Day One [The coals went so wild as they swallowed the rest]silkandstoneNovember 22 2009, 07:22:58 UTC
It's not a glamorous house, set up and papered with photographs tailored to this Rachel's weaknesses. It's not a comfortable enclosure with a man-made pond, though it is as deep underground, just as safe should fire decide to fall from the sky again during this little
( ... )
Rachel came to on the third blow, her vision filling with white stars as she tried to lift her head. She couldn't seem to right herself; every time she tried to sit up, open her eyes, she was struck again.
And then there was a hand around her throat. She choked on her breath, trying to flail away from the grasp, but the bindings hold her to the chair.
She finally gets her eyes open and sees Christopher just inches away. She draws in a huge breath through her nose, nostrils flaring.
Then she bares her teeth, and spits at him as hard as she can, her eyes lit with defiance.
Wes comes to the exact moment Rachel does. Pain explodes within his chest and cuts into him in swift jolts, each one more terrifying than the last. He draws in a painful breath, unmindful of his surroundings.
The pain isn't his. Not his. It's--
"Rachel. RACHEL."
No. No, no.
Wes doesn't simply wake up. He lets out roar, the sound tempered only by the pain, strangled by the rage. He's an animal blinded by it, like a bull charging toward the torero.
It's only then he realizes he's chained to a wall.
He strikes like he struck Sark, cobra-fast and aiming for her face. Rachel's nose gives under his fist with the sloppy sound of wet glass being crunched against the ground.
Den removes a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully wipes his face. He seizes Rachel's chin, presses on her broken nose and forces her mouth open just long enough to jam the kerchief back between her teeth.
"If you are going to spit on me, the least you could do would be to mix in a bit of blood. Saliva and mucus taste so bland."
He punches her stomach, holding back enough that she won't puke. He doesn't want to choke the poor girl, after all.
It will just hurt. Hurt them both. And that's the point.
"Good morning, Wesley." Den straightens and turns to face the bound angel in one graceful sweep. "How nice of you to finally join us. I hope you're feeling better? Relative though the word might be."
Rachel freezes at the sound of Wes' voice, her feelings a conflicted jumble. Thank God he's alive. Curse the devil for him being here. Curse this smug bastard standing in front of her for what Wes is going through now.
She's about to call out to him when his fist crushes her nose. Her vision explodes again, this time into black static that fades around the edges into a dull throb. He shoves the cloth into her mouth but before she can wind up to spit it back out he's raining blows into her stomach. She's oddly grateful for the gag then--clenching her teeth around it keeps her from crying out.
She will not grant this motherfucker an iota of satisfaction, as long as that decision is under her control.
She steels herself as Christoper addresses Wes, closing her eyes and finding that cold, hard little pit of determination inside herself. She hopes Wes can feel it too, hopes he understands.
Wes does not understand the determination, Rachel. He can't feel it because it is eclipsed entirely by your pain. It trembles through his body. It forces a fist around his heart and squeezes tightly until he can't move.
The fact that she doesn't make a sound only serves to worry him more.
This worthless little fucker is hurting her and Wes can feel every second of it. This is how you can drive someone mad, it is.
"Leave her alone," he snarls, locking his jaw. "Leave her alone and come get me, you son of a bitch."
"I am getting you." He considers Wes for a moment and turns to push Rachel's head back with his thumb shoved hard against her nose. Blood smears over his fingertip. He speaks with the air of someone deeply sympathetic, the proverbial shrink in his high-backed chair looking over a patient who has little to say.
The pain's not so bad now. Not compared to the hate she feels for what this man's doing to Wes. The blood runs down the back of her throat, leaving its cloying metallic tang in her mouth; she works the handkerchief free with her tongue and spits it out, gasping for a breath.
"Gotta pick on the girl, huh?" she breathed. "Does it make you feel better to pick on someone smaller? Bullies. The same across every universe."
She shouldn't be here. She shouldn't be here. She was happy. She was engaged. She has plans. Goddammit she has plans and he needs to make sure that they happen.
Wes wrestles with the cuffs, the skin at his wrists cutting open as he does.
"When I get my hands on you," he struggles to say. He gives one final push and then he's moving.
"Rachel. Do be quiet. I'm trying to have a conversation."
He shoves the chair over backwards as Wes breaks free. It teeters and crashes to the ground with a boom like a slammed door. Before Wes is at the bars of his cell, there's a gun in Den's hand. It's a .45, a little Smith and Wesson pistol, he forgets the specifics. He doesn't like guns.
Of course, they have their uses.
Den chambers a round and fires it into Rachel's shoulder from three feet away.
"Behave," he says. "Or I'll I swear to any god you believe in, I will force this between her legs and pull the trigger."
The fall to the ground knocks the breath right out of Rachel's body, but moments later the searing pain of the bullet tearing into her shoulder finally breaks her resolve. She lets out a shriek that seems to roil up from somewhere deep in her body, momentarily blinded by pain.
But then she chokes it back as much as she can, willing herself to be still even though her heart's pounding and her breath can't come deep enough and she can feel the sticky warmth of blood spreading across the front of her shoulder.
"Wes," she calls out hoarsely. "It's fine. I'm fine. It's okay."
The anger leaves him immediately, along with the wind as its knocked out of him. The bullet never pierces into him but he feels it anyway, right down to his very heart. Somewhere inside him, he knows his body hurts because Rachel hurts. But he doesn't feel it.
Wes' face contorts into a pained expression. He's a grown man and never once in his life has he cried. Never once in his life has he wanted to more than he does now.
"I'm sorry," is all he manages to get out. "I'm so sorry, darlin.'"
Den crosses around to the other side of Rachel's chair and and rests his heel lightly against the injury. "Oh, I misunderstood. I see. You were apologizing to her. Well, I suggest you apologize to me now, Wesley."
He doesn't look mocking or amused. "Apologize to me for being rude, and I'll have them see to her injuries." Den nods toward the all-but-forgotten medical team, shuffling back and forth amongst each other near the wall.
"No lies. No drugs. She'll be treated. Apologize." He leans forward, bringing all his weight to bear on Rachel's shoulder. That one spot. "If you please."
A low wail escapes Rachel's lips before she can stop it, pain shooting from her shoulder to tear across her entire body.
She chokes back the searing pain as best she can, tears spilling from her eyes with the effort. "Don't," she mutters through clenched teeth. "Wes, don't. Please..."
She knows this man can't be trusted. But more than that, she knows, she can already tell, how much this is tearing Wes up. Being forced to capitulate to this man is only going to shatter him further, and she won't have it.
Wes doesn't care if it shatters him further, doesn't care if he's playing into Den's hands. He doesn't care what becomes of him as long as Rachel makes it out alive.
As long as the sick bastard stops hurting her.
Anything to stop hurting her. Even going against her wishes.
"I'm sorry. I apologize. I'll do anything." He closes his eyes, fingers curling painfully into his hair, clutching at it desperately as her pain settles in the pit of his stomach. "Anything you want me to."
Den lets up and steps back. He signals the waiting team, who respond with the quickness of the very well-trained. They don't look at Rachel. Den expects they probably can't make themselves. The youngest, a girl barely over sixteen, hangs back and stares at the floor. She won't act until he tells her to; until he drags her forward and forces her to lay her hands on Rachel and heal the woman whether she wants to or not
( ... )
Reply
And then there was a hand around her throat. She choked on her breath, trying to flail away from the grasp, but the bindings hold her to the chair.
She finally gets her eyes open and sees Christopher just inches away. She draws in a huge breath through her nose, nostrils flaring.
Then she bares her teeth, and spits at him as hard as she can, her eyes lit with defiance.
Reply
The pain isn't his. Not his. It's--
"Rachel. RACHEL."
No. No, no.
Wes doesn't simply wake up. He lets out roar, the sound tempered only by the pain, strangled by the rage. He's an animal blinded by it, like a bull charging toward the torero.
It's only then he realizes he's chained to a wall.
Reply
Den removes a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully wipes his face. He seizes Rachel's chin, presses on her broken nose and forces her mouth open just long enough to jam the kerchief back between her teeth.
"If you are going to spit on me, the least you could do would be to mix in a bit of blood. Saliva and mucus taste so bland."
He punches her stomach, holding back enough that she won't puke. He doesn't want to choke the poor girl, after all.
It will just hurt. Hurt them both. And that's the point.
"Good morning, Wesley." Den straightens and turns to face the bound angel in one graceful sweep. "How nice of you to finally join us. I hope you're feeling better? Relative though the word might be."
Reply
She's about to call out to him when his fist crushes her nose. Her vision explodes again, this time into black static that fades around the edges into a dull throb. He shoves the cloth into her mouth but before she can wind up to spit it back out he's raining blows into her stomach. She's oddly grateful for the gag then--clenching her teeth around it keeps her from crying out.
She will not grant this motherfucker an iota of satisfaction, as long as that decision is under her control.
She steels herself as Christoper addresses Wes, closing her eyes and finding that cold, hard little pit of determination inside herself. She hopes Wes can feel it too, hopes he understands.
I'm sorry, Wes. But I'm not giving in. I can't.
Reply
The fact that she doesn't make a sound only serves to worry him more.
This worthless little fucker is hurting her and Wes can feel every second of it. This is how you can drive someone mad, it is.
"Leave her alone," he snarls, locking his jaw. "Leave her alone and come get me, you son of a bitch."
He intends to get out of his chains.
His anger is making it easy.
Reply
"Tell me, Wesley. How does this make you feel?"
Reply
"Gotta pick on the girl, huh?" she breathed. "Does it make you feel better to pick on someone smaller? Bullies. The same across every universe."
Reply
Wes wrestles with the cuffs, the skin at his wrists cutting open as he does.
"When I get my hands on you," he struggles to say. He gives one final push and then he's moving.
The chains come with him.
Reply
He shoves the chair over backwards as Wes breaks free. It teeters and crashes to the ground with a boom like a slammed door. Before Wes is at the bars of his cell, there's a gun in Den's hand. It's a .45, a little Smith and Wesson pistol, he forgets the specifics. He doesn't like guns.
Of course, they have their uses.
Den chambers a round and fires it into Rachel's shoulder from three feet away.
"Behave," he says. "Or I'll I swear to any god you believe in, I will force this between her legs and pull the trigger."
Reply
But then she chokes it back as much as she can, willing herself to be still even though her heart's pounding and her breath can't come deep enough and she can feel the sticky warmth of blood spreading across the front of her shoulder.
"Wes," she calls out hoarsely. "It's fine. I'm fine. It's okay."
Reply
Wes' face contorts into a pained expression. He's a grown man and never once in his life has he cried. Never once in his life has he wanted to more than he does now.
"I'm sorry," is all he manages to get out. "I'm so sorry, darlin.'"
Reply
Den crosses around to the other side of Rachel's chair and and rests his heel lightly against the injury. "Oh, I misunderstood. I see. You were apologizing to her. Well, I suggest you apologize to me now, Wesley."
He doesn't look mocking or amused. "Apologize to me for being rude, and I'll have them see to her injuries." Den nods toward the all-but-forgotten medical team, shuffling back and forth amongst each other near the wall.
"No lies. No drugs. She'll be treated. Apologize." He leans forward, bringing all his weight to bear on Rachel's shoulder. That one spot. "If you please."
Reply
She chokes back the searing pain as best she can, tears spilling from her eyes with the effort. "Don't," she mutters through clenched teeth. "Wes, don't. Please..."
She knows this man can't be trusted. But more than that, she knows, she can already tell, how much this is tearing Wes up. Being forced to capitulate to this man is only going to shatter him further, and she won't have it.
Reply
As long as the sick bastard stops hurting her.
Anything to stop hurting her. Even going against her wishes.
"I'm sorry. I apologize. I'll do anything." He closes his eyes, fingers curling painfully into his hair, clutching at it desperately as her pain settles in the pit of his stomach. "Anything you want me to."
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment