Learning the Ropes (7-8/8)
Title: Learning the Ropes
Author: Bruttimabuoni
Rating: PG-13
Character: Giles, Watchers, OCs (and a mystery guest star I'm leaving unnamed to avoid spoiling later readers)
Sections: 7 and 8, of 8
Warnings: torture (this section only)
Word count: ~3500
Nadir
Darla returned, a hopeless aeon later, sparkingly annoyed, slamming open the cell door with flair. “The organisation in this place is unspeakable. How do you ever find anything?”
A flicker of Watcherly pride brought disaster. “We have to be careful. For….” Shut up Rupert, for Christ’s sake. Too late. Darla grasped the fleeting implication and glided swiftly from the open doorway into the cell.
“Ah, so there’s method here? And a Watcher to help me unlock it. Wonderfully handy.” She slipped onto the cot with him, cuddling close as he’d wished many times she would. Now he was rigid in rejection.
“I won’t tell you.” Rupert might not be experienced, but he was determined not to betray age-old Watchers’ secrets to this woman‘s whim. Too many dead girls to contemplate.
But Darla wasn’t a woman. She was a demon. Arguments weren’t necessary. She reached out and took his right hand. Then simply snapped one of his fingers. She said gently, “Don’t make it hard on yourself,” as he screamed, and recoiled, huddled protectively over his maimed hand insofar as his bonds would allow.
Since his wild youth, Rupert had never been deliberately hurt by another - certainly not with the expectation of more tortures to come. The shock was agony; as much as the injury itself. Just one bone broken. How many does the human body hold? She’ll know. She’ll know how to snap the others too. What’s the point of holding on? She’s so much stronger.
Stop it, you fool. Must hold on. It‘s just a bone. Easily broken, readily healed. Be strong. You‘re a Watcher.
Darla reached out and gripped his injured hand again. “There’s no need for this, Rupert. Just tell me.” Soon the next finger was burning agony. Then the nail was removed from the third finger. Much worse than a nice clean break. The tug and squelch was so much more intimate, so personal, so pointed. Her pleasured shiver was a violation.
The terror of Darla, though, was more than actions. Her words were sliding stilettos, instilling horror and despair with her soft sweet-spoken tones. “After the hands, the feet perhaps. Flaying the soles so you can never again stand without pain… Then maybe gelding you? Those bloodless Council types would surely take you back unmanned. But you’d never have a woman again.”
He didn’t buckle. It was vile, but it was bearable. The thoughts were intended to horrify, and they did, of course. But even if he survived with such injuries, and he hardly expected to, the essential Rupert Giles would remain.
Darla paused, seeking to regain ground lost after the first shock of assault. She pressed closer, delicate fingers sliding across him, hunting for a betraying flinch of fear. Closer still, her lips set to his resisting mouth, tongue flickering, seeking entry to his inner self. And found it, triumphantly.
“Or, no, much better. I know what comes next. The eyes. What good’s a Watcher who can’t see? Can’t read, can’t…well, watch. Yes.”
She slipped away for a second; reached out to her champagne glass and shattered it, selecting a long shard with bloodied fingers. “This should be enough to put out the lights.” She brought the shard to his right eye. Almost lovingly, she ran the sharp edge down the closed eyelid, his last pathetic defence. The thin layers of skin, sliced, parted, shrieking with pain, and he couldn’t block her out any longer.
Darla smiled, absorbed in her work. So close, so intent. Would she even stop when he told her everything?
Because Rupert was already broken, and knew Darla could see it. She had barely begun to touch him, and she’d found his weakness with scarcely an effort. A life without sight was perhaps his greatest fear, the loss of his self. He wouldn’t crack under simple threats of death (or so he told himself now). But he had no defences against this. Painfully inevitably, he would soon open his mouth to betray his calling. Tell her how to find her secrets. Leave the girls to their fates. He would probably die, nonetheless, but it could be quicker, and he might keep his eyes, and thus hope, to the end. For that small comfort, he would become a traitor, and bring down the hordes of hell on the planet.
But his betrayal went unspoken. From the open door, there was a rustle, a sudden movement, and an unseen Quentin Travers pounced. His trap net flew awry, but the flask of holy water crashed into Darla’s face, and she recoiled, hissing with pain, eyes darting as she considered her options. Rupert watched her consider killing them both - a great vampire against portly Travers and bound Giles was barely a contest. But four more Watchers, armed and advancing into the cell, served to make up her mind. Her expected backup had evidently misfired, perhaps even been slayed. The plan had been discovered and the Watchers‘ secrets were defended. Her own odds of survival were worsening as the Council marshalled its response. In the end, she was a pragmatist.
Her fleeing back was the last sight Rupert had of Darla. He lay gasping on the cot, stunned by the speed and completeness of his release. Blood pooled in his injured eye. Salt tears stung the raw new cut.
Watcher’s Mental Notes 30 October 1984 01.47am
I am weak. I would have broken so simply. The victorious outcome isn’t important, not to me, at least. It’s what I now know of myself and of others.
Trust no one outside the inner circle. I owe my life and honour to Travers.
Wish I liked him more.
*
Rebirth
The Council powered up new, stronger wards. A plenary meeting agreed on a more cautious policy of schooling and greater safeguards around known Watcher connections. Rupert spent a year in extensive research on southern European demon cults - “Best to keep busy. I’m sure a placement will come up soon enough, Giles.”
The new Slayer died swiftly; the next was called. She was aged seventeen. Jess had had a chance, after all. That was a bad day.
There were a lot of bad days, that year.
He recovered, of course. The body wasn’t a problem, bar a little pain. The mind took longer, but in the end he discovered the old cliché had meaning. Darla hadn’t killed him; she’d made him stronger. He’d found a weakness. He would root it out.
Next time…if there was a next time…he wouldn’t break under torture. Otherwise all this would have been futile waste. He wouldn’t have a third innocent on his conscience.
Diary of Rupert Giles 30 October 1985
And I am certain that there will be a next time. No one ever pretended a Watcher’s role was easy. I am learning what that really means.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Author: Bruttimabuoni
Rating: PG-13
Character: Giles, Watchers, OCs (and a mystery guest star I'm leaving unnamed to avoid spoiling later readers)
Sections: 7 and 8, of 8
Warnings: torture (this section only)
Word count: ~3500
Nadir
Darla returned, a hopeless aeon later, sparkingly annoyed, slamming open the cell door with flair. “The organisation in this place is unspeakable. How do you ever find anything?”
A flicker of Watcherly pride brought disaster. “We have to be careful. For….” Shut up Rupert, for Christ’s sake. Too late. Darla grasped the fleeting implication and glided swiftly from the open doorway into the cell.
“Ah, so there’s method here? And a Watcher to help me unlock it. Wonderfully handy.” She slipped onto the cot with him, cuddling close as he’d wished many times she would. Now he was rigid in rejection.
“I won’t tell you.” Rupert might not be experienced, but he was determined not to betray age-old Watchers’ secrets to this woman‘s whim. Too many dead girls to contemplate.
But Darla wasn’t a woman. She was a demon. Arguments weren’t necessary. She reached out and took his right hand. Then simply snapped one of his fingers. She said gently, “Don’t make it hard on yourself,” as he screamed, and recoiled, huddled protectively over his maimed hand insofar as his bonds would allow.
Since his wild youth, Rupert had never been deliberately hurt by another - certainly not with the expectation of more tortures to come. The shock was agony; as much as the injury itself. Just one bone broken. How many does the human body hold? She’ll know. She’ll know how to snap the others too. What’s the point of holding on? She’s so much stronger.
Stop it, you fool. Must hold on. It‘s just a bone. Easily broken, readily healed. Be strong. You‘re a Watcher.
Darla reached out and gripped his injured hand again. “There’s no need for this, Rupert. Just tell me.” Soon the next finger was burning agony. Then the nail was removed from the third finger. Much worse than a nice clean break. The tug and squelch was so much more intimate, so personal, so pointed. Her pleasured shiver was a violation.
The terror of Darla, though, was more than actions. Her words were sliding stilettos, instilling horror and despair with her soft sweet-spoken tones. “After the hands, the feet perhaps. Flaying the soles so you can never again stand without pain… Then maybe gelding you? Those bloodless Council types would surely take you back unmanned. But you’d never have a woman again.”
He didn’t buckle. It was vile, but it was bearable. The thoughts were intended to horrify, and they did, of course. But even if he survived with such injuries, and he hardly expected to, the essential Rupert Giles would remain.
Darla paused, seeking to regain ground lost after the first shock of assault. She pressed closer, delicate fingers sliding across him, hunting for a betraying flinch of fear. Closer still, her lips set to his resisting mouth, tongue flickering, seeking entry to his inner self. And found it, triumphantly.
“Or, no, much better. I know what comes next. The eyes. What good’s a Watcher who can’t see? Can’t read, can’t…well, watch. Yes.”
She slipped away for a second; reached out to her champagne glass and shattered it, selecting a long shard with bloodied fingers. “This should be enough to put out the lights.” She brought the shard to his right eye. Almost lovingly, she ran the sharp edge down the closed eyelid, his last pathetic defence. The thin layers of skin, sliced, parted, shrieking with pain, and he couldn’t block her out any longer.
Darla smiled, absorbed in her work. So close, so intent. Would she even stop when he told her everything?
Because Rupert was already broken, and knew Darla could see it. She had barely begun to touch him, and she’d found his weakness with scarcely an effort. A life without sight was perhaps his greatest fear, the loss of his self. He wouldn’t crack under simple threats of death (or so he told himself now). But he had no defences against this. Painfully inevitably, he would soon open his mouth to betray his calling. Tell her how to find her secrets. Leave the girls to their fates. He would probably die, nonetheless, but it could be quicker, and he might keep his eyes, and thus hope, to the end. For that small comfort, he would become a traitor, and bring down the hordes of hell on the planet.
But his betrayal went unspoken. From the open door, there was a rustle, a sudden movement, and an unseen Quentin Travers pounced. His trap net flew awry, but the flask of holy water crashed into Darla’s face, and she recoiled, hissing with pain, eyes darting as she considered her options. Rupert watched her consider killing them both - a great vampire against portly Travers and bound Giles was barely a contest. But four more Watchers, armed and advancing into the cell, served to make up her mind. Her expected backup had evidently misfired, perhaps even been slayed. The plan had been discovered and the Watchers‘ secrets were defended. Her own odds of survival were worsening as the Council marshalled its response. In the end, she was a pragmatist.
Her fleeing back was the last sight Rupert had of Darla. He lay gasping on the cot, stunned by the speed and completeness of his release. Blood pooled in his injured eye. Salt tears stung the raw new cut.
Watcher’s Mental Notes 30 October 1984 01.47am
I am weak. I would have broken so simply. The victorious outcome isn’t important, not to me, at least. It’s what I now know of myself and of others.
Trust no one outside the inner circle. I owe my life and honour to Travers.
Wish I liked him more.
*
Rebirth
The Council powered up new, stronger wards. A plenary meeting agreed on a more cautious policy of schooling and greater safeguards around known Watcher connections. Rupert spent a year in extensive research on southern European demon cults - “Best to keep busy. I’m sure a placement will come up soon enough, Giles.”
The new Slayer died swiftly; the next was called. She was aged seventeen. Jess had had a chance, after all. That was a bad day.
There were a lot of bad days, that year.
He recovered, of course. The body wasn’t a problem, bar a little pain. The mind took longer, but in the end he discovered the old cliché had meaning. Darla hadn’t killed him; she’d made him stronger. He’d found a weakness. He would root it out.
Next time…if there was a next time…he wouldn’t break under torture. Otherwise all this would have been futile waste. He wouldn’t have a third innocent on his conscience.
Diary of Rupert Giles 30 October 1985
And I am certain that there will be a next time. No one ever pretended a Watcher’s role was easy. I am learning what that really means.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~