HAPPY BIRTHDAY cupidandpsycho . Here's a wee bit of Becker!breakage for you.
Pairing/characters: Becker, Wilder, Lester (Becker/Lester implied)
Warnings: Rape, violence, language.
Disclaimer: Not mine. ITV and Impossible Pictures own them.
Word count: approx 2500
Summary: A little AU if 3.6 had ended differently. Follows on from Lester’s Man
AN: Birthday fic for cupidandpsycho. And just for the record, Fakey is the only person on my f-list who has got me to write rape fic. Twice!
“I’m going to ask you one last time. Where. Is. Lester?”
Becker glared back across the table at Wilder with his one remaining good eye. He spat blood before he replied.
“I’m going to tell you one last time. I. Don’t. Know.”
Wilder walked casually around the table to stand in front of him, and punched him again. Another flash of pain rippled down the left side of his face, and Becker’s vision blurred for a moment, his head spinning. He closed his eye briefly, until the dizziness passed and the pain ebbed. It was a familiar routine by now. As was the silent litany in his head; Don’t make a sound. Don’t make a fucking sound. Eventually, satisfied that he hadn’t given any indication of being affected at all, he focussed on Wilder and spat blood at him.
Wilder glanced disdainfully down at the gob of blood that had landed in front of his feet. “I can keep doing this all day,” he said in an almost conversational tone of voice.
“So can I.”
Becker suspected his response was rather marred by the fact that he was now lisping quite badly. He’d lost at least one tooth and he was no longer sure whether most of the blood was coming from his gum or his lip. The left side of his face was now so badly swollen he couldn’t open his eye any more. Not that there was much to look at, even if he could see properly. Just four blank walls, a locked door, and Captain Wilder.
“We know you’ve been communicating with him. We’ve intercepted your little messages.”
“So why don’t you go find him yourself, then?”
Wilder’s fist twitched, and Becker shifted on his chair to sit up as straight as his cuffed wrists would let him. He wondered idly if Wilder had any inkling that he was meant to have intercepted some of those messages, that Becker had sent so many decoy messages and false trails with no real hope of them reaching Lester in order to disguise the ones that he did intend to reach him. The fact that they now appeared to have lost track of Lester entirely gave Becker some grim satisfaction that his efforts had not been useless.
He was worried about what had happened to Lester, though. The fact that he had apparently felt the need to disappear was probably an indication of how bad things had got outside of the ARC as well as inside it. Becker assumed Danny and the rest of the team were still on the run somewhere, although his only evidence for that was merely the fact that they hadn’t been brought to the ARC and Christine was still searching for the artefact. He suddenly realised Wilder was talking again, and dragged his attention back, for all the good it would do him.
“You’re not a stupid man, Becker. You must know you’re backing the wrong side now. Lester has lost. He’ll never come back here. And it’s only a matter of time before we find Quinn and the others.”
“And yet you apparently can’t find any of them without my help. If you want to find the stupid man in this room, go look in a mirror.”
Becker had a second to brace himself before Wilder’s fist slammed into his stomach. He instinctively curled up until he was brought to a sharp stop by the cuffs. Another punch to the face a moment later was in no way a surprise, although Becker was left gasping for breath and aware of fresh blood running from his nose.
“I’m giving you the chance to co-operate now. The alternative is you getting thrown into prison for treason with the lot of them when we find them. I’m trying to do you a favour.”
“Aww, Captain, I didn’t know you cared,” Becker said with as much sarcasm as he could muster.
“Fine,” Wilder sighed as if he had just become extremely bored of the entire conversation. “Have it your way.”
He walked round behind the chair and Becker heard a snap as something cut through the cable tie which was attaching the cuffs to the back of the chair. Before he could move, though, Wilder tipped the chair sideways, spilling Becker onto the floor. He tried to move, but with his hands still cuffed behind his back he had barely managed to wriggle onto his side before Wilder’s boot slammed into his stomach. For the second time in as many minutes Becker curled up to protect himself, but this time the assault didn’t stop. Kicks landed in his side, his back, kidneys, arms, legs. A particularly hard stamp came down on his ankle. Becker noted that his head and face were being spared this time, no doubt because Wilder wanted him to remain conscious, and that was bad news because it meant he had something else planned.
Do not make a sound. Don’t give the fucker the satisfaction. Do. Not. Respond.
Becker was focussing so hard on that one thought that he almost didn’t realise when the attack stopped. Everything hurt. Everything. He breathed in and a sharp pain in his back cut the breath short. There goes another fucking rib, he thought grimly. Without warning, Wilder got hold of the cuffs and dragged him to his feet by the wrists. Becker scrambled to get his feet under him before his shoulders were wrenched too badly, but before he could stand up straight Wilder propelled him into the edge of the table and shoved him to bend over it, his face pressed hard against the metal surface.
Becker had known this was coming. Known it from the moment Wilder had brought him into this room, just the two of them, one lone guard outside the door. All the questions were nothing more than an excuse, and they both knew it. He closed his eye as Wilder reached round and undid his trousers and dragged them down. Becker tensed, for a moment almost bracing to push himself upright and fight back. The thought of head-butting Wilder and smashing his nose in flitted through his mind, the thought that he had to at least try to stop this from happening again. Then Wilder rammed an elbow into the newly broken rib, and all thoughts were driven from Becker’s mind in a fresh wave of pain. He couldn’t stop a sharp hiss escaping his lips, and knew in that second that he had lost. Again.
“That’s it,” Wilder sneered as he held Becker down with a hand still gripping the cuffs. “Cry. Whimper. Call out for Lester. Give in.”
Becker bit back another hiss when Wilder entered him, hard and unlubricated as ever. He pressed the right side of his face against the table and concentrated on breathing through his mouth as blood continued to flow from his nose. This was almost routine now. He had trained his mind to focus on something else, to not think at all about what was happening to him until it was over. It was the only way he had been able to deal with the last few weeks under Christine’s regime. This time, though, it was harder than ever to block it out completely. Maybe it was because of all his other injuries, maybe it was because this time it wasn’t a quick assault in the locker room or the shower, it was an orchestrated and prolonged attack in private. Becker was no longer certain how far Wilder would go, and where this would end, and despite all his bravado there was a tiny knot of fear building deep within him.
“Where’s Lester?” Wilder demanded as he thrust hard, catching a barely heal tear from some previous occasion.
Becker bit back any sound, accidentally swallowing blood as he did so. He felt a sudden wave of nausea, and wasn’t sure if it was because of the sick taste of blood or because of the pain and blood loss.
“Tell me where he is, and you might be able to stand up again in a week, instead of a month.”
Like that was even a threat any more. Wilder was oddly uncreative in his methods, but then, maybe it was the sheer repetitiveness that made them effective. Becker didn’t want to admit that he didn’t know how much longer he could take any of this, and the knot of fear was joined by a choking great lump of guilt and hate for his cowardice.
Somewhere behind them Becker thought he heard something outside in the corridor, and then the door opening. Fucking great, now there was an audience as well. He prayed it wasn’t Christine.
“I said to wait outside,” Wilder snapped, not even breaking rhythm. Apparently without waiting for a response, he directed his attention back to Becker. “One last time, Pretty Boy, where is Lester?”
“Right behind you,” said a third voice in the room.
Becker’s eye snapped open but he still couldn’t move. He was hearing things. He had to be. But he knew that voice, even if he’d never heard such a hard, angry edge to it before. Wilder pulled out of him and a second later Becker heard a gunshot. Wilder staggered back into him, and his sudden weight pressing down on Becker’s prone body was enough to drag another grunt of pain from him. Another two gunshots rang out in quick succession, almost painfully loud in the small room. He felt Wilder slump down to the ground behind him, and a moment later Wilder started to yell and scream. Becker forced himself to stand, ignoring all the sharp jarring pains that movement brought, ignoring the sudden light-headed feeling, and he turned around.
Lester was standing just inside the doorway aiming a pistol at Wilder. His eyes held an anger that Becker hadn’t known the civil servant was capable of. Becker glanced down at Wilder and realised there was blood spreading on his shoulder, and also on both knees. Becker edged away carefully, using the table to support himself. Through the open doorway he could hear the sounds of distant fighting in the ARC building.
Becker suddenly became very aware of the fact that his trousers and boxer shorts were still hanging around his knees. With his hands still cuffed there was very little he could do about it, though, short of a lot of awkward wriggling, and he wasn’t sure his body was up to that right then. Either way, it was about the most undignified way he could possibly imagine to reunite with Lester after all this time.
He drew himself as upright as his injuries would allow, and very slightly nodded a greeting.
“Captain,” Lester replied. He didn’t even look at Becker, his fury still directed at the yelling soldier on the floor.
Becker’s gut clenched. Was Lester disappointed with him? Disgusted at what he’d seen when he walked in? He opened his mouth with no idea what he was going to say, and then the world abruptly tilted sideways. Becker was unconscious before he even hit the floor.
The first thing Becker became aware of when he woke up was the faint chemical smell he associated with hospitals. The second was that he was in considerably less pain than he remembered from earlier.
He forced his right eye open, dimly aware that that the left one was still swollen shut. It took him a moment to recognise the ARC infirmary; he wasn’t used to seeing the room from this angle, and the lights weren’t usually this dim.
Becker turned his head and saw Lester sitting at his side. His first impression was that Lester looked very, very tired. The jacket and tie were gone, and the top two buttons of his rumpled shirt were hanging open.
Curtains were drawn most of the way round the bed, but Becker still had no idea what the situation was, or whether anyone else was nearby.
“I think we can dispense with the formalities,” Lester said in a quiet voice. “How do you feel?”
There was no honest answer to that which Lester would actually want to hear, so Becker opted for, “Better, thanks.”
“I think you should make a mental note to not try lying when high on morphine,” Lester commented. “That was even less convincing than Temple’s excuses for unfinished reports.”
Becker glanced up and noticed a couple of bags hanging above and to the side, one filled with a clear fluid, one filled with blood. At the same time he became aware of various tubes and wires attached to his body.
“Overkill for a few cuts and bruises,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant as he eyed the IV line going into his arm.
Lester’s eye roll was almost as unconvincing as his own lie had been. Becker was awake and alert enough now to recognise that it wasn’t just exhaustion in Lester’s eyes. Lester had been worried about him. Scared, even. Becker wondered just how badly hurt he really was.
“It’s a little more than a few cuts and bruises,” Lester said softly. His hand abruptly jerked in mid air, as if he had been in the motion of reaching out and then stopped himself. Becker turned away, not wanting to acknowledge that Lester couldn’t even bring himself to touch him after what he’d seen. A moment later, though, he felt long thin fingers delicately brushing his hair away from his battered face. “Honestly, I’ve never seen it so messed up,” Lester commented. When Becker looked back and caught the gentle amusement in Lester’s eye his stomach flipped again, but this time in a good way.
“Whatever you’re thinking, stop it,” Lester said. “And whatever you want to say can wait. It was all I could do to get the doctor to allow you to stay here instead of shipping you off to a proper hospital. The price of that allowance is you staying in here until the doctor says you’re fit, I’m afraid.”
A thousand questions were jostling for attention now that Becker was fully awake, but he held them back and simply nodded.
“Then, once you are discharged I am taking you home, and then we can talk. Or not, if you’d prefer.” Lester looked momentarily awkward but his eyes never left Becker.
“You don’t have to. I can look after myself.” He tried to hide the bitterness in his voice. Great, now Lester thought he was just some wimp who needed mollycoddling. Any conversations from now on were just going to skirt around the huge fucking elephant in the room. Becker didn’t even know whether he did want to talk about what happened over the last few weeks. Would Lester want to know the full details? Would he care?
“I told you to stop thinking,” Lester admonished. His hand slipped carefully over Becker’s and stayed there. “And yes, I do have to.” He leaned closer and gave Becker a tiny smile. “You’re about the only thing that made this place worth coming back to.”