asking questions about the blood." Rembrandt took a seat on the couch; Jonas put his large hand on Winn's chest and shoved him down next to his boss.
"Lie down." Rembrandt reached down when Winn didn't move fast enough, hooked the tracking anklet, and dragged Winn's leg up and across his knees. The thief gave a muffled yelp and wince, wriggling around to get a little more comfortable. He thought, for just a second, about kicking Rembrandt in the face - but Jonas was already back, looming over him and just waiting for a chance to pull his gun.
Opening a laptop across Winn's shins, Rembrandt reached over and nudged the knife. "Don't fuck with me," he warned, "or I'll cut your hamstrings and we'll book a wheelchair for your flight."
My flight?
Winn stared up at the ceiling as Rembrandt typed quickly on his laptop. What the fuck was going on? His leg hurt and his lungs still burned from all the choking and stifled coughing, and Winn's skin crawled with the need to run, to get away.
If he moved, Jonas would blow his head off, and that was the best-case scenario. When he felt Rembrandt give the tracking anklet another tug, Winn lifted his head off the arm of the couch, his alarmed protest caught in the tape gag.
"Relax." Rembrandt smirked as the anklet clicked loose. "No one will know you've slipped your probationary leash. As far as your babysitter will be concerned, you'll be right where you need to be."
I have an appointment, Winn thought furiously at Rembrandt, though he doubted the man would care. Apparently finished hacking whatever system the stupid tracker belonged to, Rembrandt set both his laptop and the anklet back in his bag and off to the side. Then he reached over and tore the knife out of Winn's leg.
"Let's get him cleaned up," he told Jonas, ignoring Winn's strangled scream. "We have a flight to catch."
