Wes awakens with a strangled gasp. The dreams have haunted him for a week now,
and he doesn’t understand why. Water, cold, oppressive pressure, a sense
of entrapment. Even now, sitting up in his familiar bed, claustrophobia clenches
a fist around his heart.
He gets up to get a drink. The sound of water running into the cup triggers
an increase in heart rate, rapid, shallow breathing. He drops the cup back into
the sink. His hand is shaking.
He goes back to bed and lies still, staring at the ceiling. He rubs the ridge
of scar on his neck. He does not sleep.
#
The doorbell awakens him. He looks at the clock. It’s nearly noon. Sleeping
his life away, he thinks, but then he doesn’t have much life left, really.
He gets up to answer the door. Lilah breezes past him into the room, a smirk
on her face.
“Up just in time for a nooner, are we?” she says. She drops her
purse on the chair and takes off her jacket. “I have twenty-five minutes.”
Wes looks at her wearily. But the look in her eyes takes the edge off the tired.
She’s here for one reason, and that’s to be fucked. Hard and mercilessly.
He hates her for it. Hates himself. But his blood rushes to his groin and he
moves in to take her.
“Careful with the pantyhose,” she says. “I have a one o’clock.”
The pantyhose are shredded by the time they’re done. He puts her face
down over the arm of the couch and fucks her hard from behind, fucks her ass.
She screams out at least three orgasms—he doesn’t count and he doesn’t
care. When he finally comes, buried inside her to the hilt, it’s with
a deep, gut-wrenching twist that’s almost too bitter to be called an orgasm.
She winces a little when he finally backs away to let her get up. His fingers
have dug bruises into her buttocks. She slips back into her dress and calmly
removes an extra pair of hose from her purse.
He watches her unroll them up her slim legs, staring with complete detachment.
Her manicure is flawless, her legs waxed clean. She has no panties on under
the nylon, and she’s waxed there, too. Brazilian.
“So,” she says, adjusting her clothes. “How long has it been
since you stopped by your former place of employment?”
“A while,” he says, folding his arms over his chest.
“Place is falling apart, I hear. Boss disappeared a few weeks ago.”
She passes him a smirking glance.
Wes schools his features, but his stomach lurches. “Disappeared?”
“Yeah. Him and Cordelia both.” Straightening, she regards him more
squarely. “I heard you had a bit of a thing for Cordelia once.”
She stresses the name and smirks. He knows damn well what she means, and it
has nothing to do with Cordy.
“I have no attachments there anymore,” he says lightly. “They
made it abundantly clear I was no longer wanted.”
She moves closer to him, kisses him, her fingers tracing the scar on his neck.
“Yes, I suppose they did.”
#
It’s quiet beneath the press of the ocean. The sound of the waves against
the outside of the oak and steel box has become a constant roar indistinguishable
from silence. The darkness is absolute. Even his vampiric vision can only sense
the occasional vague shift in the lighting.
In the increasingly rare moments of lucidity, he wonders how deep he is. Not
too deep, or he would have been crushed by the weight of the water. Not too
deep, or he wouldn’t see the slight shift in the shadows. Not too shallow,
or the sunlight sifting through the water would have incinerated him.
The shifts, then, must be daylight passing overhead, close enough for him to
see but not close enough to touch him. For a while he tries to count the days.
Then he realizes he’s lost count. He can’t even remember where he
left off. 25? 26? 40? It’s pointless.
He’s starving. He feels like his body is devouring itself from the inside.
He knows he can survive without feeding but he’s not sure how long, or
what the effects of prolonged starvation might be.
Once he loses count of the days, there’s nothing left to anchor him to
reality anymore. He dreams, but the dreams are too real, hallucinations that
he can smell and hear and touch. Cordy—her blood in his mouth. Connor—the
snap of vertebrae as Angel brutally twists his neck. And Wes. Wes beneath him,
Angel making love to him as gently as he’s ever made love to anyone, hands
roaming his body, taking him in, absorbing him. All the sweet textures of his
skin…
Angel feels his cock stir in the darkness, but can do nothing about it. He struggles
vainly against the steel cables binding his arms to his sides. He wants nothing
more than to touch himself, to feel the long, thick column of flesh harden under
his fingers and pretend it’s Wes touching him, Wes’ hands, his mouth.
He can smell Wes. Smell him, feel him, and suddenly he can taste the thick blood
in his mouth, Wesley’s blood, male and musky and oh, so sweet.
He comes. Hard, intense, his body jerking uncontrollably, a harsh shout wrenched
from his mouth. His crotch goes damp and he realizes then that he’s been
dry, that the water has remained outside the box.
He lies shuddering for a time in the aftermath of the orgasm. He doesn’t
know how long, but when he returns to himself, he feels dry again.
And cold.
And alone.
#
Wes knows exactly where to go to find out what’s happened to Angel. It’s
simple, really. There are, of course, any number of people or entities who’d
like to see Angel dead, but given the events of the last few weeks it doesn’t
take much to put two and two together and come up with Justine.
He tracks her down easily enough. There’s a rage building inside him,
and he doesn’t realize how intense it is until he kicks in the door of
the seedy hotel where she’s staying.
She attacks him, full-on, wielding a knife. “Not this time,” he
tells her, and fells her with a single blow to the head.
#
She awakens bleary, disorientation apparent in her eyes. Wes sits in a nearby
chair, toying with a knife. The blade is long and slim and it glints in the
vague light.
“So,” Wes says, not looking at her, his attention focused on the
weaving blade. “Where is he?”
Justine looks at him, blinking. She wiggles a bit, enough to determine she’s
tied up. Her bound wrists are behind her, her ankles lashed to the leg of the
coffee table. She’s stretched out on the wooden floor. Wes has felt no
particular urge to add to her comfort by giving her a blanket or a pillow.
“Where’s who?” she mutters.
Wes looks at her placidly for a moment. Then, slowly, he eases out of his chair
and settles to the floor next to her, casually, almost smiling.
He sees recognition flash in her eyes, followed by fear, quickly quelled.
“Wesley?”
“Yes.”
“You’re…you’re alive.”
“It appears that way, yes.” He lifts the knife so she can see it,
and smiles as she again fights back fear. “Shall I cut you, Justine? Like
you did me?” His voice is soft, pleasant.
Justine says nothing. He leans toward her, the knife in his hand. It passes
slowly through her field of vision as he moves. She swallows, but her expression
is carefully controlled, blank.
He moves the knife slowly. He feels very little toward this woman, which surprises
him. He should feel rage, hatred. He feels only a vague amusement, perhaps a
trace of curiosity.
He lays the flat of the blade against her throat. She flinches, but only slightly.
He’s impressed, a little.
“It was cold. The knife. I felt the blade go into my skin, into my throat.
There was a great deal of blood.” His tone is easy, conversational. He
turns the knife a little. It breaks her skin. Her skin is very pale, he notices.
Almost as pale as Angel’s. The knife breaks her skin and there is a surreal
moment when he stares down at the open slice, down into her, under the surface
of her skin, before the mark fills with blood.
The knife would only have to move a little bit. An inch. Deep into her throat,
to sever the jugular, perhaps the carotid artery, to send all her life’s
blood pulsing out of her body, to stain the wood. It would dry in the grain,
render the golden wood forever russet.
Slowly, he draws the blade away. “Where is Angel?”
With the threat removed, she says nothing, but regards him sullenly.
“Right.” He gets to his feet. “Then I suppose another approach
is called for.”
#
Two days in the cage, and she still hasn’t told him what he wants to know.
Wes dispassionately fucks Lilah and thinks about what he needs to do to make
Justine talk.
When Lilah is sweaty and disheveled under the rumpled blankets, she looks at
Wes and asks him, “So have you heard anything?”
“Hm?” says Wes absently. “No, I haven’t.”
“That’s too bad.” She smirks at him sidelong. “Bet you
dream about him, don’t you?”
Wes doesn’t look at her. He doesn’t care to look at her. She is
inconsequential to him. “Isn’t it time for you to go back to work?”
“Nearly. I canceled my one o’clock.”
Now he swivels toward her. “Uncancel it.” He gets to his feet, naked,
walks to the end of the bed to retrieve his pants. “Leave.”
Lilah laughs. “Whatever you say, lover.”
He moves into the living room to look at the folders lying on the coffee table.
He’s started an investigation into Cordelia’s disappearance, as
well. Surprisingly, it doesn’t seem to be linked to Angel’s. And
she’s left more of a trail.
He doesn’t even notice when Lilah leaves.
#
“It’ll be easier for you if you tell me,” Wes says gently.
Justine looks up at him, eyes blazing. She’s been bound and gagged in
the closet for three days. He makes her clean the small room three times a day,
so the smell won’t alert Lilah. The room smells, anyway, of disinfectant.
“I could perhaps make things easier for you. I could perhaps supply more
water. Additional food.” He pauses. “A bucket?”
She closes her eyes. She looks tired, as if perhaps he’s finally pushed
her to the edge. He opens the cage and removes her gag. She bit his finger the
first time he did this—but only once.
“Now.” His finger trails under her chin. “Tell me. Where is
Angel?”
She spits onto the floor. “He’s gone.”
“I’m aware of that.” Drawing away from her again, he regards
her mildly. “Where?”
“Dumped him. Dumped his sorry vampire ass. Me and the kid.”
Wesley’s eyebrows lift slightly. Inside, he suddenly feels something.
It’s deep and harsh and seems to rip a hole in his chest. The kid. Connor.
When Angel finds out—
He remembers Angel cradling baby Connor in his big hands, looking at him, his
attention consumed, the utter devotion he gave the child. Now this—
“Where?” he asks. His voice when he speaks is gentle, but he can’t
stop his body from taking a step forward, and he realizes as he moves that it’s
a menacing step.
She shudders. He wonders what he’s done to elicit that reaction. “The
ocean. Dumped him in the water.”
The dreams return to him in a sudden rush and he closes his eyes, remembering.
He has felt the water pressing down on Angel’s intended coffin where he
will live forever beneath the waves, alone, hungry, growing progressively madder,
less human.
The rage begins. He can feel it deep in his chest, a deep, stabbing pain.
Slowly, he opens his eyes. He looks at Justine. “Where?”
She is staring straight ahead, and he can sense her fear. It seems to roll in
waves through the room. If Angel were here, he would be able to smell it, thick
and heavy. Or so Wes imagines.
“Point Dume,” she says.
“I see.” His brain kicks into gear, formulating plans, working out
how they’ll retrieve Angel—
Suddenly he realizes she’s looking at his crotch. He frowns, puzzled,
then understands.
“You’re afraid I’ll rape you.”
Her body jerks. For a moment, she just stares at the floor, then slowly she
looks up, until her eyes meet his. She says nothing.
“I won’t, you know. I wouldn’t…lower myself to that.”
Slowly, he drops to a crouch in front of her, until they are at eye level.
She looks right at him for a time, and he can see her recognition of the truth
in his eyes. With her reassurance comes a wave of bravado, and insolence.
“Probably can’t get it up for a woman, anyway,” she mutters.
“Little faggot.”
Calmly, he replaces the gag, ties it tight, and closes the cage door. On his
feet again, he looks down at her.
“I won’t rape you,” he states again. “I might…remove
your fingernails, or brand you here and there. Kitchen utensils heated with
a blow torch make interesting marks.” The fear rises in her eyes again,
but she quashes it. “I won’t,” he continues, “if you
help me. Will you help me?”
For a long moment they stand locked eye-to-eye, Justine defiant, Wes calm, waiting.
Then slowly, finally, Justine nods.
Wes smiles. “Good. That’s very very good.”
And, slowly, he closes the closet door, leaving her alone again in the acrid
dark.
END.