The Coldest Winter We Ever Spent... (Part I: May) (1 of 5?)
Title: The Coldest Winter We Ever Spent... (Part I: May)
Author: protoneoromanic
Pairing: Buffy/Giles, Buffy/Angel, Giles/Angel, others hinted at
Rating: Explicit/ NC-17
Word Count Part I: 2322
Trigger Warnings: RAPE, torture, underage sex, intergenerational sex, miscarriages
Beta: Gilescandy (Although there is only so much even she can do for a stubborn old thing like me!)
Legal Notice: This non-commercial artistic activity meets Fair Use requirements
A/N: "I wanna torture you. I used to love it and its been a long time" BtVS 2.22 ("Becoming")
The floor was cold. So cold. More intense even than the pain in Rupert's head. The world felt muted, far away. There was nothing near, nothing to reach out for. Nothing but his body and the cold, cold floor. And the dark. A dark with someone, something moving in it. Slowly, the thing resolved itself, horrifically, inevitably, into Angel.
“Hello, Rupert, old buddy,” the monster began to ramble. He was trying to needle his victim, but Giles wasn't listening to his words, only his tone. You are only coming through in waves. Your lips move... He heard arrogance, impatience, irritation, strain. He heard neither triumph nor sorrow. So at least he had not killed Buffy during Giles's lapse in consciousness, probably had not laid a hand on her in fact. Angel had merely lured Buffy away so that Drusilla could have a shot at him, Giles realized. But why? He listened closer, made more of an effort to follow what was, in fact turning out to be more or less an explanation. Angel needed an expert to help him figure out the ritual. As if it weren't obvious!
Giles was amused and quietly contemptuous. Vampires! No head for symbolism. No... appreciation for the value and power of pure, honest, personal sacrifice. They always expected someone else to do the bleeding. Well, Rupert was used to bleeding, was used to sacrifice. He had been tortured more than once in his life, and he could take quite a bit without breaking down. He simply had to keep his chin up, to suffer and, if need be, to die. With dignity. With honor. For the sake of the world. And for Buffy.
Hours passed. Rupert kept himself composed through most of it. But eventually there were tears and cries of agony, of horror, of disgust. When he was naked, bleeding and tentatively interested in death, he felt the hand of his monstrous captor roving over his helpless, exposed flesh in a new, more sinister way. His interest in death was suddenly keen, not at all tentative. He flailed madly at Angel, trying to provoke him to more conventional violence.
Angel ignored his impotent resistance. “Mmmmm,” the vampire purred, exhaling the cold, wet breath of death against his ear, “So brave. So strong. You're impressive, Rupert. You really are.”
Dignity went by the wayside. Rupert cried out in terror and revulsion. When he called out, “Oh dear God! Please, God, no!” it was only in one narrow sense 'in vain.'
The beast fell upon him, pinning him against that cold, hard floor. Again and again, he stabbed him anally with his merciless, adamant cock. That rod of cold, inhuman flesh was as hard, as uncompromising, as the stone on which they lay. The word 'agony' fell far short of describing the punishment it dealt with each unforgiving stroke.
Rupert had hoped, had prayed, that this vile act was a prelude to murder, but when Angel groaned with an intensity of pleasure near to pain and rolled off of him at last, laughing with delight, he sensed that the process of 'softening up' was far from over. He was allowed to crawl about on the floor, to slither back into the torn remnants of his clothing, as Angel's sterile seed dripped from his battered rectum onto the barren stone.
This little respite, this small mercy, was intended, he realized, to make him feel grateful towards his captors, to give him hope for the greater mercy that could be his if only he would relent and do as he was told. But Rupert's resolve was stiffened rather than softened by this transparent attempt at manipulation. Dignity or no dignity, he would hold on to his honor. If Angel learned the secret to destroying the world, it would not be from Rupert Giles.
~~~~
Spike sat tensely gripping the sides of his wheelchair. He struggled to keep up with the relatively lucid drift of what Drusilla was saying, to ignore what was happening in the next room. The screaming had stopped. All that remained were the sounds of flesh slapping against flesh, Angel's occasional grunting, and the pitiful mewling and weeping of his victim. But these small noises echoed endlessly through the large, marbled rooms and corridors of the mansion. If Buffy Summers could hear what was happening in that room, neither he nor Drusilla would have a prayer in hell of making it out of Sunnydale alive.
For a moment, Spike considered tying Dru up and gagging her under false pretenses, then dragging her away while Angel was still detracted. But the place was crawling with minions, and he was damned if he was going to risk raising an alarm now, tempting Angel to finish with him what he had started with Rupert Giles.
At last, Angel let out a deep groan of finality. Moments later, grinning with delight, he entered the room, pulling a silken robe around his sweaty body. “You're awfully cheerful,” Spike groused, “For someone who is failing so spectacularly at such a simple task.”
“Patience, my boy,” Angel growled impatiently. “I know exactly what I'm doing.”
“So he gave you the information then, did he?” Spike snarked. “Or maybe you've forgotten what the goal of all this was supposed to be. Got busy making honeymoon plans perhaps? Picking out china patterns maybe?”
“Ha,” Angel scoffed, “That's your button, Spike, not mine. I know where everyone's buttons are and I can push them any time I want.” He smiled cruelly. “Just ask Dru.”
Drusilla whined hopefully, pitifully, like a dog who hopes, maybe after days of being ignored, it might finally be on the verge of getting its ears scratched. But Spike knew, it hadn't been that long since Angel had pushed every single one of her buttons for her, not nearly. The lascivious smile that spread across the bastard's big, broody, stupid, extra-foreheady face said that he knew it too and had absolutely intended to remind him. Spike said nothing. He fought down his rising temper with the knowledge that Angel would be dead soon.
“Careful, my sweet,” Drusilla cooed, adoration vying with concern. “Don't let him die before you get to question him again.”
“Relax,” Angel assured her offhandedly, “I was gentle with him.”
Drusilla was both reassured and amused, but Spike was deeply worried. He knew what Angel's definition of 'gentle' was. His arse still hurt every time he thought about how very, very 'gentle' Angel could be.
“Give him half an hour to pull himself together,” Angel predicted with cheerful confidence, “to remember that he doesn't really want to die just yet if he can help it, then he'll fold at the first sharp slap. I think I'll go take a shower and get dressed,” he added casually, “I want to look good for my big day.”
Angel was probably right, Spike knew. Giles was sure to be moments from cracking. “Excuse me,” he said to Dru, once Angel had disappeared upstairs, “I think I'll take our 'guest' a glass of water.”
When he entered the room, the librarian looked up, startled. Then his gaze hardened slightly, heartsick, but defiant. “Well,” Giles asked bitterly, “Why do I even bother getting dressed?”
“As if,” Spike scoffed, holding out the glass of water that was his pretext for this conversation. Rupert batted it out of his hand, shattering it against the stone floor. Water and glass splashed both of them. Spike growled angrily, lifting Rupert by the collar and pulling him close, face to face, practically in his lap. He would not risk being overheard.
“She's coming,” he hissed. “Hold out. Be ready. Buffy is coming here. We are going to kill Angel.” With that, he tossed the man carelessly to the stone floor, turned and wheeled himself from the room. He hoped he had stiffened the poor bugger's spine enough to drag things out until Buffy could arrive. But she had better hurry.
~~~~
Rupert lay in a battered heap, trying to make sense of what was happening to him. Angel was pulling out all the stops to break his will and Spike, of all creatures, was encouraging him to hold out, bringing him purported assurances of rescue. From Buffy. Really, he couldn't help but doubt it, this idea that Spike was somehow allied with Buffy. But the bare hope that Buffy knew where he was, that she was coming for him, was irresistible. He clung to it gratefully as Angel returned to resume the hours of torment.
Giles held out. As the monster battered his body in every horrid way imaginable, the Watcher let his mind rove, wandering back to better times. He lived in memories, far sweeter in the reliving, of times he had only imagined himself to be 'tortured', to be conflicted.
“We shouldn't be doing this,” he whispered against Buffy's hot skin. “I'm your Watcher. I'm responsible for you. I ought not...” her hands roamed slowly downwards, over his unresisting body from his shoulders to his ass. “I ought not...” she slid them up under his long tweed coat, caressing as she went, her firm grip landing on the small of his back, pulling him hard against her as she leaned back against the library table.
“Shshshsh,” she whispered. Nothing more than that. And yet, that single exhalation expressed such hunger and such love. And suddenly, he was hard against her, very hard.
Ah gods the way his cock had felt, sliding inside her! The first time, amidst the awe and terror of lines being crossed. The last time, enfolded in the gentle embrace of mutual mourning and regret, living in the reality of a word: 'inevitable'. The two dozen times between, in every state of emotion, none of which approach the pure, holy pleasure of their physical union.
The plain of the blow snapped Giles back to the present. “Are you listening to me?” Angel demanded, brandishing the length of steel pipe with which he had just smashed him in the jaw.
Several of Rupert's teeth were broken. He spit the pieces in Angel's face, suddenly overcome with spite. “Sorry,” he gasped, as coolly as he could manage, which was not very, “I was just thinking of how wonderful it felt to make love to Buffy. How beautiful to hear her say that she'd found someone to satisfy her at last.”
The vampire growled with rage. “That's it!” he shouted. “Somebody bring me a chainsaw!”
Rupert sagged with relief. Okay, if he were being truly honest, partly with bowel liquefying terror, but mostly with relief. And also, not a little satisfaction. He'd done it. He'd held out. It would all be over soon. Rupert Giles was about to die with his honor intact and save the lives of billions in the process. How's that for a bloody hero? For Rupert so loved the world that he gave his only ass....
But no! As ever he had been too optimistic. Spike rolled in once again to rescue him. “...And I don't fancy spending the next month trying to get librarian out of the carpet...” he argued among other things in his effort to settle Angel down. It was an image that gave one pause, certainly. So much so that, though he wanted to resent Spike for robbing him of the means of swift and certain death, he couldn't quite.
A wave of nauseous gratitude rolled over and through Rupert's body and soul. But like a wave crashing endlessly against the ageless shore, it rolled out again as he heard Spike call out to the maddest, vilest demon of their company, “Drusilla, love, do you want to play a game?”
~~~~
“Anne Winters!” Pete called, not for the first time. Finally, the name seemed to register with a young blond woman who stood hesitantly and walked toward him. “Are you Anne Winters?” he demanded skeptically.
Anne smiled nervously. “That's what it says on my application.”
“Okay, whatever,” Pete replied. “You ever worked in a restaurant before, Anne?”
“Oh, gosh yes,” the girl assured him. “Lots um... lots and lots of times. I mean, not lots of... different... times. It's not like I'm constantly getting fired or something! But, you know, lots... of... for a long time.” She finally stammered to a conclusion, settling on a story.
Pete pretended to study the application, so that he could smile to himself behind it. Helen wouldn't have put up with this bullshit for a minute, but Helen wasn't here. “Where?” he asked, just messing with her now, feeling her out. He'd known he was going to hire this girl the first time he had looked at her ass and imagined it bare, bent over the prep counter as he pushed himself inside her. Somehow, he just knew she would be tight and wet and ready for him.
“Where?” she repeated, squirming beautifully. He faked a look of stern attention and waited, while she tried unsuccessfully to remember what she had written down two days ago.
“Yeah, where?” he prompted finally, starting to get a little bit more genuinely annoyed. She had better be a good piece of tail if she was going to be that dumb. “What restaurant?” he clarified, “What town?”
“Sonny's Deli... in... Elmwood?” she guessed at last.
“A deli, is not a restaurant,” Pete pointed out. She looked adorably crestfallen. “But then again,” he relented, grinning, “neither is this dump. I like you,” he added more or less seriously, “You got guts. You're a terrible liar, but you got guts. More importantly,” he lied, “you're the only applicant who doesn't have a rap sheet, or at least one I have to know about and show to Helen. So you're hired.”
“Thank you(?)” she squeaked.
“Alright, whatever,” Pete barked as gruffly as he could manage, “Just get your apron on and get to work.”