Deer in the Headlights
It’s not kidnapping by the legal definition. Adrian Chase doesn't believe in angels, but you might be the closest thing to one. That's why he can’t let you go.
(Fluff, Smut, Angst, Hurt/Comfort)
4.8k Words
Warnings: 18+, slowburn, stalking, kidnapping (planned), perv!Adrian, friends to lovers, manipulation, flirting, kissing, alcohol, forcefem, vouyerism, masturbation, panty stealing, graphic violence, referenced abuse
An: I have been ACHING to write this man being creepy!! This fic was inspired by this lovely lovely piece of work, so plz go give the author some love! Also yes I did name this fic after the Owl City song it is so Adrian coded <3 I would be open to writing a sequel to this fic if anyone would be interested!
Love at first sight is a silly, played out cliche. Chemically, it makes no sense. I mean, you hardly know each other. But Adrian can not be more enamored with you.
It started as an otherwise entirely ordinary night, watching the families and couples, birthdays and anniversaries and ‘just because’ nights out- little snapshots of life, over the lip of a grimy busbin. In the easy rhythm of cleaning off tables, one’s mind is liable to wander. Adrian’s goes on a little explosion-filled hike.
Oh and the clouds part, and a voice cuts through from back of house, “You two, get the fuck out there!” Adrian’s head jerks up from the four top just quick enough to see you and those two servers he keeps telling to stop vaping in the walk-in, all but dragging them out by the backs of their shirts.
Adrian vaguely recognizes your face, or a hand that might’ve pushed him out of your way during a rush. Oh, and it’s like magnets how he’s stuck on you. So he has to say something. He’s getting nowhere staring, and there’s nothing weird about talking to a girl while she’s walking to her car, right?
Exhausted and sweaty from a shift over the range, reeking of garlic and onions, your mind hardly registers his words from behind you.
“That was, like- totally badass, what you did back there.”
“What?”
First of all, you didn't know the guy. Second of all, you didn't know what the hell he was talking about. And with his momentary lapse in personal space, you half think to elbow him and run to your car. Adrian gathers none of these points and goes for the secret third option for why you’re mad.
“Oh, no- I wasn’t… I didn’t mean your ass was bad- it’s perfectly fine! It’s actually really nice-“ he lifts his hands in surrender. “I mean, how you kicked those guys out- that was cool.” Beaming with dorky sincerity, he endears himself past the ‘when I murder you, I’ll hide your body with the others’ idea you contra utes for him.
And you're shaken off guard for a moment, before you can even think of something clever to snap back with. “Thanks, uh…” You glance at his nametag, “Adrian?” He nods emphatically.
You gather that this Adrian guy is the kind of kicked dog that confuses tolerance with affection. You tolerate his presence when you push past him in the kitchen with more gentleness than your fellow chain smoking line cooks do.
You take lunch with him because, as an employee of Fennel Fields, you can eat anything you want as long as you want an appetizer a server forgot.
From a milk crate on the ground, Adrian-him and those fucking Dahmer glasses—watches you grab a spinach dip that’d died on the serving pass. “Did you know the easiest way to tell the difference between a manta ray and a stingray is where their mouth is?” He wipes the mozzarella stick grease from the corner of his mouth. “Stingrays have them on their bellies, while manta rays have forward facing mouths.”
“Does… that have something to do with what they eat?” You settle across from him in the empty storage closet turned break room.
“Yeah, it does! And- and for that same reason, stingrays have teeth, where mantas just swim around with their mouths open like-“ he takes a sip of his water to make sure his mouth isn’t gross before all but unhinging his jaw.
A smile plays on your lips. “Wait, like what?” And Adrian demonstrates again. Where most people would've peeled off or rolled their eyes, you laugh. Oh, he loves you.
Something warm and nervous bubbles up in his chest. Unused to casual conversation, he scrambles to fill the air, “You know, this lady at table six- she tried giving me her daughter’s number. Said she ‘needs a nice young man’ like me in her life!” The irony of that statement doesn't make sense to you, given you don’t know how he spends his nights.
“I could see that.” You crunch a tortilla chip with an unpatronizing shrug. “My parents always gave me shit about the guys I was seein’.” A plate shatters out on the floor.
It never occurred to Adrian that you had a life outside of the View-Master frame of you he gathered at work, like how you thought your teachers lived at school. An odd and clunky expression flashes on his face. “Oh. Are you…seeing anybody?”
The finer details and personal qualities of this mystery man are lost to the apologetic look on your face, the way you overexplain details to justify things you let slip: he comes home late with no explanation, he never makes plans despite the two of you living together. It’s that worry that twists just under your face that pushes this idea on Adrian’s head.
But he has to play nice for now. “That, uh-“ The playful lilt in his voice buckles as the lie strains through his teeth. “The air tag thing- that's pretty smart.”
Your eyebrows shoot up. “I mean… He’s been on me about getting the thing fixed…” You grab your purse to explain, the glittery pink keychain jostling with the movement.
“I could take care of that for you.”
Adrian bourts the offer out a little too fast. But where could you write off his above behavior as him not knowing how to respond, this was him just wanting to help you out- in his nerdy sort of way. He’s probably good at tech.
“Really?” Something warm and excited bubbles in Adrian’s chest at your voice. “You’d do that?”
You trust him so much. That's why, even though how he!s going about this is kind of sketchy, what he’s doing needs to be done! I mean, it isn't really him doing it- Adrian ceases being himself the minute he dons the mask and hunkers down in your building’s stairwell, pressing his ear to the wall,
“Disabled? What do you mean it's disabled? You fuckin’-“
“I asked a guy at work to get it fixed! I don’t…”
Then a stagnant pause.
“No you don’t! We’re not-“ you huff, grabbing something off a table. “You fucking unbelievable!”
The door opens, then it slams shut. From the floor above yours, he watches through first the red visor, then the bars of the stairs: the top of your head as you storm down the steps.
Now, because he is a considerate guy, Vigilante waits until you're clear out of the building to make his move. All the old folks in your okay building in the safe part of town are asleep at this hour, so there’s nobody to see him storming down the hallway like the Terminator.
In one smooth motion, Vigilante turns perpendicular to the door, pulls back, and drives his shoulder next to the hinges. With a gratifying crack, the cheap plywood wood splinters under his pauldron. And again, and again. He hears feet shuffling, a panicked male voice, “What the fuck?! Who’re yo-“
Okay. He felt bad switching out the air tag. He felt bad for not intervening sooner. But Vigilante feels not a shred of guilt for what he’s about to do.
You clock in early on Monday. After a night of police questioning, the weight of what happened makes reality blur at the edges. There’s nothing else you could do. Nothing to do, really. A couple gets into an argument, girlfriend leaves, comes back to the apartment painted with boyfriend’s guts. Of course the police don't believe her when she says she doesn’t know what happened,
And for some reason, you're not alone. That dorky smile, the little bounce in his step- you're living in an entirely different reality than Adrian. “Hey, Y/N! What’s up?” His voice jingles through the air.
With just the two of you in the kitchen there’s no reason for him to linger at your side. But you don’t tell him to move. “Something happened last night. In my apartment…” Freezing with your apron half tied, you stop and stare through him with bleary eyes, like you need to make sure you’re seeing the world right. “I’m just… really tired.” Your voice cracks on that last syllable.
And that makes some thigh tighten in Adrian’s chest. Some of the stuff you said this guy did bordered on abuse, which is illegal. And in the week he sat outside your building, he did see him jaywalk once, so your boyfriend really deserved it. But that won’t make you feel better the way it does for him.
“You could stay with me.” The offer tumbles out so naturally, it’s as easy as swallowing his own spit. “I mean, if you feel unsafe there. We have an extra room- and my mom wouldn't mind!” Adrian: sweet, solid Adrian with the one curl sticking out from his jaunty little uniform hat. Of course he lives with his mom.
It’s weird that that's what sells you. There would be hamburger helper, and doors without security chains, and no crime scene investigators. “That… that would be really nice.”
That night, the investigators are sympathetic, mostly- still photographing the crusty stain on your bedroom carpet while you bag up all that you can reach without crossing yellow tape. Duffel bag slung over your shoulder, you stand at the address he sent you, staring at the ceramic geese on the porch in their frilly little red and white dresses...
“Y/N!” The door swings open. Ecstatic and humanly warm, Adrian is beaming as he drags you in past old school pictures and ceramic knick knacks. “Okay, just so you know, my mom has dementia- she might confuse you for my-“
The scent of garlic and onions drifts through the air, and something releases in you. “Y/N?” Ms. Chase wipes her hands on a dish towel with a warm smile, “Oh, sweetheart- I’m so glad to finally meet you!” She pulls you into one of those mom hugs that you all but crumple into. Life feels so devastatingly normal for a moment.
It’s like you're living someone else’s memories: the Prego, the pleasant dinner conversation. “So, Adrian tells me you do a lot of volunteer work?” Ms Chase asks, which confuses you initially. But he could've got that from you complaining about working doubles or running over your break. “I mean, I didn’t even know there were shelters for blind puppies!” she adds, dashing that possibility. “With that, and working with the church- I don’t know how you get a minute to yourself!”
“Mom-”
“I’m sorry! I was just so excited when I heard my Adrian got a girlfriend-“
“Mom, please!”
You stifle a snicker. You should be more upset, or confused than you are. But with all the shit in your life right now, this kind of non issue loses its bite. Across the table, Adrian’s eyes flash wide at you in a silent plea.
“It’s alright,” you chuckle, fighting a smile, “I, uh… He’s a really sweet guy. I couldn’t ask fr’ a better boyfriend.” But you aren't a saint so, just to get back at him, you add, “He is just so fun- like when he tries on my lingerie on laundry day. Dances around the house-“ you snicker, unable to keep a straight face.
Great. Now he’s thinking about the fact you own lingerie, and wearing your lingere- what it would feel like on his skin…
And Ms. Chase wanders from story to story—the two weeks in boy scouts, birthdays at the aquarium, some older brother you weren't aware of—in a way that really shows you where he gets it from. Midway through one, you catch Adrian's gaze as if you say, ‘there. we both lied. we’re in this together now.’ That’s how he took it, at least.
Before you came over, Adrian went out to pick a few things up- as you do when you have guests over: namely, a six pack of the beer you always reached for after a long shift. “When did we start dating?” You pop the tab with a fizz in the now deserted kitchen.
“Well, how else would she let you stay over?” Adrian finishes drying the last of the dishes, playing it overly cool. He thought you were even now.
“You lied to your mom,” you protest with a glare he certainly doesn't see.
“-unless, you do wanna be my girlfriend- then I wouldn’t be lying!” And silence. Then you laugh. Do you think he’s funny, or the idea of you being his? He smiles anyways. “I, uh… I can show you t’you room.” Which he does, and afterward leaves you to your own devices.
You spent years with that quiet inkling that if you took better care of yourself, or took care of the house, or tried to be easier to be around, maybe things would get better. Maybe he’d want you around. Towards the end, he didn’t touch you for months- wouldn't even look you in the eyes. Thinking back to everything, alone, you feel so hollow. In the kitchen, at night, a million miles away from the world.
Far off in his bedroom, Adrian stares up at the sticky glow in the dark stars on his ceiling. He could tell you were still feeling bad about what happened. He wants to tell you that your boyfriend pissed himself after he passed out from blood loss, but that also probably wouldn’t make you feel better. He’s getting better at this stuff.
The door knob jiggles. Crimefighter instincts kick in and Adrian jolts to sit up. The sudden rush of adrenaline, fight or flight- and you meet his gaze, eyes blown so wide you could see white all around the iris. You look like a goddess: in your underwear and the moonlight, you slink off the door jamb with some alien grace. “Hey! Hey, s’okay,” you whisper, sitting on the edge of his bed.
This is a dream. This has to be. But he can feel the warmth of your palm, the little tug when you rake your fingers through his curls. You smile, “God, you're cute…” Considered by most to be a mild inconvenience. Adrian’s mouth opens and closes the way a goldfish might, chasing words.
He would do anything for you to keep touching him. Laying down on top of the covers, you tug him with you- shoulders bumping, knees bumping. “Yr’ so nice. Really… Didnt have t’do all this.”
You, the line cook with all those pink burns littering your arms, and the smudgey makeup you forgot to take off, and the dead boyfriend- you look kinda funny like this, nose to nose with Adrian on his Star Wars sheets.
“‘World needs more people like you, Adrian,” your words pour out like very sage alphabet soup. “You’d make such a good boyfriend. Such a…good guy.”
Are you hitting on him? It feels like it, that hot swell that threatens to pour out through his ribs. But Adrian doesn't get a chance to ask because you were half asleep when you walked in, much less now. Your breath evens, that tension melts from your shoulders.
And you’re so warm. And close- Adrian can almost feel your eyelashes on his cheeks. So close, he goes crosseyed staring at you. God, you’re beautiful. He wants to feel your eyelashes on his cheeks. He wants to smell your hair, and run his fingers over the burns on your arms, and kiss you because you look like an angel. An honest to god angel, right in his bed.
Ms. Chase found you the next morning and smiled: something about young love. You've made worse decisions drunk. Adrian watches you brush your teeth through the open door with these soft, predatory eyes that belies how you woke up tangled together like puppies.
Life is ever so slightly more normal. You aren't sure if that’s a good thing: that you can still take showers and feed yourself and go to work. And, as it so has it, your next shift together is on Valentine’s Day.
The ticket machine is spitting out twenty, thirty at a time. Kitchensong—the clattering and yelling and water sounds—buzzes through the air. From behind the screen of steam at the dish pit, Adrian has to make an effort not to stare at you: how your forearms look with your sleeves rolled up, how you flip between languages like breathing. But is it hard to do that...
And he’s doing just fine keeping his professional distance. That is, until that smarmy, strapping buck server stops a little too close to your backside, “C’mon. You’re busy? Really?”
Adrian can hardly hear over the blood rushing in his ears. This primal, terrifying feeling surges through his veins, and now that industrial sprayer in his hand feels not dissimilar to a pistol grip. There’s knives within reach. He would do it.
“Jason, I would love to go out with you,” you don't look up while you plate your chicken Marsala. “But I actually have some really nice, rusty butter knives at home I wanna stab my eyes out with.” The pan clatters on the stove, then is whisked away. “And by the way, your section’s a fucking mess. Get out there, and clean some tables.” Jason mutters something under his breath and leaves with a huff.
Adrian’s grip squeaks around a lipstick stained glass. Holy fuck, that’s hot. You are terrifyingly capable, and strong- and Adrian needs you to boss him around like that so bad it makes him ache. Evidence of this ache twitches against the metal of the sink. His lusty curiosity is cut short by the hiss of a hot, fond crusted pan in water.
Around nine, the kitchen’s pills have kicked in and the rush mellows out. But as you do rounds in the dining room, those tense vibrations linger in the air. And given the occasion, you’d gotten to talking about some film he swore was romantic. “I mean, if I loved someone that much,” Adrian scrapes forgotten roses into the bin. “I would totally drive an Aston Martin off a cliff! Anybody would do that.”
Clearing a dessert plate and the two spoons with it, you chuckle, shaking your head. “Anyways, do you have any plans?” he asks. “Maybe… go out with some friends- like… galentines?” he flashes a strained smile, flipping you finger guns.
“No. I, uh-“ you search the ceiling for how to make this sound less pathetic. “I don’t really have… friends, like that.” No friends. No boyfriend. Nobody. Maybe your parents, but you seem pretty independent.
Another idea—better than playing ‘exterminator of any size’—begins to take shape. “No way! You’re so cool!” The words sound unnatural in Adrian’ voice, a stiffness as he pays special attention to a sticky spot. “People are overrated anyway. I mean, I don’t need them. Besides you- you're awesome.” Adrian, with your Secretariat heart and that fucked up little head of yours…
It’s foreign to hear something so lucid, so logical from him. It’s nice. “Yeah. Thanks… You're pretty awesome too.” Oh, twist the knife. I’m close.
If you wanted mimosas, nail painting, and Sex and the City, he could do that. Or rose petals, romantic novelties, and wild lovemaking- that would be good too.
Not unlike your Minecraft beds he put together, and the odd pair of your underwear that conspicuously got lost in the wash, Adrian intentionally leaves you out of the loop on his other job. I mean, would he sound any less crazy talking about an alien invasion?
But it’s a slow afternoon, so his thoughts drift to you over whatever Harcourt’s mad about this time. “-did we even give him a psych evaluation?” She gestures to him—now Vigilante—exasperated.
It’s only then that he’s shaken from his daydreams of you. “They’re bullshit!” He straightens. “I had one and I didn’t learn anything.” The office exchanges a look at the notion that Adrian ‘The Mind is a Den of Scorpions Better Ran From, not Towards’ Chase would get therapy. “Yeah, plea deal-“ he dismisses the roomful of confused glances, “Anyways, I could've just told that lady psychiatrist what was wrong with me! I don’t know why I had to sit through, like- an hour of questions.”
While there had been some longstanding, widespread curiosity as to what really was up with him (Economos ended it at ‘that dude’s a psychopath’, while Chris settled on ‘just kinda weird’), Adebayo was the only one to ask, “Well… what’d she say you were?”
Adrian sits back, trying to recall the precise verbiage, “I’m a sadomasochist with… antisocial tendencies, Yeah.” He brightens, “What I think she was really trying to say is that I’m super serious about taking down criminals. Which, I already knew! You know, I’m crazy about justice!” Everyone digests that information for a moment.
“Was she hot?” Chris asks. He’s under the assumption this was some cutting edge, chains and whips therapy. But after you came into his life, Adrian’s stopped so much as thinking about other women as viable life partners. He only has eyes for one special lady.
This is corroborated when Economos adds, not looking up from his computer, “She’s not Y/N.” Silence. “For the last week, that's all he’s been talking about: his ‘dream girl’. The line cook?” Nobody responds.
Except Adrian, beaming with pride, “I mean, we’re basically dating at this point,“ because yes, he did say that- John might’ve been the only one listening, but those words did enter the airspace. “I mean, she had a really bad boyfriend before me! She needs a good person, who doesn’t track her every-“ Beep!
A text. Leaning over, Chris squints at the notification. “‘Angel Toes’? Whose- oh… that's Y/N?” And suddenly, all that shared derision melts away. The whole office crowds together to see, under the question of who this mystery girl is. Adrian chicks on your profile photo: hair tousled from a shift, exhausted, gorgeous, and rough around the edges in a way that makes his knees weak. Chris raises an assessing eyebrow, “She looks fun.”
“Dude, that's his-“ Economos stops before actually calling you Adrian's girlfriend. He has been spending too much time listening to that creep… Adebayo leans over to read the message,
Angel Toes: hey can you pick me up at 11? if ur not busy
This isn’t ’help me bury a body’ or ‘hey, I took care of that thing. don't ask how’. You needed a ride from work. she gives an urging eye gesture towards the phone, as if to say, ‘go on. say something!’.
Adrian’s brow furrows in thought, “I don’t know… Is that too forward?”
Even Harcourt, who sees herself as above this, can't reserve her two cents. “That's where you draw the line? You're fine with brutally murdering her boyfriend, but you think picking her up from work is ‘weird’?” He pauses to actually think about that.
Adrian: Yeah sure! :)
February’s teeth sink into your bones when you duck into the Sebring, shaking off the cold. “Thanks, again…” you buckle in. Now that you live together, matching outfits with Adrian makes you feel as if you were in some fucked up family photo.
You stay parked for a moment too long while he’s stuck at how stunning you look under the light of that street lamp.
“Pfft, it’s nothing!” Adrian laughs- this stiff, awkward sound. “I-I mean, I was out getting… groceries. It wasn’t that far out of the way.” He quietly hopes you don't ask to help bring the bags in and see the bloody, discarded tactical gear where eggs and milk should be.
But you catch a glimpse of something in the backseat: red, wrapped in plastic- the kind of planned romantic gesture that’d result from rom com research and lengthy Google searching. “What’s the occasion?”
Your little amused lilt shoots up Adrian's spine, ice cold. “Funeral.”
He’s adorable. You can’t help thinking that, where you feel so hollow, Adrian’s sweet the same way a malformed Little Debbie monstrosity pulls out your fillings. Uncompromising, like strawberry milk, and gushers, and fruit stripe tattoo gum stuck under tables.
Your elbow slides to rest on the center counsel, glancing back. “Theyre pretty.” His grip whitens on the steering wheel. Because as much as Adrian Chase likes to think he doesn’t have emotions the way normal people do, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel at all. Least of all when he can feet your breath brushing his ear.
“Theyre not for you.” The words come out harsher than he intends, so Adrian corrects, “I mean, not that I wouldn't get you flowers. I could pretty much skip it if I wanted to. You could have them.”
And what should have been an awkward blunder is, at once, delightful. “I don’t want your funeral flowers!” you laugh, your eyes crinkling in the corners.
Adrian’s a good looking guy. He works out, and he has a strong sense of justice, but the girls before you—the bleeding hearts that look at him as if he were a puppy in a wet cardboard box, or those who make the blanket assumption of ‘nerdy guys fuck good’—they smile, and theyre nice. But they're not you.
“You know what’s funny?” you break the comfortable silence. His heart jumps in anticipatory fear. “I… barely knew you, like- a week ago.” You meet his gaze, even if his eyes are on the road. “We weren't really friends. And now, it’s like, I spend every waking moment, around you. And… I don’t know. It's nice.”
“You can stay with me. As long as you want.” Adrian blurts out, pulling into the driveway and, again, sitting there Ike this is the part in the movie where you kiss him. “We could just… play video games, and watch movies- I have dvds.” What a beautiful world that would be.
The awkward moment that results from that stretches into the house. You strip off your apron while Adrian stands in the middle of the living room, trying to figure out what to do, wrenching his hands. He has a real Blair Witch effect in the dark. You don’t mind, going about your business. In fact, you only look back when you hear Adrian’s voice, soft and panicked, from the darkness. “What’re you doing in my room?”
Peering out from his door jam, you whisper, “I wanna sleep here tonight.” You can’t see the confusion on his brow, but you feel it. So you push him in the right direction, dropping your voice. “I don’t want to sleep alone tonight, Adrian. Is that okay?”
But you can see his enthusiastic nod as he follows behind you. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s fine...” Adrian plods after you, fumbling the door closed behind him. He’s unable to do much beyond staring at you with that wide eyed mix of hunger and utter bewilderment that this is actually happening. You're getting naked, in his room- clothes, hitting the floor. Oh my god. This is awesome.
I mean, you're down to your underwear. That's how you sleep. That's how you’re dressed when you step toe to toe with Adrian, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Did you mean that? About me, being a good boyfriend?”
You hum an affirmative against Adrian’s lips, kissing him deeply. “And that I was sweet,” he pulls away to speak. “a-and funny- oh…“ and again. The backs of his legs hit the mattress, and he falls backward. And just like that, he’s staring up at you, in your underwear, on him.
Adrian still jerks off to that lingerie thing. He’s constructed a whole fantasy: they're black and lacy, and you make some joke about how his rack looks totally killer- that dizzying mix of shame and arousal buzzing through his veins as he works himself over. But, for the second time in his adult life, he’s not in his bed alone tonight.
Your hands slide up under what you don’t know is the thermal layer of his Vigilante gear, feeling that layer of muscle you weren't aware of. Oh, the way you smile against his lips… Adrian’s hands rest at your hips as he tries to force himself to relax- pretend that he hasn’t spent the past week planning out every micro-gesture of this moment.
You could stay together like this forever.
Those hands slide up to hold you over your bra and he lets out a shaky groan at the fact that this is real, this is happening. And clothes are coming off: Adrian’s clothes, your bra, on his sheets. You grind your hips against the thick lump in his boxers, pulling a whine from his throat. “Youre so cute…” you murmur, your breath fanning out against his skin.
The basement. He could keep you in the basement…
There’s something in Adrian that awakens this animal instinct in you to claim, nuzzling your face to the pale column of his neck to suck a dark bruise there. The gesture renders him helpless- head swimming, eyes falling half lidded. Reaching down to the waistband of your underwear, a smile plays on his lips
Adrian is going to be the best boyfriend ever.
