"You wanna tell me what's going on?" his father demanded while taking a hold of the boy's shirt collar and twisting the material into his hands, holding him firmly in place.

"Nothing! I swear!"

"Nothing?" He dragged his son over to the where the coffee table sat and the spilled alcohol had darkened the rug and threw him down onto the floor beside it.

"So you and your friend ," motioning towards the two overturned cups with a nudge of his head, " weren't just sitting around on your asses all day playing video games and drinking? And for some fucking reason he had his damn shirt off?"

There was really nothing Chris could say to this, not that he could get a word in anyways when his father started on his rants, and instead remained silent; keeping his eyes focused on the floor, not daring to look up at the callous man towering over him.

He whimpered as he was once again grabbed by the front of his shirt and roughly forced to his feet, still refusing to make any sort of eye contact. The back of his hair was gripped and his head was yanked back making it now difficult to avoid his father's petrifying gaze. "Answer me, Chris!"

Dave stood anxiously, resisting the urge to fidget on the spot. He didn't want to draw any attention to himself, no, that would make things possibly a million times worse.

The night started out so great, and now here he was, scared for his life hiding in a wardrobe. He wanted to bolt. To scram. To high tail it out of there. But he was supposed to be a superhero, and heros don't pull that shit, and he certainly didn't do that anymore. Also, he couldn't just leave Chris.

Dave couldn't see, but he could hear the mans angry voice as it rang out through out the room. 'Oh shit.' Then there was more movement and it was coming towards him.

Chris was so utterly terrified he couldn't even speak and was dragged over to the closet where Dave was concealed and slammed hard up against the door.

Reaching for the concealed handgun he kept on him in the holster attached to his belt, the mob boss pointed the end of the barrel directly at his own son as he held him tight against the wooden entrance.

Shockingly, this wasn't new. Death threats were a common thing in his household and Chris had become immune to them at a very young age; having trailing along with his dad to work occasionally and witnessing the most gruesome of murders right before his young eyes. Physical force and intimidation was the only way the crime lord knew how to control someone, how to make them talk, and his son was no exception to this form of punishment.

"Answer me, you piece of shit!" his voice thundering as he shook the boy fiercely, slamming his back once more against the hard surface before cocking his gun, readying the weapon.

Dave cringed, backing away from the door that threatened to rattle off it's hinges. And then there was a very distinct click noise on the other side of the door... 'was that a gun?' The noise was slightly muffled by the closet entrance, but Dave knew that sound. 'Oh hell we're gonna die! I'll never see my dad again and... shit I forgot to clear my browser history.' His heart was racing a million miles a minute as pure unadulterated terror rushed through him.

"Fuck. You." The words just flowed, before Chris could even try to stop himself. A person could only take so much and Chris was reaching his limit. He was sick of being controlled, interrogated, beaten for every little thing that, in his father's eyes, went against what he considered proper.

Frank only chuckled and shook his head at this new little attitude his son had acquired. Insolence was not something Frank D'Amico put up with, especially from his own child. No, this would not do at all.

Flipping the gun around in his hand, he cracked his son across the left side of his head with the handle with all his force before releasing his hold on the boy's collar and letting him drop to the floor.

Chris could only lay there in shock and extreme dizzying pain as blood trickled down the side of his head staining the lightly-coloured carpet under him.

"Just let me know when you're ready to talk, son. I'll be in my office." Frank stated as he simply walked away from his battered son; no emotion, no compassion, just a statement as if the man were having a normal, casual conversation.

Chris was conscious, but barely; unable to focus on his father's words due to the intense pain as he lay groaning in agony.

Frank knew the other guy was still somewhere in his son's bedroom; he wouldn't have left without a shirt and Frank would have spotted him sneaking out anyway. But he didn't bother searching for him. He knew he'd kill him if he found the guy and he just was not in the mood right now having taken enough out on his son.

Frank departed for his office, closing Chris' bedroom door on his way out without a second glance at his boy.

When the man was gone, Dave hurriedly moved to open the closet door to check and see if Chris was alright. He felt relief when he saw that the boy was breathing, and was still in fact, alive. Dave dropped to his knees to inspect him closer, panicking slightly at the sight of blood. "Oh my god, are you ok Chris? Please be ok." He whispered in a gravely concerned voice.

The blinding pain and the sound of his heart pounding heavily in his ears kept the boy conscious and he slowly tried to open his eyes. Chris would have laughed if he could when Dave questioned his state.

Instead he thought to himself, 'Let's determine that shall we? In less than forty-eight hours I've been backhanded, slammed against doors, screamed at, death threatened, thrown around, and smashed with a gun. I'm pretty sure I've probably broken SOMETHING from that fall and I swear to GOD if any blood gets on this shirt…'

Even in his severely injured state, Chris' sarcastic nature couldn't be contained. But instead he could only mutter groggily, "I'm fine," against the stained carpet as he tried to move. And the truth is he kind of was alright. It was actually quite sad just how used to this brutality Chris really was.

"Dave…go…" Chris couldn't form the words to warn his friend to leave when he noticed Dave kneel down beside him. He wasn't exaggerating when he said his dad would kill them both and if Frank were to walk in at this moment, he probably would.

Dave thought about what he could do to help the other. He was by no means a doctor, but he couldn't just sit back and watch Chris bleed all over himself. "Fuck. This is fucking fucked up." The taller man stood up to retrieve a cloth, and when he couldn't find one, he located his shirt instead. Dave dropped back down beside the boy, with his shirt balled up in his fist, and pressed the material to his wound. "It's really fucked up. How can you be fine with this?"

The boy hissed painfully at the fabric pressed onto the deep gash on his head. It was nice of Dave to try and help, but there really nothing he could do; this was a common occurrence and his friend needed to just stay the hell out of it.

Chris raised his head a few inches off the ground (all he could handle) and forced himself to look up at his worried companion. He ignored the man's concern and ordered him to leave.

"Dave. You need, ugh, you need to go. Right now. If he finds you…" He dropped his head back down to the carpet, unable to hold himself up. He'd sleep it off, as usual, and apologize to his father for his behavior when he could manage to stand. "Just go."

It just didn't feel right for him to leave Chris when he was like this. And then there was that nagging feeling inside of him that told him it was his fault.

"I can't just go-"

"It's just a little scratch," Chris said, voice rising in annoyance; "I'm fine."

Chris took hold of Dave's forearm and pulled himself up to a seated position in an attempt to confirm that he was alright; the movement only proved to be very painful though and Chris had a difficult time hiding it as his face contorted in pain.

Of course he didn't 'want' Dave to leave; he seemed to be the only one that gave a shit about him and the guy was only trying to help. But Chris knew his father and what he was capable of, as Dave witnessed firsthand, and he didn't want anything happening to the only friend he ever had.

He knew he probably had a concussion; having been hit this bad a few times before, Chris knew what it felt like to have a serious head injury. He couldn't let Dave know though; his friend was worried enough over him as it was.

"This," Chris began as he gently traced a finger over the deep cut that ran just above his eyebrow and into this hairline, "is gonna be one bad-ass scar, right." He smiled weakly at his pitiful attempt to lighten the mood.

Dave was unsettled by how Chris was handling the situation. He was treating it like it was nothing, when it really wasn't. Chris's dad was brutal, how could he hurt his own son like this? The guy was a maniac. Dave decided then that he had to get Chris the hell out of there. Even if the other refused, maybe he could try to persuade him.

"I'm bringing you with me. Come on." He urged.

Chris was beginning to nod off; the adrenaline from the pain that was keeping him conscious was wearing off and the dizziness and shock that he was in was causing him to just want to sleep. But he knew, if he did in fact have a concussion, that falling asleep was the last thing he should be doing.

Chris faintly heard the other's voice as he struggled to remain alert. "I can't. I can't leave." Was Dave nuts? "I don't think you understand," he started to explain; now fighting just to keep his eyes open as his body swayed, "we're part of the mafia. There's nothing that you can do."

Dave eyed the other as his body seemed to be shutting down on him. The guy didn't look like he was in any condition to walk. Shifting to accompany Chris's weight, Dave flanked the boys side and meticulously pulled the smaller body to his chest; his strong arms coming to wrap behind his back and under his legs. Ignoring the others protests, he lifted the injured boy as he stood up, his legs legs wobbling a little before he steadied himself, but he blamed that on the alcohol that was still in his system.

"I can take you with me. That's what I can do."

It was useless to think he could resist in his condition and seemed to willingly give in; and Chris allowing Dave to lift him up into his arms. He dropped his bloodied head against Dave's warm, bare chest and passed out instantly.

Dave carried the younger man as he walked across his large room and to the door. Dave peaked outside, to check if Frank was lingering in the halls waiting for him. But it appeared that the coast was clear, or at least, that was far as he could tell. Without his glasses he couldn't see very well from far distances, and he wasn't about to waste another minute to go on searching for his glasses when they could both end up dead.

Dave crept stealthily down the hall with Chris's limp body tucked in his arms. With some difficulty he managed to twist the front door knob while still keeping the boy levitated. He didn't waste anymore time, propelling forward as he neglected to close the door behind him.

He climbed into an elevator and punched in the floor button while half-expecting flashing red lights and alarms. 'I hope I don't get caught.' He wanted to get far away from the place before anyone noticed the D'amico heir was gone. Dave's whole body tensed in anticipation for the elevator door to open up. The ding sound the elevator made as it reached the lobby floor was like music to his ears.

The front desk attendant yawned deeply as he sat reclined in his chair, one foot crossed over the other with his legs resting on top of the desk. Another dull night at work…

"Whoa!" The man was suddenly startled out of his boredom; dropping his legs immediately to the floor with a thud as a look of both amusement and curiosity crossed his face. His eyes followed a half-naked young man darting through the lobby, clearly in some sort of hurry, and carrying-

"Holy shit!" The attendant's eyes widened as he realized who this guy was holding. "Hey! Hey, you! Stop!"

Dave refused to listen as he burst through the swing doors to the building. Once outside he broke out in a full on sprint, too scared to look behind him.

- o - o - o -

Frank sat forward in his chair, repeatedly tapping his fingers against the wooden surface of his desk as his mind worked through what just happened. Not one thought for what he did to his son, but rather what he had seen; though nothing had proved his suspicion more than that dark red, fresh hickey on the side of his son's neck.

'Oh my god.' He sighed in defeat, shaking his head at the outrageous discovery. His son; his only son was… Frank didn't even want to think about it.

'It just had to be a GUY'S shirt that I found. Fuck.'

'He was drunk. That's what it was.' Frank proclaimed to himself, trying to come up with some sort of justification for it all. 'Boys do a lot of stupid shit when they're drunk.'

He hoped this little phase or experimentation or whatever the hell it was, was now done with. No, it is done with and he would make damn sure of that.

Frank peered at his watch; 'kid should be asleep by now.'

He knew from years of experience that most would pass out within minutes from that kind of blow to the head, but figured he ought to check on him anyhow. His main concern really being for the ruined carpet that now had to be replaced due to the stupid boy bleeding all over it; Chris would be paying out of his own pocket for that.

Frank made a mental note to fire his main kitchen staff (he had plenty chefs to call upon when needed); they were paid not only to cook, but to watch the boy as well.

He knew something was up the moment he had walked in and neither bothered to say a word to him. That can wait till later, Frank decided, rising from his chair; right now, he needed to "tend" to his son.

Frank made his way towards his son's bedroom before stopping in his tracks as something caught the corner of his eye. The front was 'open..?'

He swiftly retrieved his gun in hopes of catching whatever moronic thief had the balls to break into a D'Amico household.

Cautiously stepping through the halls he noticed a small red mark, 'blood?', against the white tiled floor of the kitchen. "Fuck!" He roared, bolting to the boy's room and finding him nowhere.

Frank spotted the boy's cell phone on his nightstand as an idea formed in his head. He snatched the phone up and searched through it, easily decoding the password; so predictable his son was as Frank typed in Chris' bitch-of-a-mother's birthday.

At that moment the lobby man hurriedly buzzed the intercom of the D'Amico's place in the penthouse suite. "Sir! Your son! He's, somebody took- I'm sorry, my first thought was to contact you. I'll, uh, I'll call security immediately-"

"No no, leave them. I will handle this," Frank responded, surprisingly cool and collected.

"But, sir-"

"Take the rest of the night off, Martin. You've done your job well."

Frank sorted through emails, texts, pictures; anything that he could think of that would give him a clue as to who this guy was that had taken his son and still, he found nothing.

His eyes landed on one of the numerous icons Chris had installed on his phone: Facebook! Of course! All the kids were using that these days, right? He clicked on the symbol and quickly scanned his eyes through the social media site before landing on the Inbox and sorting through the (lack) of emails from people.

Dave Lizewksi; had to be the right guy, judging from these messages at least.

He skimmed through the boy's profile; pictures, where he went to highschool, college, phone number, his home address…'Dumbass kids putting everything online these days.'

Oh, yeah, this was going to be easy.

He grinned wickedly as he hit the Reply button: 'Hello there, Dave. Question for you: 'Do you 'really' think that's a good idea? Kidnapping the mob boss's son?'

- o - o - o -

Dave shivered slightly from the chilling air as goose bumps rose on his bare flesh. He could feel a headache coming on from all the stress, pent up anxiety, and liquor he ingested. Swallowing back the rising bile in his throat, Dave forced his legs to keep on moving at a brisk clip. His pace didn't slow as he was driven by the fear of the unknown fate Chris and he would receive at the hands of Frank if the man caught them.

He glanced downwards to judge whether or not Chris's condition improved. It appeared the gash in the boys head was healing, albeit, very slowly. The once nauseating flow of blood was gradually congealing. It was hard to tell just how big the wound actually was with so much dried blood caked on his face. The boy needed medical attention he realised. But it wasn't as if he could take him to a hospital or the emergency; Frank might have some of his goons stationed there, anticipating their arrival. Who could really tell when dealing with the mafia? There was really only two places they could go; to Dave's place, or there.

'Yeah, I'm sure they would let us hide out for a while.' He thought, making a small detour as he ducked through an alley, and weaved his way through the streets. It was a tricky place to pin-point exactly, but Dave had been there countless times, the directions were practically hardwired in his brain.

Dave tapped the door with the tip of his shoe a couple of times, still clutching Chris protectively to his chest as he waited to be let in. It wasn't long before the all too familiar sound of the mechanical doors defenses shutting down; the inner workings 'clicking' and unfurling. The door opened, bathing him in light and momentarily blinding him as a shadowed figure stepped forward.

A.N. - This is a roleplay between me and Jayden Blake. I play as Dave and Mindy. My amazingly talented partner acts as Chris, Frank, and Damon. Once again I'd like to point out that this is a slight AU. That means most of the events that occurred in both Kick-Ass 1 and 2 don't pertain to this plot. And be sure not to make any assumptions about the characters, and their back stories. In this fic, Chris doesn't know Dave is actually Kick Ass and the boys are 21.

Disclaimer: I do not own Kick-Ass nor do I make a profit from any of my stories.