Demons: Part Six
Disclaimer: Let me remind you all once again that, as hard as it is to believe, the characters and rights to the West Wing, don't belong to me. They belong to the God we call Sorkin, and the devilish PTBs that I affectionately call NaBisCo. However, if in some fit of generosity and kindness, either one of these deities were to offer me ownership of a certain boyishly charming Sam Seaborn, I would definitely be inclined to accept. J
Author's Note: Dumdeedumdum. DumdeedumdumDUM! Yes boys and girls, it's that time again, so let me remind you that this fic is indeed rated a big fat R, and those of you who find that particular letter offensive can leave now and forever hold your peace. :) God I ramble too much.
Unknown Location #2 Tuesday, 5:23 PM
Still curled in the fetal position, his body wracked with tremors and his eyes squeezed shut against the demons that haunted him, the dark-haired boyishly good-looking man didn't even notice the entrance of his tormentor. A low keening note escaped from between clenched teeth as another seizure caused his muscles to spasm erratically. His neck arched back, his head snapping with a whiplash effect and his throat worked convulsively, struggling to keep oxygen flowing to his starving lungs.
Standing in the doorway, Mathew Cruz watched his prisoner with a feral look in his eyes, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. Sick pleasure coursed through his body as he watched the other man suffering and for the first time since he had heard of his brother's death, he felt strangely at peace. Retribution was finally being paid. His brother was getting his revenge.
Cruz, known as "Matty" to his dear old mother, entered the room and shut the door behind him quietly. The man on the floor was rendered prone by several severe injuries dealt to him over the past day and night, but Mathew knew that the powerful drug, even now racing through his system, might give him some burst of adrenaline. There was no telling what the drugged man would be capable of in his fevered state, and Mathew was taking no chances. His plan was too perfect and was working out too satisfactorily to suffer any setbacks now. He wouldn't allow it.
"Well Mr. Seaborn, it's time for your treatments now," he called in a saccharine sweet voice. He advanced slowly and watched with half-lidded eyes as the other man became aware of his presence and began to tremble more violently. Good - he was responding just as he had hoped. Sam Seaborn was on his way to being broken completely.
Coming to the White House staffer's side, Cruz slid the tip of his booted foot under the other man's ribs and kicked upwards. The injured man arched upwards and landed back down on his back, his limbs flailing. His blue eyes were open wide now, a wild, edgy look in their depths which was evident even under the glazed film that covered them
Mathew sat his suitcase down next to Sam's head and opened the latches, the noise of the metal opening echoing in the deadly silent room. Seaborn had frozen where he lay, even his tremors halting, as he stared, terrified at the case. He knew what was in it, and what was in store for him. The horror in the clear blue eyes caused Cruz's smile to widen.
Gently he opened his case and considered its contents. Up until now he had been using a mix of several standard drugs, and their results were satisfactory, if not better. But he felt the need to raise the stakes a little. He wanted to have a little more fun before he finished the game. He reached in and extracted a vial of a clear liquid and his eyes gleamed as he extracted a syringe.
"I'm sorry Mr. Seaborn, but your current medication isn't having the desired effects, so we're going to be trying something new today." He knew his prisoner could register and understand what he was saying, and the insanity of the game he played with the other man's mind made the experience all the more fun. This had started out as simple vengeance, but Cruz was really starting to enjoy his work.
He drew the drug into the syringe and reached forward for Seaborn's tanned arm. He gently injected the substance into the other man's blood stream as he allowed his gaze to travel over his prisoner's body. The simple white tank top that he wore was ripped, dirty and stained with blood, and the expensive blue snap-up workout pants could definitely never be worn again. His gaze traveled back up to the Seaborn's face and as he took in his pain-twisted features, he began to reconsider his goals.
'Maybe I won't kill him,' he thought absently as he withdrew the needle. 'Maybe this will have more of an effect if I destroy his mind and his spirit and leave him for his friends to find. They won't be able to handle him being so broken and they'll wish I had killed him instead. And then they'll hate themselves for it.' His thoughts trailed off and he nodded absent-mindedly. 'Yes, that sounds very good.'
He repacked his suitcase and closed it up, casting one last glance at the man beside him. He felt no remorse for what he was doing. Sam Seaborn was a government man, and even if he hadn't been the one to decide to end Simon's life, he still worked for the man that had, and in Mathew's book that said he deserved whatever he got.
Cruz stood and left the room without a look back.
* * *
Excruciating pain raged through his mind and body, but he could do nothing to stop it. His muscles were paralyzed by whatever Cruz had injected him with and he couldn't move an inch. 'God please, let it stop. Make it stopÖ' His thoughts were a jumble aside from the constant mantra that his mind chanted silently over and over. 'Let it stop, please. Please, make it stop.'
He wished he were with his friends. He knew they might not consider him to be *their* friend, but they were all he had. Memories of late nights and take-out dinners came to him and he allowed them to blanket his mind and let him temporarily forget about all the pain. An image of CJ and Josh playfully bantering over a carton of sweet and pungent shrimp came to him in a flash. Then he saw Mrs. Landingham scolding the President about his language. He remembered countless arguments and word-battles that he had had with his boss and the memories would have made him smile if his face weren't already contorted in agony.
He fantasized about them dashing into the room to rescue him. CJ would be the calm presence, keeping him floored and rational. Josh would be the one that assured him that he had taken care of Cruz personally, and that the monster would never hurt him again. Leo would be there in all his authoritative glory, commanding the troops and creating a picture of stability and strength in a world of chaos. Even Toby would be there, offering cynical jokes to take his mind off things. And he would feel safe with him, because Toby was always there to look out for him and he was always protected when Toby was there.
But as his body came back to life and sudden mind-rending torment ripped through him, causing him to spasm again with renewed strength, a hoarse scream torn from his raw throat, his thoughts of safety and warmth were stolen from him. He had to face that his friends weren't with him and they might never be again. As he lay desperately trying to avoid the edge he was so close to teetering off of, he told himself that he was only dreaming. He was going to die in this cold room, alone, without anyone he cared about beside him.
The White House - Toby's Office Tuesday, 11:53 PM
Toby sat in his darkened office and stared unblinkingly at the speech he held in his hands. Sam had written it the day before he was taken and Toby remembered yelling at the other man for his flowery metaphors and softness. The speech was about gun control and at the time he had felt that the President needed to appear strong and stern about the issue. He had been so sure that a hard-handed and blunt speech was the way to go.
With a snarl he tossed the piece of paper away from him. It only served to remind him of his co-worker's absence. He had been working on a new draft of the document all day long, and the task had made him start to feel Sam's absence greatly.
He leaned back in his chair and reached up to tug at his ear in frustration. His underling - *his friend* - was out there somewhere hurt or worse, and *he* was trapped in his job, forced to write a speech for a President who was in no condition to appear in public anyway. The helplessness of the situation rattled him.
"Dammit it," he mumbled as he felt tears stinging his eyes again. He would never let anyone know it, but since the phone call the previous day, he had felt himself near tears more times than ever before in his life. And he didn't know why.
He told himself that it was because he was worried about Sam; everyone was. But deep down he knew it was something more. He knew it was because the younger man had somehow fought his way through all his long-established barriers and had attached himself permanently to Toby's heart. And he probably didnít even know that he had done it. Sam was oblivious to things like that.
So Toby found himself unable to sleep for the second night in a row, and now he was still in his office, alone to sort through the confusing thoughts and feelings that had reared their ugly heads during the past day. Because no matter how he tried to deny it and hide behind sharp comments and stinging barbs, he knew he cared deeply for Sam Seaborn. He was his surrogate little brother and it ripped him apart that he hadnít looked after him like a big brother should.
"Stay strong Sam," he whispered to the silent office. "Wherever you are, hold on. We haven't stopped looking for you and we won't. We'll find you, I promise."
Wearily he wrapped his arms around himself and bowed his head until his chin rested on his chest. And in the darkness he let the tears fall again.
END Part Six.