#travisheadcanon

Limbs and eyelids heavy, Max felt like he could hardly lift his head to look for the peek of reddened skin, but he did. From there his eyes traveled to an itch in his inner elbow, a stiff band-aid bulged over a neat fold of cotton and tugging at the hairs on his arms. An ugly bruise bloomed wide around it, like a new nurse’s botched needlework, and Max turned his head in what felt like slow motion to see a matching band-aid on the other arm. The bruise there was smaller, less dark.

Hackett was asking questions, he kept telling Max to open his eyes wider when they wanted to droop shut. Gloved fingers, gentle enough but firm, turned Max’s face this way and that in a way that made his head spin and put spots in his vision from the ceiling light.

The examination was brief. When the officer stepped away, circling to sit at the desk and pull a yellow pad and pencil from one of the drawers, Max’s lips closed over bared teeth.

“Did… did you…?” His stomach turned as his brain tried to catch up to the anxious beat building again in his pulse. It dawned that he couldn’t fully remember the walk here. Or this chair. They were in the usual office but Hackett had switched out the wooden chair for something sturdier. The armrests on this one were curved metal with foam padding.

Max’s head felt stuffed with cotton and he knew; This was weird. This was even weirder than the already weird shit so far. Did he get drugged? Laura had suggested something like that before, but had he actually been drugged? For real? Why?

Max remembered feeling like shit all morning. Feverish. Agitated. He’d snapped at Laura more than once and hadn’t taken well to being ordered from his cot or the idea of being dragged out for another round of Officer Bullshit. The taser came out- still the worst but not as bad as the first time.

Hackett had done the handcuffs, they had more words over leaving the cell, Laura told them both to calm down, and then out in the hallway… things went fuzzy in the hallway. Starched cotton, pencil shavings, the barest hint of diesel.

Max suddenly recalled exactly what Officer Hackett’s uniform sleeve tasted like, how tough the fabric was, the memory made more vivid by the fact Max could smell the man even across the desk.

Face scrunched, he shook his head. Whatever happened out there, he knew better than to actually scuffle with an armed cop. And even if he had, he definitely wouldn’t attempt to bite one.

“Did y- get off me,” Max rasped when Hackett returned, before the man even reached for him. His fight had gone as quickly as it came but his insides were sick as the officer produced a blue cloth, not unlike the ones you’d find in an auto shop, and scrubbed it over Max’s red face. Cleaning it of sweat and all else, but Max shook his head again, harder, this time to dislodge the unwanted care. It earned a tighter grip as the wipe was folded and pinched over his running nose. “Stop touching me-”

“Blow,” Hackett ordered dryly. Then, “Good boy.”

“What the hell did you do? Did you drug me?”