Title: Crack
Authoresses: Robin the Crossover Junkie and Spiffy Da Wondersheep
Rating: PG-13, maybe a little R
Pairing: Angel/Wesley, a little Angelus/Wesley, but not in a good way.
Warnings: Torture, abuse, mention of rape, angst...the usual.
Disclaimer: We own not the events of Angel the Series, nor the characters that have ever appeared on said series. We own this story, and that is all, so please be nice about said story, and ask us before you steal it and take credit for it, though heaven knows why you would want to.
Dedication: To James Chick, for showing Robin the decidedly racy image that inspired this fic, even though it basically has nothing to do with anything except that it had assless leather chaps in it, and the model’s ass just looked like it was begging to be spanked.
~Robin’s notes: This didn’t turn out the way I wanted it to. I wanted it to be long, and expository, and good, and it was short, and only just barely a little insightful, and not good. Because of this, I handed it over to Spiffy, who tore apart and rebuilt the first half, creating a peice that neither of us hated. Which is always a good thing.
~Spiffy’s notes: What the hell? Are you Martha Stewart now?
~Robin’s notes 2: No, because I can’t bake a quiche.
~Spiffy’s notes 2: Amateur.
~Spiffy’s notes 3: And thanks to Jason for making me the twisted fucker I am so I can write crap like this.
~Robin’s notes 3: *beats up on Jason*
Crack.
Screaming was useless. He’d run out of tears, the Powers only knew how long ago. Begging for mercy brought forth only chuckles of amusement and the whip down harder on his torn, ragged flesh. He couldn’t feel it anymore, but he could hear it, and winced with the knowledge what each stroke was doing to his body.
Crack.
He’d tried to be strong, to take the pain like a man, or specifically, the man his father told him to be, would take it. That lasted for maybe the first twenty minutes. It was the waiting period between the blows, the long seconds waiting for the lash to connect with his skin, to shoot pain throughout his entire body. The physical pain matched, but did not surpass, his mental anguish. He tried desperately hard to forget that once again, he had been terribly wrong, and that this time it had cost him a great deal more than his friends, or his pride. That pain tore open his soul more than the whip flayed his skin.
Crack.
He had been so sure, completely positive in the grim way he had adopted for himself. This was a different type of cockiness than he’d come across the Atlantic with, but it was still related. He had underestimated the intelligence of his enemy, overestimated his own, and allowed himself a moment of serenity to rejoice in that victory.
Crack.
He'd been more than sure they were safe. All white hats. He knew them all. Or at least he thought he did. If anything, he was the one who really needed redemption. He’d done all sorts of unspeakably evil things in the past year. Most recently, Lilah. He, of all people, should have known that the demons you fear weren’t the ones with horns and slime dripping off of them, but the ones behind the eyes of friends. The ones you couldn't see at first glance. The ones that were the most dangerous.
Crack.
In a hotel full of secrets, one more had been revealed to him. A priest's hole, in Angel’s apartment. He'd been looking for Angelus, for anyone who wasn't dead. Like Lilah... Well, no matter what evil she’d perpetrated, their job was to protect life. He’d walked in, and then there was blackness.
Crack.
He’d awakened, tied up, immobile, face pressed to the wall. He could see out the small hole, probably behind that painting of Bottichelli’s Madonna Angel had in there. His mouth was taped shut, so he couldn’t scream. Couldn’t warn the others, those he’d once called friend and love interest, though their roles had reversed more recently before being obliterated, as they were lured in.
Crack.
It galled him to admit it, even to himself, even as he was being slowly beaten to death in penance for past sins, but Lorne had gotten off easy. Simple beheading and dismemberment. Connor, though, he’d figured something was amiss and had tried to stop Angelus. A bloody handprint on the window sash bore mute testimony to his fate.
Crack.
Gunn and Fred. Wesley didn’t want to think about them, but he forced himself to, like he’d forced himself watch every single second of what Angelus did to her. To him. Gunn tried to close his eyes, but he could still hear. When she’d awakened, straddled him, he knew his fate, but he still tried to fight his way free of the chains. It didn’t help. Another night, and Angelus sent his two newest childer out into the streets, to "bring that bitch Cordelia back here so I can thank her properly."
Crack.
That was when he’d been pulled out of the cubby hole. Angelus had thrown him in the bathtub, cleaned him where he’d fouled himself during those days of confinement. He force-fed him food and water, combed his hair, placed his glasses carefully on his nose even though Wesley himself barely thought to do as much these days. Those brown eyes, so merry, so cold, had asked him if he was tired. Before he got an answer, he’d taken Wesley to the bed, and right as he was about to fall asleep, had taken him.
Crack.
It was strange, being where he was, and yet being of fairly sound mind, able to think back on the last few days with something akin to detachment. He was being kept alive, tortured and tormented, for more than one reason. He hadn’t figured it out until quite recently, but it was true nonetheless. Angelus loved him.
Crack.
Perhaps love was too strong a term for the feelings Angelus had. Gratitude for the suggestion of removing Angel’s soul so they could learn more about the Beast. Respect for kidnapping Angel’s own baby what seemed like a lifetime ago but was really only closing in on a year. Angel’s own feelings toward him, however, were the main offense that had prompted Angelus’ actions during the past few days.
Crack.
Wesley hadn’t known. If he had known, things in his life would have been much different. If Wesley had known that Angel was in love with him, as much as Angel could be in love with anybody that wasn’t a small-framed blonde with a penchant for fighting in graveyards, his life would be different.
Crack.
For starters, he wouldn’t be here. Mostly because if Wesley had known Angel was in love with him, Wesley would never have let him go. He would have been more open with Angel about the prophecies regarding Connor. He would have remained within the group, rather than being pushed to the outside to watch on in jealous fascination. He never would have had to pull Angel from the bottom of the ocean, though he would still do it in a heartbeat, because Angel never would have been at the bottom of the ocean. And he never would have let Angel give up his soul, even temporarily, and give Angelus the chance to throw his and Angel’s feelings in his face.
Crack.
And wasn’t that a difficult pill to choke down? That anything he felt or could have felt for one of the few in the world who couldn’t afford the cost of returning those feelings was not only launched back in his face with relish, but that he hadn’t realized those feelings until he was tormented because of them? That he hadn’t known he was loved by Angel, or that he could love Angel back, until it was too late, and he was already being punished for the fact?
Crack.
That Angel wasn’t coming back?
Crack.
There were so many things he knew without understanding, that he understood without knowing. He knew that Angelus hated him, as much as Angel loved him, and yet at the same time, loved him himself. He understood that things had to be a certain way, and that while he had thought he was paying his penance for past transgressions by being exiled from his friends, his family, that he hadn’t been punished at all. Until now.
Crack.
It wasn’t the whipping, although that was painful and nearly impossible to bear, that was his punishment. It wasn’t even the infrequent but existent rape that Angelus had subjected him to.
Crack.
The sound of the whip wasn’t even particularly loud in comparison with the roaring in his ears. Angelus’ malicious chuckling and interjected comments were harmless buzzing in his mind. All he could think of was what he had lost, what had been replaced with this monster. Angelus was as cruel as Angel had been righteous. Angelus wore his counterpart’s face with relish because he knew, he knew what seeing those brown eyes dance with fire, what seeing those cupid’s bow lips sneer in ill-gotten pleasure, did to Wesley.
Crack.
Seeing the face of the one he would have loved if only he’d known he was allowed to love him, but knowing it was more the face of a monster than the face of the one who loved him, was more pressure than Wesley thought he could bear.
Crack.
It was pressing down on him.
Crack.
It was too much.
Crack.
Wesley could feel himself starting to break, to crack, with the snap of the whip a dull echo of the sound of his spirit, his heart, beginning to split roughly inside him.
Crack.
Wesley knew that each passing second drew him nearer to what he wanted nothing more in the world never to be.
Crack.
Broken.
Crack.
Cracked.
Crack.
END
