He thought stopping for a moment to catch his breath would make him feel better.
That is not the case. Wes is feeling progressively worse, and he nearly drops to the ground. He bends over, hands on his knees as the clenching in his stomach grows more violent.
"Not sure," he manages to say in between gritted teeth.
"Okay, okay," Rachel murmurs soothingly, though soothed is far from what she feels right now. Her hand goes to his bent head, fingers smoothing down some of his hair.
"We gotta at least get you home, Wes, if not to a doctor. Let me see if I can get a cab, okay? Stand right here, don't move."
Rachel doesn't go far--just to the curb, where she looks out expectantly at the traffic, hoping to flag down a cab to get them home.
It's not a cab that stops. It's not even a car. "Is something wrong?"
The trenchcoated pedestrian stops to look down at Wes, then over at Rachel. He's Christopher Clark, the picture of benign concern. He crouches next to Wes and puts a steadying hand on the man's shoulder. "Easy. You don't look good."
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."
Day Two [I twisted you under and under to break you]silkandstoneNovember 24 2009, 05:47:39 UTC
Den comes down to see Wes early the next morning, carrying a metal tray with breakfast laid out across it. When he comes into cells he stops to look the angel over, head tilted to one side.
"Up, up, Wesley. You can't properly address the day without a bit of breakfast." He walks close enough to the bars to bang the corner of his tray against each one. "Wouldn't you agree?"
He drops the tray in front of the cell door and the food bounces and scatters across over the ground. The juice glass tips over, the milk sloshes into the toast. "Hmm. Your hands seem a bit occupied. I suppose you'll have to eat it off the floor."
Wes will not be picking anything up from the ground right now. He can't stomach food, no matter how hungry his body is telling him he is.
He's breathing harshly, instinct needing him to check on Rachel. It's greater than him. He can't possibly control it. The desire cannot possibly be indulged.
One eyebrow goes up. Den gives a quiet little laugh. "Well, then."
He signals someone standing by the door. It's the girl from yesterday, still handcuffed. She comes to stand next to Den and stares firmly at her feet. Den's eyes never leave Wes's face.
"Feed him."
She flinches, stares between the two men, and slowly bends to pick up the tray. The cuffs are barely long enough for her to hold both ends of the tray. Den unlocks the door, shuts it behind her, and goes to stand by the wall without a word.
The girl sets the tray down in front of Wes and fumbles with the toast, her hands shaking. She holds it up to his mouth. "Please eat," she whispers. "Please please please eat."
His chest twists inside. His face hardens, despite the fact inwardly he is reeling. Anger, pride, whatever scrap of dignity Wes had left, he swallows it down.
This girl could be Frances. This girl could be his little sister. Unprotected, left in the hands of this sick bastard.
"It's all right, darlin'," he whispers quietly, taking a bite of the toast with great pains. "It's all right."
He levels Den with another gaze. His expression is unreadable. It is in no way argumentative.
Day Three [A demon holds my place on earth 'til I die.]howangryaretheyDecember 2 2009, 02:20:26 UTC
There's an Organization-run medical center somewhere downtown and it's here that Wes and Rachel have been taken to continue their recovery. They're sharing a room, because Adam figured it best never to let them be too far from each other after such an ordeal and now that the worst of their injuries have been treated, it's time to tend to the psychological ones
( ... )
Rachel lay on her side, watching Wes from her bed. She stirred at the sound of Adam's voice, shifting a bit so she could see him.
And still see Wes in her peripheral vision. She wasn't taking her eyes off him for a moment more than was necessary.
"I'm comfortable, thank you," she said diplomatically. "I doubt there's going to be much 'feeling better' until I've torn that man's face off with my bare hands. I'm just sayin'."
Adam's jaw twitches in something that's neither wholly a smile nor wholly a grimace. "I can imagine," he says to Rachel, all but ignoring Wes, save for a casual nod in his direction.
And that's precisely why this has to be done.He steps to the side as a nurse comes in bearing two syringes and gestures to both the nurse and Topher who bites down on his lip as he selects one. "This is Dr. Brink," Adam explains. Topher looks up at the sound of his name and gives an awkward little wave in Rachel and Wes's direction
( ... )
Comments 158
He looks terrible. Weak, shaking. And that scares her, because he's never been anything but strength, surety, safety.
"Wes. What's happening?"
Reply
That is not the case. Wes is feeling progressively worse, and he nearly drops to the ground. He bends over, hands on his knees as the clenching in his stomach grows more violent.
"Not sure," he manages to say in between gritted teeth.
Reply
"We gotta at least get you home, Wes, if not to a doctor. Let me see if I can get a cab, okay? Stand right here, don't move."
Rachel doesn't go far--just to the curb, where she looks out expectantly at the traffic, hoping to flag down a cab to get them home.
Reply
The trenchcoated pedestrian stops to look down at Wes, then over at Rachel. He's Christopher Clark, the picture of benign concern. He crouches next to Wes and puts a steadying hand on the man's shoulder. "Easy. You don't look good."
Reply
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
"Up, up, Wesley. You can't properly address the day without a bit of breakfast." He walks close enough to the bars to bang the corner of his tray against each one. "Wouldn't you agree?"
He drops the tray in front of the cell door and the food bounces and scatters across over the ground. The juice glass tips over, the milk sloshes into the toast. "Hmm. Your hands seem a bit occupied. I suppose you'll have to eat it off the floor."
Reply
He's breathing harshly, instinct needing him to check on Rachel. It's greater than him. He can't possibly control it. The desire cannot possibly be indulged.
"Thank you."
Reply
He signals someone standing by the door. It's the girl from yesterday, still handcuffed. She comes to stand next to Den and stares firmly at her feet. Den's eyes never leave Wes's face.
"Feed him."
She flinches, stares between the two men, and slowly bends to pick up the tray. The cuffs are barely long enough for her to hold both ends of the tray. Den unlocks the door, shuts it behind her, and goes to stand by the wall without a word.
The girl sets the tray down in front of Wes and fumbles with the toast, her hands shaking. She holds it up to his mouth. "Please eat," she whispers. "Please please please eat."
Reply
This girl could be Frances. This girl could be his little sister. Unprotected, left in the hands of this sick bastard.
"It's all right, darlin'," he whispers quietly, taking a bite of the toast with great pains. "It's all right."
He levels Den with another gaze. His expression is unreadable. It is in no way argumentative.
"Where's Rachel?"
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Reply
And still see Wes in her peripheral vision. She wasn't taking her eyes off him for a moment more than was necessary.
"I'm comfortable, thank you," she said diplomatically. "I doubt there's going to be much 'feeling better' until I've torn that man's face off with my bare hands. I'm just sayin'."
Reply
He sighs at Rachel's answer, though he doesn't comment. Better anger than the way she'd looked when she was singing. Anything but that.
Clearing his throat, he tries sitting up and shifts uncomfortably. He doesn't like being in anyone's debt. Doesn't mean he's an ungrateful bastard.
"I'm comfortable, too. Thank you, sir. For...everything."
Reply
And that's precisely why this has to be done.He steps to the side as a nurse comes in bearing two syringes and gestures to both the nurse and Topher who bites down on his lip as he selects one. "This is Dr. Brink," Adam explains. Topher looks up at the sound of his name and gives an awkward little wave in Rachel and Wes's direction ( ... )
Reply
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