stilljustandrew | [Detroit!AU: the first to come was a fair maid]

Entry tags:

au,
detroit au

[Detroit!AU: the first to come was a fair maid]

Jonathan's vision was pretty well unmistakable. Gabriel's in danger, and doesn't know it -- or at least doesn't know the specifics.

That would be enough on its own, even if Andrew didn't more or less owe him his life.

Gabriel's nowhere to be seen at Milliways, and no one seems to have run into him in the past couple of days. Well, and that's normal enough; there's no reason he'd be here all the time, and plenty of reason to make himself scarce, all things considered. Maybe he's just back home.

Please just let this not be too late.

Andrew writes out a note at the bar giving Jonathan's vision in as much detail as he can, folds it carefully in quarters, and writes "The Trickster (G.)" on the outside.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Andrew staggers and nearly falls, stumbling a few steps back to keep his balance; he stays there, half bent forward and breathing hard like he's run a race.

Stubborn as Sam Winchester was.

He's not. He knows he's not. But he can try to be.

And he doesn't for a moment think that he'll be able to hold out where Sam didn't. Not forever. Not for good. And chances are pretty low that anybody's going to be able (or, let's face facts, willing to take the risk) to come and rescue him. Lucifer's right: he's going to say yes eventually.

So all there is ... is to see how long he can make it take.

Andrew straightens as best he can, and waits for Meg to appear.

It's a matter of seconds, and not many of them, before the door to the hall bursts open.

She doesn't even bother glancing at Andrew; her focus is all for Lucifer.

"You called for me?"

He clasps his hands behind his back and smiles warmly at her.

"I did." He flicks a glance at Andrew, then back to Meg.

"Tend to our ... guest. As we discussed."

"Of course," she assures him, and turns a sharp smile on Andrew.

"I'll be delighted to."

This will be bad.

His arm abruptly twinges, hard, where a knife went into it some years back.

Lucifer smiles.

"Good."

He glances at Andrew.

"We'll talk again. Soon."

"Hey, don't rush on my account."

The words are flippant. The tone isn't: a whisper like a guttering candle wick, struggling to draw the last of its wax, struggling to stay alight just a little longer.

He laughs, very softly, and walks out of the room -- touching a casual hand on Meg's shoulder and running it down her arm as he goes.

She looks after him, then turns her full attention to Andrew.

"Oh, we're going to have fun, Wells. I can't wait to get started."

He swallows.

"Till your daddy takes your T-bird away?"

(It's an only slightly better attempt at bravado than the last thing he said.)

She shrugs, smiling.

"Something like that."

A beat.

"Guess we're gonna have to make the most of the time we've got while it lasts, right?"

Meg claps her hands sharply together, and three guards promptly enter the room in response to her summons.

"Take him downstairs," she orders.

He could try to run, but they'd just catch him.

He folds his arms loosely across his midsection, and looks away.

This will be bad.

The guards muscle him out of the room, down a flight of stairs into a short, ill-lit corridor, and into the middle of another room.

Meg leaves them at the top of the stairs. It's only after the guards get him to the center of the cell that she arrives, carrying a cardboard box.

She crouches down, setting it on the floor, and starts to open it, then glances over at them.

"Why is he still on his feet?"

This time when he tries to brace against being forced down, it's not so much with any hope of staying upright as with some thought of making them at least have to work at it.

They don't, much. This time the shove is accompanied by a casually brutal blow to the kidneys, and his knees buckle without any further encouragement at all.

He swallows bile and keeps his eyes on the box.

The first thing she lays out is a set of wrist cuffs.

Then a collar, and a metal chain.

Finally, Meg picks up a smaller box that's labeled as being from a medical supply shop, and turns to pin him with a look.

"I remember your little trick last time. With that Dvasha bitch."

The gloves she lifts from the box are specially designed, with metal-braced foam splints to separate and immobilize each finger.

"Don't think you'll be pulling that one again."

She adds a roll of duct tape, and smiles.

The cuffs and collar are disturbing, but (he tells himself) not that bad. No worse than things already are.

But the sight of the immobilizing gloves strikes a deep chill into him, splintering what's left of his composure; involuntarily, he tries to draw back, tries to pull his hands protectively to his chest.

"Don't like that, do you?"

She flicks a glance at the guards. One moves up behind him, grabbing him with one arm under each of his, then up and around his shoulders in an immobilizing armlock, the demon's hands clasped behind Andrew's neck. The other two move to his sides, one reaching for each of Andrew's arms.

"Too bad," Meg says, walking toward him. "You're going to wear them. But because I'm feeling nice right now, I'll give you the chance to let me slide them on your hands without fighting. Because if you do fight me, you'll still be wearing them, but I'll break each one of your fingers first."

His indrawn breath shakes, audibly.

(there's no profit in trying my patience, Andrew)

It's not about agreeing to work for Lucifer. It's not something he has to resist. It's not a battle he needs to fight.

Fight them anyway, one inner voice urges. Don't make anything easier for them. Don't get in the habit of saying yes.

Save the resistance for when it matters, urges another.

He feels cold, and vanishingly small.

"Okay," he whispers finally, closing his eyes. "Okay, I won't."

"Good boy," she coos.

Meg closes the distance between them, tucks one of the gloves under her arm, and holds the other in one hand as she reaches for his right wrist.

He lets her take his wrist, and holds obediently still.

After a moment he swallows again, and opens his eyes to watch the process.

She's fairly deft at it; either she's practiced in preparation, or she's done this before.

Meg finds a pressure point at the juncture of his wrist and palm and bears down on it hard as she flattens his hand into the glove, laying each finger into its individual channel and squeezing the splint closed around.

A doctor would add a velcro strip and stop there, but Meg wraps duct tape firmly around wrist and fingers until his hand is completely immobilized, then smiles into his eyes.

"There." Beat. "That's one."

That smile crawls over his skin, and he shuts his eyes against it.

And then forces them open again as she takes hold of his other hand.

He's got to watch what she's doing. He's got to know how this goes together, in case -- in case there's any chance, later --

There won't be and he knows it.

He watches anyway.

She repeats the process on his left hand, then tosses the duct tape back into the cardboard box and steps back to admire her work.

"Very good."

Her glance meets his.

"You're awfully quiet, Andy. What's the matter, cat got your tongue?"

Andrew swallows.

Barely audible: "I don't have anything to say to you."

"Not yet, maybe," she says, sweetly, then nods to the guards.

"Boys, I think you can handle the rest of this. Entertain him while I go see to our other guest."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject