Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jaw clenched, Scott grips the wheel as he tears down the highway in the dark, heading back to Milan. The night did not go as planned and he’s angry. The saving grace is that Luca’s son is strapped in the passenger seat next to him. He knows that’s all that should matter. The objective of the mission—Find Timothée—has been accomplished. But he can’t help recalling everything that led to this moment, and more so, he can’t help but wonder if he should have trusted her.

Heaviness swells in his chest when he thinks about how the night could have turned into an absolute nightmare.

Thanks to Timothée, it did not.

Scott needs music. Music calms him, opens his mind, makes him think clearer.

He turns on the radio, finds a station with a hip melody, and adjusts the volume to a soft rhythmic hum.

Cudi, Mounir has him, she had said.

It was the only lead Scott had after his initial investigation.

He’d spoken to Timothée’s friends—the friends he’d been hanging out with the night he disappeared. The friends gathered and shared a belated birthday meal for Timothée. Then they went to a salon and reveled in poetry and song late into the night. They swore up and down that Timothée was fine when they parted into their separate rideshares, that he’d not consumed any alcohol whatsoever throughout the evening and was in good spirits.

Scott hunted down the rideshare driver but that led nowhere. En route home to Luca’s mansion, Timothée had suddenly asked the driver to stop while they were still within the city center. He’d jumped out of the car, threw a tip in cash at the driver for his troubles, and disappeared down a city block as if in search of someone. The driver knew nothing more.

Scott searched the area where Timothée got out of the rideshare for clues. The first forty-eight hours are crucial, he kept reminding himself. He visited business after business asking if anyone had seen Timothée.

No one had.

It was like he disappeared into the night.

Did someone take him or did he leave on his own?

It was not lost on Scott that Timothée had been going through something in recent years. Something was missing. It was always right there, behind those green eyes and long dark lashes—a yearning. The kid was searching for something. What that was, Scott didn’t know.

It also didn’t help that Timothée grew more…good looking as he got older. With that and everything else, he frequently attracted unwanted attention. Many times, Timothée didn’t even notice, it seemed. But Luca did. And so did Scott. The women, they weren’t so bad, but the men, well, they could be…assertive. Scott had to intervene on several occasions to make it known, clearly, that their unsolicited attention was unwelcomed.

“Who the hell is Mounir?” he’d asked her.

She’d explained. “He’s the owner of Mounir Labs. I work for his company. I mentioned Timothée to him, mentioned that he’s very special, but I never dreamt he’d take him. When he ordered that aconite from the lab in Milan, I just knew something was amiss. I’m certain he has Timothée.”

“And where does he have him?”

“In Crema,” she said. She explained how Mounir Labs works closely with the University of Milan, how a small part of the medical school’s genetics program is based there, in the city of Crema, roughly an hour away from Milan.

After that, Scott worked quickly. The plan was simple enough. He’d impersonate one of Mounir Labs’ vendors and accompany her into the Crema lab. While there, he’d locate Timothée and get him the hell out of there and back to his father. The logistics weren’t as simple. But he did what he had to do. To appear legitimate, he borrowed a van and credentials from one of the workers at the medical hazmat company used by Mounir Labs.

On the way to Crema, after he’d picked her up at their meeting point, he asked, “What do you mean Timothée is very special?”

Scott knew that Timothée could affect others, that it had to do with his pheromones. He’d witnessed reactions; he personally intervened. But he was curious what more she had to add.

She answered, “Papà and Esther want Timothée to assimilate with others. So, they use suppression. I disagree completely with this approach. If Timothée got off those damn suppressants, I think he could be quite special…even powerful.”

Scott didn’t quite get what she was saying. He was a straightforward military guy; the genetic jargon she, her father and her sister used, often bounced around his head like beach balls at an outdoor concert.

“And what’s this aconite you mentioned,” he asked, as he pulled the hazmat van off the highway at the Crema exit.

“It’s a plant, a medicine, it does many things. He’s likely using it to neutralize the suppressants. Then, he needs another drug to stimulate and boost Timothée’s metabolism. This cocktail would then unleash the magnitude of his pheromones.”

The thought of an ill-intentioned stranger pumping all sorts of drugs through Timothée’s slim innocent frame made Scott nauseous; it made him push the van harder through the narrow streets of Crema.

Eventually they arrived at the building housing the lab, and he was relieved to see that it was indeed secluded, as his planning had revealed. It’d make getting away unseen that much easier.

Together, he and she entered the building.

They easily made it past lobby security, which was essentially a glorified reception desk, manned by a young guard, probably a student barely out of his teens.

Quickly, they jogged up to the top floor of the classic three-story building, ready to execute on their plan.

What they didn’t anticipate was what they walked into next. That Mounir would be ready for them. That he didn’t plan to give up Timothée so easily. That he’d have a gun.

Fuck.

With Mounir’s revolver pointed at them, Scott looked at her as if she’d betrayed him.

“Cudi, I swear, I didn’t know,” she told him.

Dapper suit crumpled, voice eloquent and scholarly, eyes fatigued and red-rimmed, Mounir schooled them. “That’s why I’ve instituted that young man downstairs,” he told them matter of fact, as if lecturing and clarifying a point with a classroom filled with students. “To let me know immediately when uninvited guests such as yourselves show up.”

Scott sized up the suite as quickly as he could. It didn’t look like a place associated with one of the largest universities in Italy. It looked private and hidden, like it was Mounir’s personal lab. The suite was small and consisted of an anteroom, with a desk, computer, books and files galore. Off to the side were two small glass enclosed rooms. One seemed to have a traditional laboratory setup, and the other had what seemed to be a doctor’s examination table in it. Timothée was stretched out on the table; he didn’t seem to be moving. Scott prayed that he was okay.

Mounir observed Scott side-eyeing Timothée and shared, “He’s fine, just sedated. I must say, you’ve both visited at a most inopportune time. Thanks to the additional aconite, I have finally managed to get him to the state where I want him and do not have the time to deal with you both right now.”

With the barrel of the revolver still pointed at his uninvited guests, Mounir reached for a package of large zip ties and tossed it at her.

“Victoire,” he said, voice clipped, “restrain your friend here, hands and feet.”

She caught the package, looked at it incredulously and warned, “You won’t get away with this Mounir. You just can’t go and take someone and do what you please with them.” Then she spat, “Where are your ethics?”

“Oh, Victoire, you’d do the same thing if you had the guts to validate your hypothesis yourself. And I didn't go and take this young man. He came straight to me, imagine that, right into the private club for men that I frequent when I’m in Milan. I knew who he was immediately. He was so consumed with a tall blond American, he never noticed when I slipped a little assistance in his drink. I was gracious enough to escort him out of the club, when he became disoriented. He even thanked me.”

Mounir raised the gun to nudge her into action, to restrain Scott. She opened the package and then looked at Scott.

“Cudi,” she said, her eyes filling with moisture. “I’m so sorry.”

Even now, under the unfortunate circumstance they found themselves in, he liked the way she said his name (koodi instead of the usual kudhi), the name only those closest to him used. That’s how she lured him in at first; later, when they started seeing each other on occasion, it would be her brilliance and vivaciousness that sealed the deal for him; sometimes, she filled the void in him.

She secured the zip ties around his wrist and ankles. With his limbs bound, maintaining his balance would be a struggle. He needed to act quickly. If he didn’t do something at that moment, he didn’t know how long it would be until he had another opportunity.

So Scott attacked, during a brief moment when Mounir lowered the gun.

He headbutted him.

Mounir fell back, momentarily disoriented. But with the ties binding Scott’s limbs, there wasn't sufficient force behind the blow. Mounir recovered and swung the revolver. It skimmed Scott’s head, knocking him to the ground with a thud, but only leaving a minor flesh wound. He was very lucky.

Victoire moved to rush Mounir. But she was too slow. Mounir swung the revolver in her direction, freezing her in her tracks.

Rage spread across Mounir’s face like poison. He’d had enough and looked like he was ready to blow.

“Stop hurting my friends,” a weak voice called out.

It was Timothée standing in the doorway of the glass enclosed examination room.

“Stop,” he said again.

They all looked in his direction.

“Kid, stand down, get back!” Scott yelled. All that went through his mind was that he had to extract Timothée and get him back to Luca, safely. He could not fail this mission; the kid had come to mean too much to him.

But Timothée didn’t listen. He closed his eyes and fell against the door frame, as if it was a crutch, propping him up. When he reopened them, something changed in the suite, and his eyes rotated round and round and round like an unexpected tornado.

Scott and Victoire watched in awe. They were unaffected by whatever it was Timothée was unleashing. Yet, they felt its potency.

The effect on Mounir: Stunning. He could not take his eyes off Timothée. Then, as if under a spell, he handed over the weapon to Victoire—willingly. Reflexively, she dropped it on the nearby desk as if it was searing into the soft, pliable flesh of her palm. She was a woman of science; she didn’t know anything about guns.

Mesmerized, Mounir shuffled over to Timothée and fell to the young man’s feet, in supplication. Timothée gave Mounir his hand. Mounir got up on his knees, snatched Timothée’s wrist, brought it to his greedy nostrils and inhaled until he was drunk with giddiness. When he had his fill and couldn’t take any more, he toppled over and just cooed, over and over, like he was a helpless newborn.

Timothée collapsed on the floor and passed out.

“Get these damn ties off me,” Scott looked at Victoire and demanded. “There’s a knife on my belt.”

She dropped to her knees, located the knife around Scott’s waist, and slashed the ties with the sharp blade.

They leaped up; he checked on Timothée; she checked on Mounir.

Relief settled in Scott’s gut as he checked Timothée's pulse and then his eyes, and Timothée seemed to be okay.

“I need to get him home,” he said out loud.

“Go,” she says. “Take Timothée and go.”

Scott was torn. He didn't want to leave her with the mess Mounir created and brought on himself, but he also wanted to complete his mission, a mission that involved getting Timothée to safety, nothing else.

A soft moan from Timothée pulled him from his quandary.

“Just go,” she raised her voice this time. “I’ll take care of the situation here.”

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“I know what to do,” she assured him.

She said nothing more, ending the conversation.

Scott slinged Timothée over his shoulder, fireman style. He exited the lab and hurried down the staircase. On the ground floor, he laid Timothée down gently. He had to take care of the guard in the lobby. He wasn’t much of a threat but Scott was certain that he wouldn’t just let him walk out of the building with a barely conscious Timothée draped over his shoulders.

As he was about to make his move, Timothée tugged at Scott’s trousers. “My jacket. I need it.” Timothée said, while his other hand clawed at his torso, as if in search of the missing jacket.

“Kid, you can get another jacket anytime. We need to get out of here.”

“No, I need it.”

“Kid...”

“Please Scott, that’s Papà’s jacket. I gave him that jacket, as a gift.”

“Kid…”

“Please…”

Against his better judgment, Scott returned to retrieve the jacket.

Even I’m mesmerized by this kid now, he snorted to himself, mockingly.

In the lab, he found her at Mounir’s computer; Mounir was still on the floor, but now appeared unconscious.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m downloading his research. There’s all this wonderful research on mosaicism, that’s what he’s been secretly studying down here in Crema,” she exclaimed, a joyful yet maniacal look plastered across her face.

Scott shook his head in disbelief.

He searched and in the examination room found the jacket that Timothée was likely referring to. He grabbed the colorful silky garment and skidded back down the stairs.

At the bottom of the staircase: No Timothée!

Shit.

He entered the lobby cautiously but prepared to deal with whatever greeted him. To his relief, the guard was slumped over the security desk, cold-cocked. A barely conscious Timothée was slouched on the lobby floor, his back braced sloppily against the side of the desk.

Hurriedly, Scott scooped Timothée up and carried him out to the van. Pushing the van to its limit, he drove it to the meeting point he’d pre-arranged with one of his hired men. There, outside of Crema, his man waited with a SUV.

He scooped up Timothée again and placed him gently in the passenger seat of the SUV, reclining the seat and strapping him in securely. Then, he tossed the jacket in the back seat. He and the man exchanged vehicles. The plan: His man would return the hazmat van and credentials Scott had borrowed; hopefully the vendor would never know that it went missing.

Before taking off for Milan, Scott pulled a phone and a small case out of the glove compartment of the SUV. He placed the case, which he’d received from Vanda, on the console and messaged Luca: Found Timothée. Bringing him home now.

On the way back to Milan, he replays the past seventy-two hours over and over in his mind, until the music gives him some solace.

Not far from home, Timothée stirs awake.

Scott eyes him with concern. “Say something,” he says.

“My body aches.”

Scott chuckles, reaches for the case Vanda gave him, and tosses it on Timothée’s lap as he adjusts the passenger seat upright. Timothée opens the case, looks at the ampules with Stulburgh’s suppressants, shakes his head and declares, “I’m not taking that.” He places it back on the console.

Scott hands him a bottle of water and he swigs it all down in one long glorious gulp.

As if just remembering, Timothée jerks his head and looks around. “Where’s Victoire?” he asks.

“She’s okay. She stayed to take care of Mounir.” Scott’s voice is bitter as he says Mounir’s name.

“Is he…okay?” Timothée asks, concerned.

“Not my problem.”

A look of shock crosses Timothée’s weary face. Scott doesn’t want him to think he did anything wrong. Mounir was the person in the wrong during this whole ordeal. He responds more gently. “When you and I left the lab, he was fine, very agreeable, in fact.”

Then he snorts. What she did to him after we left, that, I don’t know.

The radio purrs out a hip instrumental beat. Timothée leans in and cranks the volume higher. They share this—he and the kid—a love of music, all sorts. Reflexively, Timothée’s head begins to bounce ever so slightly to the rhythm of the music.

“Did he…hurt you?” Scott swallows and asks.

Timothée’s head stills, then he shakes it. “He drugged me, but I don’t think it’s anything permanent. He was very gentle actually. He treated me like I was precious.”

“Kid, what were you doing out so late in that club anyway?” He’s never known Timothée to be into guys so why would he go to a club for men at such a late hour without telling anyone. “I’m thrown by this new bit of information. If I’d known you were into men, I would have done a few things differently when trying to find you.”

“I’m not, I mean, I wasn’t,” Timothée says, fumbling over his words.

He tries to explain. “I was heading home. I saw this man, I thought he was someone I knew. So, I got out of the rideshare and followed him through the streets until he arrived at this club. It was some sort of private affair, no signs anywhere, looked like you needed a special invitation just to get in. I became curious and wanted to check it out. I asked to enter, and for some crazy reason, they let me in. I didn’t know what the place was until I was inside.”

They took one look at you, and of course, they were more than happy to let you in, Scott thinks to himself. Timothée could be so oblivious about his good looks. Scott wants to badger him more about who this man he thought he knew is. Was this the same man he was consumed with, according to Mounir? But Scott lets it rest, for now. While the tall blond American who distracted Timothée is very interesting, they have other things to discuss.

“Do you want to call Luca, let him know that you’re okay.”

Timothée dips his head and squints at the sign along the highway indicating that they’re almost home. “No, I’ll wait a few more minutes for my lecture,” he decides.

“Then, do you want to chat about that paranormal move you pulled back at Mounir’s lab,” Scott suggests.

Timothée leans over and turns up the music a notch higher. His head falls back on the headrest and he closes his eyes; softly, he sings the lyrics to the song now buzzing from the radio. Scott joins in on the song, and together, they croon, their joint melody, bouncing lightly around the interior of the SUV.

When the song is over, Scott turns off the radio and they continue on in silence, as Scott steers the SUV through the narrow, winding streets leading to Luca’s mansion on the outskirts of Milan.

Finally, Timothée says, “I need time to process what happened tonight, actually I need time to process everything that’s occurred since Saturday night.”

Scott nods. He’ll give that to Timothée. The kid deserves it; he’s been through a lot and there’s a lot for everyone to think about.

Several minutes later, Scott pulls the SUV up to the gates of Luca’s mansion. He messages Vanda. As he waits for the iron gates to part, he reaches for the jacket in the backseat. It’s a silky Gucci bomber jacket with a vibrant green print. He hands it to Timothée. Timothée takes the jacket, holds it up to his nostrils, and inhales deeply. The lingering scent makes his lips curl into a wide contented smile.

As they slowly pull up the driveway, Timothée says, “I need you to find information on someone for me.”

“Kid, I don’t work for you,” Scott says, but there’s no bite to his words. He’s used to messing with the kid

“I have money,” Timothée says enticingly.

Scott laughs out loud. “I don’t need or want your money,” he says, then adds seriously, “Who do you want to find anyway?”

“An American, he was in Lake Como with Papà and Ferdinando.”

Scott is confused. “American. Why?”

“After all this,” Timothée says, “I think he may be my mate.”

Scott stops under the car park and shuts off the engine.

Before he can ask any more questions, Amira and Vanda burst through the door of the mansion and run to the SUV. Amira pulls open the passenger door. Timothée spills out, clinging to the Gucci jacket. Amira lovingly engulfs her son in her maternal arms, while Vanda flings a soft blanket over his shoulders, as if keeping him warm will now keep him safe and sound. Timothée collapses under their love, adoration, and tears. At the door, Luca stands stiffly, watching. Unlike the ladies, he needs a moment to contain his emotions.

The whole scene unfolds before Scott, like a climactic moment at the cinema.

Everyone—Luca, Amira, Vanda…Stuhlbarg, Esther, and even Scott—corrals around Timothée to protect him (even if they have to suppress him to do so).They protect him from the bad reactors. They’re certain that they’re doing the right thing for and by him—this jewel they love so much. They no longer think about what their Timothée is and they don’t think about what he may be capable of.

But tonight, Scott got a glimpse of what is possible.

He saw Timothée, through sheer will, pheromones, or some combination of both maneuver a grown man like a puppet and bring him to his knees to do his bidding.

And after tonight, Victoire’s wild theories about Timothée—his DNA, his genes, his blood—have been undoubtedly confirmed.

What will she do with this information?

Scott has to find her. He didn’t like that look on her face, when he last saw her, hovering over the computer and combing through the mountain of research.

It looked too thirsty and driven. It looked too much like Mounir’s.

Still seated in the driver's seat, Scott nods to Luca and tells him they’ll catch up in the morning.

Luca nods back and mouths a thank you.

Scott fires up the engine of the SUV and swings the vehicle around swiftly. He exits through the gates of the mansion and speeds back to the highway.

His destination: Crema.