Title: After
Author: meagan <nutmeg@serv.net>
Summary: response to this challenge: What if in the season 2 episodes called Becoming part 1 & 2 instead of only Giles being kidnapped from the library what if both Xander & Giles were taken by Angelus' henchman?
- must contain m/m
- Angelus tortures Xander {any nasty method you wish}
- Giles forced to watch{Well he is a Watcher after all}
- deal with the aftermath and repercussions of the ordeal
ex: emotional,physical
Spoilers: "Becoming Part 2"
Disclaimer: Of *course* they belong to someone else. If they were mine, things would be different. Specifically, they belong to Mutant Enemy, Fox, WB (even though they *really* don't deserve these guys after what they did to us in May), and anyone else I forgot.
Rating: Um, let's say R.
Distribution: Please ask.
Feedback: Yes, please. This is the first time I've tried writing as this character, and I'm not sure how it turned out.
Notes: Okay, let's see if I can still do the angst thing. I think it's been a whole day since I've tried. And NO, NO, NO! I WILL NOT DO A SEQUEL! Ahem. See, I have this little problem with writing sequels. I just can't resist them. But I really don't want to deal with these characters in this situation any more, so, please, someone shoot me if I try to continue the story.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Every time I close my eyes, I remember.
"Rupert, eyes open!" A singsong voice. He is having fun.
So I open my eyes. Xander. Chained to the wall, blindfolded. I'm not sure what is worse: being able to *see* what is going to happen but be able to prepare for it or to not see but also not be able to attempt to steel yourself.
Or being able to see what is going to happen to someone who cannot see anything. And be unable to do anything. I can't even shout reassurances because, while Xander is blindfolded, I am gagged.
It has been made perfectly clear to me that any attempt to avoid seeing the events unfold in front of me will result in even more severe so-called punishment. To him. And I can't bear to have him hurt any more than necessary. I hate to have to consider any of this to be necessary because, truly, it is not, but in this monster's eyes, it is.
And Xander's reaction to hearing my name is upsetting, to say the least. "Giles? Where are you? I can't see you!"
"That's because you're blindfolded, you idiot." Angelus is bored. "But now that you're both awake, I'm going to have a little fun." After all, that's why I'm gagged. He wants answers, but I have been refusing to give them to him. So since I wouldn't talk, no matter what he does to me, he made it so I *couldn't* speak. And then he chained his other captive in front of me. So I could watch this boy be put through hell. Now Angelus has a riding crop in one hand, and it flicks through the air, lightly tapping Xander's thighs. The muscles twitch. Angelus beams at that. "So. Watcher. Watch."
"Giles? Are you there? Say something, please!" Xander twists his head frantically, trying to gain his bearings.
Angelus just chuckles. He says nothing to Xander but occasionally throws a smirk and a comment my way. "Enjoying the show?" "Oh, look at him jump." "Betcha never thought anyone could live through something like this!"
I, of course, can't do anything. My feet are firmly bound to the chair, so I can't stamp my foot. The chair itself is tied to the table, so I can't rock it and thump the legs on the floor. All I can do is watch. And listen.
~~~~
Cordelia and Oz found us. Well, they both came to the mansion. Cordelia remained in Oz's van, presumably to make sure no one stole it during their rescue attempt, while he came inside. Angelus and Buffy long gone, I was still tied to that damned chair, and Xander was still chained to that wall after an incredibly brief intermission that found him bent over the table I was tied against. I could feel his breath, his desperate howls of pain as Angelus violated him with whatever appropriately-shaped -- and some not-so-appropriately-shaped -- objects were found, but could do nothing to save him. Now Oz quietly untied me and got me out of there before pulling blankets from his van and returning for Xander. That spoke volumes to me about that young man. On one hand, he could have released Xander from his chains first -- and have the boy see me watching him. Instead, he tried to preserve as much of Xander's dignity as possible. I realized that was why he asked Cordelia to remain with the van while he helped Xander limp to relative safety. He even relinquished control of his precious vehicle to Cordelia so she would not be confronted with her boyfriend's ordeal. Tact has never been and never will be her strong point, and all of us would have likely collapsed -- one way or another -- had she said anything typical of her nature.
Instead, Oz quietly directed her to my apartment. I sat huddled in the back of the van with Xander, trying to make up for not being able to help him during his ordeal. To my surprise, rather than cringing away from me, he clung to me. Every time the van jolted and I was jerked away from him, he whimpered and grasped at the air until I moved back to his side. One we reached my apartment, Oz helped the two of us out of the van and into the building. He had apparently decided that it was better to have Xander spend the night there than at his own house. I wondered why that decision did not surprise me one bit. My lack of reaction -- that it didn't matter whether anyone remembered to call his parents, that it wouldn't matter to them where their son was spending the night -- also disturbed me, for Xander's sake. Cordelia moved to help us into the building as well, but Oz pulled her aside and spoke to her quietly for a few moments. All I could hear were quiet murmurings, but whatever he said seemed to be the right thing. Finally, she nodded and went back to the van.
Once inside, Oz just studied us for a moment. Measuring our stability. Really, *my* stability. Trying to decide if he should leave us alone or if he should stay. Finally, he just scrawled a few phone numbers on a piece of paper before softly saying, "Take care of him for us?" Then he left. Now I know he went back to the hospital to report back to Willow -- that Xander and I were alive and more or less safe, but nothing more. She never asked for details afterwards, and she never gazed at us with eyes clouded with concern caused by the knowledge of what happened, so I can only assume that neither Oz nor Cordelia shared any details. Yet another way in which Oz once again exceeded my expectations.
~~~~
"I need a shower."
The tiny voice startled me. "Xander, you're in no condition --"
"Please?" The questioning tone of his voice was what made me reconsider my refusal. As if he was unsure whether this was something that was appropriate for him to request. The fact that he wasn't sure if it was okay -- if he deserved a simple shower -- hit me in the gut. "Please, I need to get him off of me."
And that was it. He needed to feel clean as badly as I did. I gathered plastic bags and rubber bands to cover the cast on his arm before helping him to the bathroom and into the bathtub. Gently, I poured warm water over his hair and skin, carefully soaping away the dirt, blood, tears, and semen, rinsing the evidence of his ordeal down the drain. "So that's why you always smell like tea." I gazed at him, surprised that he noticed how I smelled. And that he remembered it through the haze of pain and humiliation. "I like this stuff. What is it?"
The shower gel. "Bergamot shower gel. From the Body Shop."
"Smells nice." He was silent for a few minutes. "Sing to me?" I turned to look at his face, startled. "Or tell me a story? I missed your voice. I don't want to talk, but I want to listen to you." Then he blinked, clearing away whatever image he had in his head. "Oh, but you probably want a shower now. Never mind." Slowly, carefully, he eased himself out of the tub, grasping my arm to steady himself. I handed him towels. Instead of drying off and leaving, though, he closed the toilet lid and sat down. "But can I stay in here with you? I want to hear you. Make sure you don't leave. I know you won't, but..."
Stunned, I nodded my assent. Honestly, it made sense, but I was amazed that he actually articulated it. I quickly stripped, climbed into the tub, and pulled the curtain. I was glad I had purchased a clear curtain. He could see me through it. I remembered a kitten I had years earlier. I had to buy new shower curtains every month until I finally bought a clear one. He would sit on the toilet and slash at the curtain, tearing holes so he could see me. He hated to be alone, too. Once I got that clear curtain, though, he would just sit there and watch me through the curtain, occasionally sadly mewing at me. I would tell him everything was okay, that I was right there, and he would quiet down. And then he grew up and no longer needed reassurance.
"Sing for me?" Again, that tiny, forlorn voice.
So I sang. "Sweet Jane," "Lola," "Peg," "Last Train to Clarksville," highlights from _Hair_. Nothing seemed appropriate, so I just tried to think of the least inappropriate songs I could. Or the most wildly inappropriate. Somehow, I had never expected to be showering and singing "Manchester, England" to a seventeen-year-old boy who had just been tortured and raped by a vampire. And it worked. By the time I turned off the water and stepped out, he was leaning back against the toilet tank, eyes closed, soft smile on his face.
But the silence jarred him out of his peace, and sadness descended once again. "You're done?" I nodded. He silently handed me a towel and limped out of the bathroom, leaning against the counter and wall as he made his way out. I felt my heart lurch with every step he took. But he finally made it to the bed. I pulled out t-shirts and boxers, handing him a set and pulling on my own. Then I turned to leave him alone. The last thing he needed was someone hovering over him all night. He needed peace and sleep.
Or so I thought. "Where are you going?" That small, sad voice again.
My plans changed in that instant. I had intended to sleep on the couch. He deserved the bed more than I did, after all. But those four words told me that he was not in any condition to be left alone. "I'm going to get you some water and aspirin. Then I'll be right back. All right?" He nodded.
When I returned, he was huddled under the blankets, murmuring, "He'll be right back. He just went for some aspirin. He'll be right back. He wouldn't leave." When I sat down on the edge of the bed, he jolted upright, eyes dashing wildly around the room. When they finally settled on me, he launched himself at my chest and inhaled deeply. He had left the clothing on the end of the bed before climbing in, so, much to my surprise, I was embracing a naked person. It was a bit of a relief to realize that I thought of him as a *person*, not a victim of an attack. "Giles. You came back."
"Yes." Quietly, like he was a scared puppy that would be frightened by loud noises. And with those eyes, he was. "Yes, I'm back." I held his head to my chest, stroking his silky hair and wiping his tears away.
"Giles?" He pulled away from my chest, leaning back to look me in the eye. "I --"
And then he kissed me.
If it had been a desperate, grasping kiss, I don't think anything more would have happened. I would have pushed him gently back, calmly explained that he was just having these feelings for me because I happened to be the one with him right at that moment when he was feeling relief because he was away from the mansion, clean, and tucked in a bed with nice, clean sheets.
But it wasn't like that.
It was soft and sweet and gentle and cleansing. I thought of a cool rain on a lazy Saturday morning after an extended heat wave left everything parched and miserable. The kind where you just open the windows to let the air run through the house and kick back with a book and a cup of tea while the rain washes all the pollen and pollution out of the air.
The kind that showed that the person initiating the kiss was not dead inside. That they still care about something.
He blinked quickly, more fluttering than blinking. "Giles would you, um, go, um, inside me?"
My heart stopped. That was the last thing he needed. "Xander, you're in no condition --"
He squeezed his eyes shut. "After seeing me like that, you'll never be able to see me any other way again. I understand." Now his eyes opened, and they shimmered with tears. "I can't blame you. Damaged goods and all."
I pulled him back to my chest. "Yes, damaged, but not the way you think." How on earth could I explain this to him when I myself didn't understand? True, I didn't want to take advantage of him in that state, but that wasn't all. Because the truth was that I *did* want him. "Xander, look at me." When he hesitated, I carefully cradled his head in my hand and forced him to look at me. "You're physically damaged. That is all. You have injuries that need time to heal and mend themselves. I want you to heal, and that is not something that will help." And I didn't want to be someone he turned to in a moment of panic in an attempt to find solace after his ordeal.
He sighed, pulling his eyes from mine. "I need you." A whisper so faint that I would never have heard it if his mouth hadn't been so near my ear.
"So do it to me." The words were out of my mouth before I had a chance to think about them. "Whatever he did to you, do to me."
"I can't." Now he pulled away. "That's too much hate. I don't want to feel that."
The shock was back. Even after everything he had been through, he still kept his kind nature. "So do what you want me to do to you." He froze. And then complied.
I wanted it to be horrible and brutal and terrifying. I wanted to experience everything he did on that table. But that is not what happened. I could give page after page of detail, but that would not be respectful of him, and this has gone on far too long already. But I will say this: He continues to amaze me every day. Yes, he tends to cling a bit more desperately than people who have not gone through the things he did. But so do I. I am terrified that some day, he will be gone. Not that he will decide to move on and find someone better. That would be fine with me, as long as he really *did* find someone better and not just someone else. He deserves more than just someone to share a bed with. And as long as he's with me, that is precisely what he will get. A protector, a confidante, a security blanket. What I *am* afraid of is some*thing* taking him away. From me, from the rest of the group, from this world. But that is why we are here. To stop the some*thing*s from taking our loved ones away from us. Now I think I understand Buffy's struggle a bit more clearly.
I suppose we do owe Angelus a word of thanks. If he hadn't kidnapped us that night, we would never have had the need to lower our defenses to each other like we did that night. But he did, and we did. And we are both better people for it.
But he is never getting that thank-you.
~~~ the end ~~~