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bootsonFull Header/Warnings/AN/etc. HERE
Maybe this would be the one step too far but fuck that. The crunch of the trader's nose when Spencer's fist connected, the flow of blood soaking into his ratty collar; all of that was worth it. The guards were on him within seconds, pinning his arms back as fists connected with his torso and under his chin. There was a broken sound, something distant and with the tonality of being underwater. When Spencer's chest constricted, an extra ache, he realized he was laughing. Quite possibly, he had finally lost his mind.
"Fucking scum. Put him away. Little better than animals!" The trader was ranting, frantically gesturing with the hand unoccupied with clutching his nose. Bloody fingers gripped Spencer's face and he had just enough presence of mind to meet the man's eyes...and spit directly into the guy's fury-red face. His hold tightened until Spencer knew there would be bruises tomorrow. "You think you're so big now, don't you, little bit? Talk to me about your place in the fucking world tomorrow." He shoved roughly, enough force behind the gesture to land Spencer flat on his back if he hadn't been held up in the goons' thick hands.
It wasn't that the struggle had been knocked out of him, but there was no need to fight after that. Spencer dragged his feet, going as limp as possible while he was tugged toward the one cart that didn't carry supplies. He tilted his head back, studying the blue of the sky; Ryan would have had some poetic term for it and Brendon would have been trying to find shapes in the clouds. The sound of rusted iron dragging together brought Spencer back just before his clothes, little more than dirty rags, were being torn from him and he was thrown onto the rough wood bottom of the cart. There would be splinters; he didn't care.
The guards were jeering, muttering whatever insults they thought were necessary for Spencer's newest term in the cage. He'd long since stopped paying attention to them, only bothering with a response if they dared to touch him. Most of them did. These two must have grown bored with his lack of response because blissful silence finally surrounded him. No, that's an exaggeration. There was still the sound of people shuffling along, mumbled half-sentences meant for no one or only one other to hear, laughter in the distance because locking a slave in a cage was apparently quality fucking entertainment.
It shouldn't be, not when it was Spencer. He'd spent the majority of the past month on lock-down inside a space not meant for someone his height. Spencer had always had a problem with subservience. He'd been free once, free and spoiled until he was twelve and managed to end up in the wrong part of town at the wrong time of the evening. He learned to act, though.
Over the next several years, Spencer bounced around at least as many places; first as a house slave, then stables, field, back to the kitchen. All of them had been as similar as they were different, until the rules changed. He finally ended up on a sprawling estate owned by some shameless heir that had never liked being called "Master" and had insisted on "Saporta," even if they all still said it like a title. As far as owners went, he hadn't been the worst, hadn't been demanding and never whipped, hit, insulted, or locked any of them away. Regardless, Spencer had only learned to behave because that's where he met the others. They'd managed to stick together, forming a weird type of bond that was strange among slaves. That was a topic too maudlin for Spencer to focus on for long.
Suddenly, the caravan was moving. Or maybe it had been for a while. Spencer actually wasn't sure at this point; he was entirely too wrapped up in his own head. The road was rough, uneven land flattened purely due to use. The dust rose and the sun was setting. Spencer reasoned that it may have been a pretty scene, something out of one of Jon's sketches, if Spencer didn't have the bars at the top of the cage obstructing his view, his legs weren't already starting to cramp from being contorted in strange ways, and the old planks beneath him weren't so rough against his skin. Spencer shifted until he could hug his knees to his chest and hide his face. They'd stop eventually and be fed something barely substantial; Spencer would be lucky to get any water at this point. Maybe they'd leave him here to die. It would probably be better that way.
Things had been...not great because being owned was never nice, but they had been tolerable with Saporta. He'd been there for years, being bought only months after Ryan, a few years after Brendon. Jon hadn't even been a slave. There was something about debt and Saporta taking over his contract until Jon could pull himself out of servitude. That didn't matter when the tax enforcers came and seized everything at the estate. Saporta was extravagant, but no one had thought he was that far under. Novarro and Suarez, two men who worked with Saporta on whatever it was he did, had been there trying to find ways to pay off Saporta's supposed debts in a hurry, but all liquidated assets, slaves included, were gathered up until the issue was resolved.
Blackinton, Saporta’s household manager as far as Spencer could tell, tracked them all down in an auction house nearly a week later, trying to buy most of them back, or at least Jon who wasn't even supposed to be there, but they were already chained up with the caravan. Spencer only knew he'd been there because of Victoria, Gabe's free-woman housekeeper who was also mistakenly seized, was removed from a line of pleasure slaves. She'd nearly fallen to her knees from exhaustion but caught Spencer's eyes then Jon's with a look of promise as she mouthed Ryland and We'll come back.
Maybe they had; maybe they'd missed them; it didn't matter.
When Spencer looked up again, the sun was only visible by a pink stretch a light tinting the clouds on the horizon. He was nostalgic and that wouldn't do. That was the type of thing that got people killed. The caravan was still moving but a piece of lukewarm, wet cloth hit him squarely in the chest. Spencer was seriously slipping if people could sneak up on him. He glanced up to see a kid he thought might be named Alex but Spencer was under the impression that there were a lot of those so he was probably making it up.
"I don't know how much you'll be able to get from that," the boy shrugged. He had dark hair and haunted eyes which he tried to hide behind it. Spencer knew what caused that look so he didn't comment, only nodded as the kid disappeared quickly. He raised the cloth, wringing a tiny bit into his mouth to avoid sucking the water out, but had to resort to that and the dry mouth it would lead to. The kid's eyes wouldn't get out of his mind so Spencer pressed the mildly damp cloth to his neck and resumed hiding his face against his knees.
When he let his eyelids droop, he saw a similar look in a different set of brown eyes. Ryan had been like that; all pleasure slaves were after a while. He'd been lucky enough to see some light return to Ryan's at Saporta's, when he was allowed books and paper, ink, whatever he needed when they could come by it. He'd also been free once, though he wouldn't talk about it, but he'd managed to get some of that back while they were together and nearly, so close to free again.
Saporta really was a rare case. He had a bit of a thing for the arts and he let them all dabble when chores were finished, usually not bothering to care if they finished anything before playing. He'd bought Brendon specifically for his musical ability and Spencer didn't think Jon did more to work off his debts than play with pencils and kittens all day. Ryan wrote or he read, proofed things for Saporta. Spencer was the only one who didn't do anything artsy. Oh, sure, he'd bang around on drums whenever Novarro was around to okay it, but he was always working on something. Cleaning this, organizing that, mending clothes or porch steps.
Saporta had laughed at him once and only once, saying "Sit the fuck down, Spencer. Looking at you makes my head hurt." He'd given Saporta a look, a glare though he was loathe to call it that since Saporta owned him, but Saporta had waved a hand and sent him off to see if Victoria needed anything.
And now he was on his own, stuck in a caravan headed for an auction house or a trading center, some lowrate merchant square if the places they had been already were any indication. The rocking of the carriage stopped, sending Spencer lurching forward. He barely got a hand out to catch himself against the bars before his face connected with the hinges. There had been a time when Spencer would have wondered what it would take to work out the bolts there, pondered how much time he'd have in the night when the guards were groggy and paying more attention to their fires and their drinks than the disspirited slaves of the camp.
But that was before. Before Ryan and Jon had been sold, nearly a year ago now; Spencer was pretty sure they'd seen three seasons since then. At least, he reasoned, they were probably together and Jon would make sure Ryan wasn't left alone if he could manage it. It wasn't like where Spencer was, sitting behind thick bars with the night chill creeping up on him, with Brendon gone a little over a month before. Where ever he was, whatever he was being ordered to do, Spencer hoped he had music, hoped he was safe and not locked away with the dogs to fight for food like he had been before Saporta made a clever trade with his previous owner.
The horses were being unhooked, Spencer could hear the clink of metal and the soft thumps of hooves as they must have been led away for water or the graze or whatever.
The background noise was getting a little louder as some of the slaves fought halfheartedly amongst themselves for food Spencer wouldn't see. The air was growing colder and it was moist so there must be a lake nearby, the breezes didn't smell like the ocean. Spencer let the inarticulate sounds fill his head, imagined it had a tune like something Brendon may have played on the rickety upright or the sleek baby grand Saporta kept carefully tuned.
Somehow, tilted awkwardly against the rough bars and curled protectively into himself for warmth, Spencer must have slept. It was in fits and starts, but Spencer wasn't fully aware of anything until morning, the sun already bright. There was a guard peering in at him.
"You awake, pet? We were taking bets. Wondering if you'd died on us. Would have meant hell of a cut to our pay, but eh," he shrugged. His arms were impressive but he didn't seem tall or too broad; Spencer could have taken him down in a minute if his muscles weren't stiff from disuse and he wasn't bordering on being malnourished. "I think you're gone at our next round. Might have to rough you up. Scar up that pretty pale skin to throw you into a discount heap, but no one's going to mind much. Good riddance."
He leaned forward; Spencer didn't flinch or lean away. "You could have breakfast. But you have to promise me a return favor. So long as we don't break you, you're pretty much free game, pet."
Spencer stared at him, giving him the glare he never admitted having given Saporta, and said as clearly as his sleep roughened, dry throat would allow "Fuck. You." The guard laughed, starting to hand over what looked like a piece of flattened bread. Spencer didn't try to take it, it wasn't worth the effort.
"Fine. You change your mind and we'll see about keeping you alive. Those hips are looking a little thin, it's a pity."
After openly ogling Spencer's body for another moment, scars clearly visible on his legs and upper arms, the man wandered away. Spencer wasn't going to lower himself to a whore; it was different when the slaves were forced into it. Given a choice, he wasn't going to let it happen. If he starved, so be it.
The sun was hot that day, beating down against his shoulders, scalding his skin by midday when the goons were eating lunch and taunting the slaves. Spencer didn't have to walk, but it was only going to soften his calluses and make it more difficult if he ever got out of this damn rusted box.
By the time the sun started to sink again, Spencer had been accosted twice, poked at with the tip of a dagger once, slipped some water by a different kid who may or may not have also been an Alex but looked like he was more of a field slave than the other one. His skin was on fire, his head ached, his limbs were practically numb. Death would have been preferable.
When the sun had set completely, the caravan had staggered into a market. There wouldn't be a lot of buyers this late in the evening, but the trader lined them up for the masses anyway, making the same threats of food and water for good behavior. Spencer was kept in his box, turned toward the public but not released. He was the "dangerous" one, the one no one would want. Whoever bought slaves they thought needed to be handled...well, those were usually the worst.
Spencer didn't actually look at anyone who came to browse, didn't care, never did. It was all the same, even if the faces changed. Not all places were like Saporta's, the vast majority were a direct opposite but they all looked like perfectly respectable people....if respectable meant in favor of owning people and forcing them to get their hands dirty so you don't have to.
"Spence?" A soft voice said from off to the side. Startled into attention, Spencer glanced up but couldn't see through the crowd. He caught a glimpse of dark hair being pushed with the flow of foot traffic, but it must have been a hallucination. The voice, the hair...Spencer was projecting.
He'd been alone too long, fed too little, and confined in too small a space; clearly, he was projecting. In the interests of maintaining what little sanity he had left, he went back to ignoring the comments from potential buyers, the ones asking the trader why this one was separate and caged.
The sky darkened, the square cleared, and Spencer was at least given the same meager rations as the others. Apparently, a caged slave was good for business or something because they left him there. He wasn't an idiot though. He knew if he didn't sell this time, he was finished. He'd finally caused too much trouble and his skills were diverse for a slave but his disobedience outweighed whatever skill-set meant to be his selling point.
Everything felt more harsh when they were in a market and waiting around. The nights were more stifling, and this one was not different. Too many bodies crammed together and not enough of a breeze to clear out the tang of sweat and waste, it always assaulted Spencer’s senses more strongly than he remembered. It kept him awake. Between the cold, hard bars against his knees and the rough boards under his hip on top of the thoughts he couldn’t cut off, Spencer knew he’d be watching the sunrise.
That must have been the whole point of the cage. It trapped your mind even more than your body, was probably meant to remind a slave of their place. Spencer wondered how anyone expected them to forget, with the chains and whips a near constant.
When dawn came, Spencer was starting to feel even more delirious, colors swimming. Or maybe that was the dehydration. Regardless, Spencer was awake to see the square come alive, merchants filing in scant minutes before early customers arrived. The people in the business of slaves always came later, around when the sun hit its peak. Spencer wasn’t looking forward to the weight of those stares, could already feel the heat starting to absorb into his shoulders and that was enough....when he was suddenly drawn to a commotion between the trader and a buyer. He wouldn’t have noticed or paid them any mind, if there hadn’t been a lot of gesturing in the direction of his cage. Great, he really was a sideshow.
“I don’t care. I told you which one I wanted.” It was a man with wavy hair and impossibly long legs. He was standing beside a more imposing type, darker with a stance that dared people to cross him. They were quite the pair.
“With all due respects, sir,” the trader continued. He still looked a bit more ridiculous with the minor swelling and facial bruising. “That one, it’s a handful. I’m sure we can find a more fitting one in my batch.”
“With such a diverse background? I need someone who can cover a variety, makes my life easier.” The man seemed bored, superior like he knew he was going to get his way. He probably always did.
The trader was gesturing toward the Alexes. Two of those boys seemed to sink in, close ranks, around the one Spencer suspected was a pleasure slave. It was heartening but wouldn't last; Spencer pitied when they'd lose each other. “These, two for the price of one. They surely cover it all...”
His companion spoke up then, voice deeper and potentially menacing. “I’ve yet to meet a worse salesman. We want the one in the cage. Our price range just went down.”
“Travie, I think I’ll be mentioning this to Patrick. Didn’t he say he was in the market? I was going to make a reference, but no one wants this much hassle.”
“Begging your pardon, sirs-”
“Papers. Draw them up. William, will we be needing chains?”
“I think we can handle it. He seems rather...placid for his reputation. Perhaps he’s only been mismanaged?”
“I’m willing to agree. Also, clothing. We’re not parading personal property around for wandering eyes.”
Spencer snickered quietly. Sure, these two were about to own him, but at least they were good for a laugh right now. Until he realized what that may mean; eyes only wandered to the pretty ones, the bed slaves. If that’s where this was going...Spencer may have to make a run for it.
The trader sighed, stopping to speak with a few of his minions before going to find the necessary paperwork and sending them to secure the new sell.
Contract exchanges were always monotonous so Spencer didn’t really listen; having come in at the middle after being dressed and his hands newly bound. At least he did manage to pick up some potentially useful information. He gathered that this William fellow was to be his owner, William Beckett, heir to some sort of trading company. Travis was to him what Blackinton had been to Saporta. Well, at least Spencer probably wouldn’t be retrained, whatever else might be done to him; he was still hoping it wouldn’t come to that. It’s not like he hadn't been retrained multiple times but he was a bit old for that sort of switch and he hoped he wouldn’t be forced to endure the same type of conditioning he’d heard about in whispers and warnings.
When they finally turned to go, Spencer with shackles around his wrists connected to a chain led by Travis, Spencer was surprised to be ushered into a real carriage. It was covered with cushioned seats and Beckett motioned for him to take one instead of the floor. When he was situated, his assistant reached over to removed Spencer's restraints.
"Don't go kicking up a fuss or some shit. You'll just be more comfortable without those." In acknowledgement, Spencer didn't try to hit him. There was no more polite response than that.
“Your name is Spencer, yeah?” Beckett asked. Spencer ducked his head. “All right, then. I’m William, Bill, Beckett, I don’t much care which name you use and this is Travis McCoy, anything short of Coy and he’ll answer.”
“You’re impossible.”
Spencer’s brows were furrowed as he stared at the polished wood under his feet. Maybe that was a trick. Some of Spencer’s earlier owners had tested his obedience with word games he hadn’t understood until he met Ryan. He didn’t care about offending owners, but he usually waited until he knew how they treated slaves first. He listened to the easy banter of the two freemen, hearing the rise and fall of their voices more than their words. The melody of their conversation lulled Spencer away into his own thoughts; that was the only reason he had for missing when the conversation switched to include him. His new captor, this William Beckett character, dropped a light hand on his knee. Spencer jerked so violently his back cracked and his head hit the wall behind him.
"Easy. Easy, there." McCoy started, tugging lightly at Beckett's outstretched arm. Beckett pulled away, looking ashamed if the quick glimpse Spencer allowed himself was anything to go by. "We're not going to hurt you, all right?"
Yeah, he'd heard that one enough times not to believe it. Even the most benevolent of appearances always had a price attached for the treatment. McCoy was still talking, but Spencer found it hard to concentrate until a name jumped out at him.
"...like Gabe's."
Spencer's eyes shot up, actually meeting McCoy's. "Saporta?"
Beckett grinned, nodding. "You were with him for a while, yeah?"
"Yes, he owned me once." Spencer didn't understand what he'd said to make Beckett and McCoy flinch; he braced for the reprimanding hit anyway.
"Look, Spencer. Spencer Smith, right? I like the alliteration; it's fun. Mind if I call you that all the time?"
McCoy muttered "Bill" as Spencer ducked his head again. It was strange, hearing his surname again. He didn’t think it was in his papers, but it’s not like Spencer had ever seen them before.
"All right, whatever," Beckett waved his hands around a bit before he got back on topic. He stretched out to occupy about half the cabin with legs alone, sinking in his seat and looking relaxed from what Spencer could tell. For someone so well-off, Beckett was irrationally skinny; probably more so than Ryan was when Spencer last saw him. Whatever, must be nice, being able to slouch. Spencer was wound too tightly for such things, even if he'd been in a situation which allowed it.
"Spencer Smith, I don't own you, okay? I don't want to own you."
"You...bought me." Spencer said very slowly, as if talking to a small child. He kept his voice quiet so it wouldn't seem like he was calling his new owner's idiocy, even if he was. "Was I a...gift?" It had never actually happened to Spencer, but Brendon had been a gift for some haughty debutante once.
"No. Travie, I thought he said he's smart."
"He did, but he's probably shell-shocked. Cut the kid some slack."
He shouldn't speak up, really shouldn't, but the curiosity was maddening. "Did...Saporta say that? Novarro or Victoria, maybe?" And, okay, he was also fishing. He honestly hoped they were all okay. For all his resentment, Spencer missed the place and the people.
"We haven't heard back from Gabe yet but-"
"Shh. It's a surprise!" Beckett was flailing a little to silence McCoy.
"Don't you think that's kind of...a dick move?" McCoy was voicing Spencer's thoughts exactly. McCoy glanced at him and winked; Spencer must have been showing his agreement in his expression. Fuck, he really was off his game.
Beckett nudged at Spencer's bare foot with the toe of his own shoe. "He'll see in an hour or so. It's going to be worth it."
"We still should have brought him," McCoy went on and Beckett sighed. He leaned a bit toward McCoy until their shoulders touched.
"Yeah, but it would have been suspicious. What if he'd been recognized. You saw how worked up the kid was last night."
"Last night? Did you hear him this morning? It took Bob damn near an hour to get him talking in coherent sentences. And I think chords were scared right out of him."
That didn't make any sense so Spencer went back to ignoring them. Whatever, whomever, this person was...Spencer thought it might really be his new owner instead of Beckett. Spencer didn't trust buying by proxy, but these two didn't seem...awful so maybe this new one would be all right. Maybe he wouldn't make Spencer do too much beyond what his body would let him before his endurance was back up.
He didn't hold out any hopes.
So wrapped up in not hoping, Spencer didn't think about the carriage slowing until it was actually stopped, not that he could see out the windows from his seat without giving up his space.
"Honey, we're home!" Beckett practically bounced through the door. "Sisky, where's Butcher? I have questions!"
Spencer didn't move, not even the slightest shift. They had someone around here known as "the butcher" and what the hell was a "sisky"?
McCoy was wearing a smile Spencer could only call indulgent. "Here's how this is going to work," he explained as he climbed out. It put Spencer behind him and at an advantage being higher up, not smart when Spencer was "dangerous."
Spencer followed and didn't even think about attacking.Yet.
"I'm going to show you where you'll be sleeping, where you can get a bath, and round you up some decent clothes. What the hell do they have you in, man?"
"Rags? Pretty standard-" Spencer cut himself off. You didn't answer things that way when a free-man asked you questions; most of the time the inquiries were rhetorical.
But McCoy just laughed. "Rags might be being too generous. I'll send someone up with some food and let...him explain everything to you."
That must be this mystery person Beckett was so hell bent on keeping a surprise. Wonderful. Spencer followed close on McCoy's heels, glancing around the estate. It was large. There were stables to the left and back a ways, a few buildings around it that he assumed housed either slaves or equipment. Some smaller buildings were off to the right and framed the fields. Strange as it may sound, Spencer hoped he ended up there, with the imaginary freedom being outside allowed him.
Spencer nearly stumbled as McCoy pushed the door open and waited for Spencer to clear the stairs. He couldn't remember the last time he'd used the front entrance to an owner's home but was fairly sure he had scars to remind him what a bad idea it had been.
McCoy waited, standing there and looking across the doorway but not at Spencer. He seemed to be having a conversation over Spencer's head and it was usually better to just keep your head down and try not to let on that you'd noticed those sorts of things. Instead of lollygagging any longer, Spencer hurried up the steps and through the door, waiting for McCoy to lead him to overcrowded, hidden quarters.
But he didn't.
Spencer was being herded through a well lit entrance hall with high ceilings and an ostentatious chandelier. The main staircase was covered in plush carpet with intricately carved handrails. A trail of expensive looking paintings led to the top which opened into a hall with a large mirror Spencer averted his eyes from and heavy looking doors. They stopped at the third one on the right.
"Right then. This is your room."
The words barely registered. Instead of a row of cots or threadbare blankets thrown on the floor, there were only two beds - real beds! - and two dressers. A vanity was set off to the side with a shaving kit and basin. Two plush chairs framed a small table under the window.
It was more elegant than anything Spencer had ever had, maybe even before he was abducted.
"Um. Is...I don't think...wait..."
McCoy chuckled deep in his throat. "This is yours. We didn't want to make you share but your...roommate practically begged and Bill has serious issues telling the kid no." His tone suggested that he shared Beckett's problem.
"There's water in the basin and that kit on the counter is yours if you want it. We'll get you a bath drawn up after dinner. I'll send someone up with lunch in a while." McCoy started to step back, pulling the door with him. "I'll be back in a few with some clothes for you, see if I can find a decent fit."
"Anything...is fine," Spencer muttered, not sure why he felt compelled to assure a freeman of anything. When the door shut, Spencer stood in the center of the room, stock still and waiting for the lock to click into place. It didn't.
Probably five minutes later, he got moving. It hadn't sounded like an order, but it was implied that he should clean up. There were two pitchers by the basin, both room temperature, soap and a surprisingly soft cloth. Immediately, he started scrubbing the grime from his face and arms. Halfway through he got distracted when his fingers brushed the leather case holding a set of clippers and razors.
Finally raising his eyes, Spencer looked into the mirror and had to remind himself not to punch the vision looking back at him. His eyes were glassy, sunken and ringed with a pale purple color. There were real bruises high on his cheeks, a cut on his forehead. His skin was more pale than the amount of time he spent outside should have allowed and his shoulders looked too sharp under the thin material of his shirt.
Spencer couldn't stand it. In hopes of looking a little less like something left out in the wild too long, regardless of the truth in that, he set about shaving off the beard he'd never allowed to grow that thick at Saporta's. About when he was finishing up, some indeterminate amount of time later, there was a knock on the door.
It didn't open, but he still tensed. There was another knock and McCoy's voice asking if he could come in. Spencer gave some sort of affirmative response and the door was pushed open slowly. McCoy smiled a little sadly at him and set a bundle of fabric on the bed.
"These should do you for a few days. Should fit all right. We're going to bring Pete around and get him on making you something proper."
"Thank you." He knew his voice was stilted but Spencer didn't know how to help that. McCoy nodded and was gone as suddenly as he'd come.
Going through the clothes he'd been given was even more culture shock than he'd already been hit with that morning. There were no holes and it felt like quality material. Everything was plain but didn't suggest a uniform.
Stripping quickly, he scrubbed down, hating the thought of wearing actual clean clothes over all that dirt. He pulled on gray slacks and perfect socks, ignoring the lack of shoes and the way everything was just a little too big. He glanced at the little bit of water left in the second pitcher. It should do.
He rinsed his hair with it, running his fingers through it to get some of the tangles before attacking it with a comb. It was too long but he doubted he'd have time to do anything about that. Since it would mean staring into the mirror again, Spencer put that off. If Beckett or this new owner or who ever wanted him to cut it, he'd deal with it then.
There was a black shirt with white buttons in Spencer's pile so he slipped that on quickly and suddenly found himself with nothing to do. McCoy said he'd send someone up so Spencer must not be allowed to wander. After pacing for several minutes, he studied the bed McCoy had placed the clothes on. Presumably, that meant it was designated as his. Slowly, he crawled onto it, forcing himself not to pull the heavy blankets back. He didn't bother to turn over, just buried his face in the pillows and enjoyed the way he sunk into the mattress.
Apparently, that was all it took for him to fall asleep. Granted, he hadn't slept in days, not properly in he didn't know how long, but this was a new place. If he kept making childish mistakes he was going to end up dead or worse. Spencer startled when he heard shuffling, shoes against carpet and then the edge of the bed sank beside him.
Forcing his breathing to stay even, he tried to reason out what was happening, where this was going. Then he felt fingers in his hair. Without meaning to, Spencer whipped around quickly, fingers curling around a thin wrist. The person he grabbed gasped and held the breath.
Then Spencer looked up and the world stopped.
"What the fuck."
"Nice way to treat an old friend, Smith." The statement was breathless, but still. It was Brendon's voice because Brendon was right there.
His fingers tightened and Brendon made a soft sound of discomfort but didn't try to pull away. Spencer kept staring at him, eyes tracing Brendon's face for any traces of abuse but finding none. Brendon looked...he looked good. He'd put on some weight and his smile had fewer edges. Honestly, Spencer didn't know what to do with himself.
Luckily, he didn't have to decide. Having had enough of being gawked at, apparently, Brendon launched himself onto Spencer in a bit of a tackle. One of his hands caught in Spencer's shirt, pulling him over onto his side and wrapping still too thin arms around him.
Just this once, Spencer was willing to admit he was clinging. He found his face buried in Brendon's neck, breaths coming short and nearly panicked.
"Shh. Shh. Spence, it's okay. You're fine," Brendon was whispering, fingers rubbing small circles against his scalp. "We're fine. Fuck, you're shaking."
And, now that Brendon mentioned it, Spencer noticed that he was. He didn't break like this; whatever else happened, Spencer never broke. Yet, here he was, trying not to cry just because he was in this backwards place with these strange ass people and Brendon was safe.
Brendon swallowed hard, Spencer felt the motion, and tightened his hold. Then he was talking, this stream-of-consciousness monologue that Spencer remembered him doing when he was nervous.
"Fuck, I was scared, too. When Tom first brought me here, I was terrified. I don't think I talked for a week, do you know what that's even like for me?" Spencer laughed a little wetly and Brendon sighed before he went on. "And they weren't looking at breaking anyone else out, not right now. But it's just one person and it's you. I wasn't going to fucking leave you there. They had you-" He broke off abruptly, gulping down air before he went on, softer than before.
"They were keeping you in the cage. And you looked worse than when you came to Gabe's. It was so bad, Spence. I about lost it just asking Bill. God, Spencer, what did you do?"
"Punched the trader in the face."
Brendon froze in that way where you never noticed he was moving until he stopped. When he spoke there was some sort of pride in his voice. "You're something else, man. You know that?"
Spencer nodded, sounding less hysterical when he laughed this time. Wiggling around, he managed to get an arm under him and pushed up so he could look at Brendon again. Still, he didn't push away so far that they weren't touching. If the way Brendon's fingers tightened against his neck was any indication, he was as reluctant to let go as Spencer.
"Bren. How'd... What did you do to get them to buy me?" The answer could be anything and Spencer knew Brendon, knew he'd give up any and everything if it would help someone he cared about.
Shaking his head, Brendon tugged his hair a bit. "Nothing. I asked. I....I asked. That's all."
Muscles locking down, Spencer shoved up until he was sitting. Brendon followed, leaning back on his elbows and sprawling across the bed. "Brendon. What did you do? I don't...you shouldn't have done anything. I was fine on my own."
Suddenly, Brendon's eyes were darker, a glare like daggers. "I didn't do anything. And yeah, I had to. You started a fight with a trader. You were....Do you know what they do to slaves who do that? Did you somehow miss that along the way?"
"No," Spencer practically spat the words. "I know as fucking well as you do but still. I don't want you getting hurt for-"
"Shut up."
"Bren-"
"No. Shut up." He started to turn away and Spencer's heart began to race.
"Wait! Brendon, I'm sorry, don't-"
"Woah, woah." He was back, a tray in his hands. "I'm not going anywhere, okay? See? I just brought you food."
For a solid minute, Spencer stared at what Brendon was trying to hand him. There was an apple, an honest to God red apple and Spencer couldn't even remember the last time he had one of those. It's possible that bowl full of what looked like chicken soup was hot when Brendon brought it, but Spencer wasn't sure how long ago that was. There was water, actually clean looking water. All in all, it was sort of mind boggling. He looked from the tray to Brendon and back again, almost afraid he'd touch something only for it to turn to dust.
Brendon laughed and motioned for Spencer to move. Once his back was against the headboard, Brendon set the tray across his knees. "Food, Spence. Food of the gods. I'm not even kidding. Yummy, lukewarm, goodness. Right here for you. There was a roll but I ate it. I sort of skipped lunch when Mike came back to tell me you were here. Don't make my sacrifice have been in vain."
Spencer flicked at Brendon's hair but was laughing too hard for it to even matter. For now, he'd let it go; later, though, he was finding out exactly what Brendon had done to get him here.
"Slowly, or you're going to get sick and I'm not cleaning up that kind of mess."
Laughing was really fucking good. In the next few hours that Spencer had with Brendon, he laughed more than he had since Saporta's. Nothing could beat that. Everything was sort of...not perfect, not with the fear and confusion digging at the back of Spencer's mind, but it was pretty great. He'd almost forgotten where he was, listening to Brendon tell a story about someone named Gerard nearly getting kicked by a horse and claiming it was something to do with repressing wild hearts or whatever, when there was a knock at the door.
"B?"
"You can come in, Bill," Brendon's tone was still light, but Spencer saw the way his eyes shuttered. It was enough to make Spencer's muscles lock down.
The door opened slowly and Beckett stepped in, grinning widely at where they were sitting still mostly curled around each other. "Frank's got dinner going, should be done pretty soon, I figure. You guys want to come down or should I bring it up?"
"Whichever-" Spencer was about to say whichever you would prefer, master but Brendon cut him off. Oddly enough, it still seemed like the gears were turning in Brendon's head.
"We'll probably come down. I promised Frank I'd help him with icing anyway."
Beckett waved a hand. "It's whatever, man. Frank's not going to care, you've got more important shit to deal with." When Brendon practically growled, Beckett raised a hand in apology. "Bad word choice. Chill out, little dude. I'm just saying. We'll see you down there. You're looking a little better, Spencer Smith."
Spencer's brow furrowed in confusion at Brendon's audacity and Beckett's weird brand of contrition. Besides, he'd been called a lot worse things with far more malicious intent so Spencer didn't have it in him to be easily offended anymore. Before Spencer could get his mouth open to say...something...the door was closing and Brendon was bounding off the bed.
"Come on, man, lots to see and lots to do and a hell of a lot to show off."
When Brendon held his hand out, Spencer took it without thinking, just liking the familiarity of Brendon's too hot and slightly sweaty palm.
It took the better part of an hour for Brendon to show Spencer all the little passageways in the house and Spencer was already confused by the hallways that seemed to come out of no where.
"I'm never going to get this. I'm going to get lost and then I'll starve in a corner with some mice." Spencer muttered darkly. Brendon rolled his eyes. "Or I'll show up a week later and get thrown in a dungeon for being insubordinate."
Brendon tapped their shoulders together. "Bill's afraid of dungeons so the whole basement is full of wine, no worries." They were rounding a corner when he reached out to grab Spencer's wrist and pull him to a stop. "And, look, no one's going to punish you for anything. I don't think. I haven't really tested the boundaries but they know Gabe and Tom said Bill was a slave once so..."
"I don't even know who half these people are and what? I'm supposed to trust them?"
"You've got to try, Spencer," Brendon whispered. He leaned in, hiding his eyes against Spencer's shoulder. Without even pausing to think about it, Spencer gripped the back of Brendon's shirt tightly, hanging on. "They don't ask for much, for anything really and...if that's all we have to do to stay? Don't you want to stay?"
"I want to stay with you."
"Then we've got to try this. They've been really good to me so far. The only reason I do anything is because I feel like it." When Brendon looked up, his eyes were bright with what Spencer distantly recognized as excitement. He'd had that same look when Victoria's dog had puppies and she'd given Brendon the runt of the litter because he was so worried about it being too small to be trained properly and then getting into trouble. "I give piano lessons. And someone's asking about vocal lessons. And I get paid, Spencer. They don't take any of it away from me."
Spencer's head spun and his mouth went dry. That didn't make any sense. Slaves didn't get money, if they did then there was no reason to stay, the balance of power started to level out. Not knowing what else to say, he stuck with "You hide it anyway, right?"
Brendon rolled his eyes and stepped away only to grab Spencer's hand and drag him along. "Well, yeah. I'm not a complete idiot."
PART TWO
Maybe this would be the one step too far but fuck that. The crunch of the trader's nose when Spencer's fist connected, the flow of blood soaking into his ratty collar; all of that was worth it. The guards were on him within seconds, pinning his arms back as fists connected with his torso and under his chin. There was a broken sound, something distant and with the tonality of being underwater. When Spencer's chest constricted, an extra ache, he realized he was laughing. Quite possibly, he had finally lost his mind.
"Fucking scum. Put him away. Little better than animals!" The trader was ranting, frantically gesturing with the hand unoccupied with clutching his nose. Bloody fingers gripped Spencer's face and he had just enough presence of mind to meet the man's eyes...and spit directly into the guy's fury-red face. His hold tightened until Spencer knew there would be bruises tomorrow. "You think you're so big now, don't you, little bit? Talk to me about your place in the fucking world tomorrow." He shoved roughly, enough force behind the gesture to land Spencer flat on his back if he hadn't been held up in the goons' thick hands.
It wasn't that the struggle had been knocked out of him, but there was no need to fight after that. Spencer dragged his feet, going as limp as possible while he was tugged toward the one cart that didn't carry supplies. He tilted his head back, studying the blue of the sky; Ryan would have had some poetic term for it and Brendon would have been trying to find shapes in the clouds. The sound of rusted iron dragging together brought Spencer back just before his clothes, little more than dirty rags, were being torn from him and he was thrown onto the rough wood bottom of the cart. There would be splinters; he didn't care.
The guards were jeering, muttering whatever insults they thought were necessary for Spencer's newest term in the cage. He'd long since stopped paying attention to them, only bothering with a response if they dared to touch him. Most of them did. These two must have grown bored with his lack of response because blissful silence finally surrounded him. No, that's an exaggeration. There was still the sound of people shuffling along, mumbled half-sentences meant for no one or only one other to hear, laughter in the distance because locking a slave in a cage was apparently quality fucking entertainment.
It shouldn't be, not when it was Spencer. He'd spent the majority of the past month on lock-down inside a space not meant for someone his height. Spencer had always had a problem with subservience. He'd been free once, free and spoiled until he was twelve and managed to end up in the wrong part of town at the wrong time of the evening. He learned to act, though.
Over the next several years, Spencer bounced around at least as many places; first as a house slave, then stables, field, back to the kitchen. All of them had been as similar as they were different, until the rules changed. He finally ended up on a sprawling estate owned by some shameless heir that had never liked being called "Master" and had insisted on "Saporta," even if they all still said it like a title. As far as owners went, he hadn't been the worst, hadn't been demanding and never whipped, hit, insulted, or locked any of them away. Regardless, Spencer had only learned to behave because that's where he met the others. They'd managed to stick together, forming a weird type of bond that was strange among slaves. That was a topic too maudlin for Spencer to focus on for long.
Suddenly, the caravan was moving. Or maybe it had been for a while. Spencer actually wasn't sure at this point; he was entirely too wrapped up in his own head. The road was rough, uneven land flattened purely due to use. The dust rose and the sun was setting. Spencer reasoned that it may have been a pretty scene, something out of one of Jon's sketches, if Spencer didn't have the bars at the top of the cage obstructing his view, his legs weren't already starting to cramp from being contorted in strange ways, and the old planks beneath him weren't so rough against his skin. Spencer shifted until he could hug his knees to his chest and hide his face. They'd stop eventually and be fed something barely substantial; Spencer would be lucky to get any water at this point. Maybe they'd leave him here to die. It would probably be better that way.
Things had been...not great because being owned was never nice, but they had been tolerable with Saporta. He'd been there for years, being bought only months after Ryan, a few years after Brendon. Jon hadn't even been a slave. There was something about debt and Saporta taking over his contract until Jon could pull himself out of servitude. That didn't matter when the tax enforcers came and seized everything at the estate. Saporta was extravagant, but no one had thought he was that far under. Novarro and Suarez, two men who worked with Saporta on whatever it was he did, had been there trying to find ways to pay off Saporta's supposed debts in a hurry, but all liquidated assets, slaves included, were gathered up until the issue was resolved.
Blackinton, Saporta’s household manager as far as Spencer could tell, tracked them all down in an auction house nearly a week later, trying to buy most of them back, or at least Jon who wasn't even supposed to be there, but they were already chained up with the caravan. Spencer only knew he'd been there because of Victoria, Gabe's free-woman housekeeper who was also mistakenly seized, was removed from a line of pleasure slaves. She'd nearly fallen to her knees from exhaustion but caught Spencer's eyes then Jon's with a look of promise as she mouthed Ryland and We'll come back.
Maybe they had; maybe they'd missed them; it didn't matter.
When Spencer looked up again, the sun was only visible by a pink stretch a light tinting the clouds on the horizon. He was nostalgic and that wouldn't do. That was the type of thing that got people killed. The caravan was still moving but a piece of lukewarm, wet cloth hit him squarely in the chest. Spencer was seriously slipping if people could sneak up on him. He glanced up to see a kid he thought might be named Alex but Spencer was under the impression that there were a lot of those so he was probably making it up.
"I don't know how much you'll be able to get from that," the boy shrugged. He had dark hair and haunted eyes which he tried to hide behind it. Spencer knew what caused that look so he didn't comment, only nodded as the kid disappeared quickly. He raised the cloth, wringing a tiny bit into his mouth to avoid sucking the water out, but had to resort to that and the dry mouth it would lead to. The kid's eyes wouldn't get out of his mind so Spencer pressed the mildly damp cloth to his neck and resumed hiding his face against his knees.
When he let his eyelids droop, he saw a similar look in a different set of brown eyes. Ryan had been like that; all pleasure slaves were after a while. He'd been lucky enough to see some light return to Ryan's at Saporta's, when he was allowed books and paper, ink, whatever he needed when they could come by it. He'd also been free once, though he wouldn't talk about it, but he'd managed to get some of that back while they were together and nearly, so close to free again.
Saporta really was a rare case. He had a bit of a thing for the arts and he let them all dabble when chores were finished, usually not bothering to care if they finished anything before playing. He'd bought Brendon specifically for his musical ability and Spencer didn't think Jon did more to work off his debts than play with pencils and kittens all day. Ryan wrote or he read, proofed things for Saporta. Spencer was the only one who didn't do anything artsy. Oh, sure, he'd bang around on drums whenever Novarro was around to okay it, but he was always working on something. Cleaning this, organizing that, mending clothes or porch steps.
Saporta had laughed at him once and only once, saying "Sit the fuck down, Spencer. Looking at you makes my head hurt." He'd given Saporta a look, a glare though he was loathe to call it that since Saporta owned him, but Saporta had waved a hand and sent him off to see if Victoria needed anything.
And now he was on his own, stuck in a caravan headed for an auction house or a trading center, some lowrate merchant square if the places they had been already were any indication. The rocking of the carriage stopped, sending Spencer lurching forward. He barely got a hand out to catch himself against the bars before his face connected with the hinges. There had been a time when Spencer would have wondered what it would take to work out the bolts there, pondered how much time he'd have in the night when the guards were groggy and paying more attention to their fires and their drinks than the disspirited slaves of the camp.
But that was before. Before Ryan and Jon had been sold, nearly a year ago now; Spencer was pretty sure they'd seen three seasons since then. At least, he reasoned, they were probably together and Jon would make sure Ryan wasn't left alone if he could manage it. It wasn't like where Spencer was, sitting behind thick bars with the night chill creeping up on him, with Brendon gone a little over a month before. Where ever he was, whatever he was being ordered to do, Spencer hoped he had music, hoped he was safe and not locked away with the dogs to fight for food like he had been before Saporta made a clever trade with his previous owner.
The horses were being unhooked, Spencer could hear the clink of metal and the soft thumps of hooves as they must have been led away for water or the graze or whatever.
The background noise was getting a little louder as some of the slaves fought halfheartedly amongst themselves for food Spencer wouldn't see. The air was growing colder and it was moist so there must be a lake nearby, the breezes didn't smell like the ocean. Spencer let the inarticulate sounds fill his head, imagined it had a tune like something Brendon may have played on the rickety upright or the sleek baby grand Saporta kept carefully tuned.
Somehow, tilted awkwardly against the rough bars and curled protectively into himself for warmth, Spencer must have slept. It was in fits and starts, but Spencer wasn't fully aware of anything until morning, the sun already bright. There was a guard peering in at him.
"You awake, pet? We were taking bets. Wondering if you'd died on us. Would have meant hell of a cut to our pay, but eh," he shrugged. His arms were impressive but he didn't seem tall or too broad; Spencer could have taken him down in a minute if his muscles weren't stiff from disuse and he wasn't bordering on being malnourished. "I think you're gone at our next round. Might have to rough you up. Scar up that pretty pale skin to throw you into a discount heap, but no one's going to mind much. Good riddance."
He leaned forward; Spencer didn't flinch or lean away. "You could have breakfast. But you have to promise me a return favor. So long as we don't break you, you're pretty much free game, pet."
Spencer stared at him, giving him the glare he never admitted having given Saporta, and said as clearly as his sleep roughened, dry throat would allow "Fuck. You." The guard laughed, starting to hand over what looked like a piece of flattened bread. Spencer didn't try to take it, it wasn't worth the effort.
"Fine. You change your mind and we'll see about keeping you alive. Those hips are looking a little thin, it's a pity."
After openly ogling Spencer's body for another moment, scars clearly visible on his legs and upper arms, the man wandered away. Spencer wasn't going to lower himself to a whore; it was different when the slaves were forced into it. Given a choice, he wasn't going to let it happen. If he starved, so be it.
The sun was hot that day, beating down against his shoulders, scalding his skin by midday when the goons were eating lunch and taunting the slaves. Spencer didn't have to walk, but it was only going to soften his calluses and make it more difficult if he ever got out of this damn rusted box.
By the time the sun started to sink again, Spencer had been accosted twice, poked at with the tip of a dagger once, slipped some water by a different kid who may or may not have also been an Alex but looked like he was more of a field slave than the other one. His skin was on fire, his head ached, his limbs were practically numb. Death would have been preferable.
When the sun had set completely, the caravan had staggered into a market. There wouldn't be a lot of buyers this late in the evening, but the trader lined them up for the masses anyway, making the same threats of food and water for good behavior. Spencer was kept in his box, turned toward the public but not released. He was the "dangerous" one, the one no one would want. Whoever bought slaves they thought needed to be handled...well, those were usually the worst.
Spencer didn't actually look at anyone who came to browse, didn't care, never did. It was all the same, even if the faces changed. Not all places were like Saporta's, the vast majority were a direct opposite but they all looked like perfectly respectable people....if respectable meant in favor of owning people and forcing them to get their hands dirty so you don't have to.
"Spence?" A soft voice said from off to the side. Startled into attention, Spencer glanced up but couldn't see through the crowd. He caught a glimpse of dark hair being pushed with the flow of foot traffic, but it must have been a hallucination. The voice, the hair...Spencer was projecting.
He'd been alone too long, fed too little, and confined in too small a space; clearly, he was projecting. In the interests of maintaining what little sanity he had left, he went back to ignoring the comments from potential buyers, the ones asking the trader why this one was separate and caged.
The sky darkened, the square cleared, and Spencer was at least given the same meager rations as the others. Apparently, a caged slave was good for business or something because they left him there. He wasn't an idiot though. He knew if he didn't sell this time, he was finished. He'd finally caused too much trouble and his skills were diverse for a slave but his disobedience outweighed whatever skill-set meant to be his selling point.
Everything felt more harsh when they were in a market and waiting around. The nights were more stifling, and this one was not different. Too many bodies crammed together and not enough of a breeze to clear out the tang of sweat and waste, it always assaulted Spencer’s senses more strongly than he remembered. It kept him awake. Between the cold, hard bars against his knees and the rough boards under his hip on top of the thoughts he couldn’t cut off, Spencer knew he’d be watching the sunrise.
That must have been the whole point of the cage. It trapped your mind even more than your body, was probably meant to remind a slave of their place. Spencer wondered how anyone expected them to forget, with the chains and whips a near constant.
When dawn came, Spencer was starting to feel even more delirious, colors swimming. Or maybe that was the dehydration. Regardless, Spencer was awake to see the square come alive, merchants filing in scant minutes before early customers arrived. The people in the business of slaves always came later, around when the sun hit its peak. Spencer wasn’t looking forward to the weight of those stares, could already feel the heat starting to absorb into his shoulders and that was enough....when he was suddenly drawn to a commotion between the trader and a buyer. He wouldn’t have noticed or paid them any mind, if there hadn’t been a lot of gesturing in the direction of his cage. Great, he really was a sideshow.
“I don’t care. I told you which one I wanted.” It was a man with wavy hair and impossibly long legs. He was standing beside a more imposing type, darker with a stance that dared people to cross him. They were quite the pair.
“With all due respects, sir,” the trader continued. He still looked a bit more ridiculous with the minor swelling and facial bruising. “That one, it’s a handful. I’m sure we can find a more fitting one in my batch.”
“With such a diverse background? I need someone who can cover a variety, makes my life easier.” The man seemed bored, superior like he knew he was going to get his way. He probably always did.
The trader was gesturing toward the Alexes. Two of those boys seemed to sink in, close ranks, around the one Spencer suspected was a pleasure slave. It was heartening but wouldn't last; Spencer pitied when they'd lose each other. “These, two for the price of one. They surely cover it all...”
His companion spoke up then, voice deeper and potentially menacing. “I’ve yet to meet a worse salesman. We want the one in the cage. Our price range just went down.”
“Travie, I think I’ll be mentioning this to Patrick. Didn’t he say he was in the market? I was going to make a reference, but no one wants this much hassle.”
“Begging your pardon, sirs-”
“Papers. Draw them up. William, will we be needing chains?”
“I think we can handle it. He seems rather...placid for his reputation. Perhaps he’s only been mismanaged?”
“I’m willing to agree. Also, clothing. We’re not parading personal property around for wandering eyes.”
Spencer snickered quietly. Sure, these two were about to own him, but at least they were good for a laugh right now. Until he realized what that may mean; eyes only wandered to the pretty ones, the bed slaves. If that’s where this was going...Spencer may have to make a run for it.
The trader sighed, stopping to speak with a few of his minions before going to find the necessary paperwork and sending them to secure the new sell.
Contract exchanges were always monotonous so Spencer didn’t really listen; having come in at the middle after being dressed and his hands newly bound. At least he did manage to pick up some potentially useful information. He gathered that this William fellow was to be his owner, William Beckett, heir to some sort of trading company. Travis was to him what Blackinton had been to Saporta. Well, at least Spencer probably wouldn’t be retrained, whatever else might be done to him; he was still hoping it wouldn’t come to that. It’s not like he hadn't been retrained multiple times but he was a bit old for that sort of switch and he hoped he wouldn’t be forced to endure the same type of conditioning he’d heard about in whispers and warnings.
When they finally turned to go, Spencer with shackles around his wrists connected to a chain led by Travis, Spencer was surprised to be ushered into a real carriage. It was covered with cushioned seats and Beckett motioned for him to take one instead of the floor. When he was situated, his assistant reached over to removed Spencer's restraints.
"Don't go kicking up a fuss or some shit. You'll just be more comfortable without those." In acknowledgement, Spencer didn't try to hit him. There was no more polite response than that.
“Your name is Spencer, yeah?” Beckett asked. Spencer ducked his head. “All right, then. I’m William, Bill, Beckett, I don’t much care which name you use and this is Travis McCoy, anything short of Coy and he’ll answer.”
“You’re impossible.”
Spencer’s brows were furrowed as he stared at the polished wood under his feet. Maybe that was a trick. Some of Spencer’s earlier owners had tested his obedience with word games he hadn’t understood until he met Ryan. He didn’t care about offending owners, but he usually waited until he knew how they treated slaves first. He listened to the easy banter of the two freemen, hearing the rise and fall of their voices more than their words. The melody of their conversation lulled Spencer away into his own thoughts; that was the only reason he had for missing when the conversation switched to include him. His new captor, this William Beckett character, dropped a light hand on his knee. Spencer jerked so violently his back cracked and his head hit the wall behind him.
"Easy. Easy, there." McCoy started, tugging lightly at Beckett's outstretched arm. Beckett pulled away, looking ashamed if the quick glimpse Spencer allowed himself was anything to go by. "We're not going to hurt you, all right?"
Yeah, he'd heard that one enough times not to believe it. Even the most benevolent of appearances always had a price attached for the treatment. McCoy was still talking, but Spencer found it hard to concentrate until a name jumped out at him.
"...like Gabe's."
Spencer's eyes shot up, actually meeting McCoy's. "Saporta?"
Beckett grinned, nodding. "You were with him for a while, yeah?"
"Yes, he owned me once." Spencer didn't understand what he'd said to make Beckett and McCoy flinch; he braced for the reprimanding hit anyway.
"Look, Spencer. Spencer Smith, right? I like the alliteration; it's fun. Mind if I call you that all the time?"
McCoy muttered "Bill" as Spencer ducked his head again. It was strange, hearing his surname again. He didn’t think it was in his papers, but it’s not like Spencer had ever seen them before.
"All right, whatever," Beckett waved his hands around a bit before he got back on topic. He stretched out to occupy about half the cabin with legs alone, sinking in his seat and looking relaxed from what Spencer could tell. For someone so well-off, Beckett was irrationally skinny; probably more so than Ryan was when Spencer last saw him. Whatever, must be nice, being able to slouch. Spencer was wound too tightly for such things, even if he'd been in a situation which allowed it.
"Spencer Smith, I don't own you, okay? I don't want to own you."
"You...bought me." Spencer said very slowly, as if talking to a small child. He kept his voice quiet so it wouldn't seem like he was calling his new owner's idiocy, even if he was. "Was I a...gift?" It had never actually happened to Spencer, but Brendon had been a gift for some haughty debutante once.
"No. Travie, I thought he said he's smart."
"He did, but he's probably shell-shocked. Cut the kid some slack."
He shouldn't speak up, really shouldn't, but the curiosity was maddening. "Did...Saporta say that? Novarro or Victoria, maybe?" And, okay, he was also fishing. He honestly hoped they were all okay. For all his resentment, Spencer missed the place and the people.
"We haven't heard back from Gabe yet but-"
"Shh. It's a surprise!" Beckett was flailing a little to silence McCoy.
"Don't you think that's kind of...a dick move?" McCoy was voicing Spencer's thoughts exactly. McCoy glanced at him and winked; Spencer must have been showing his agreement in his expression. Fuck, he really was off his game.
Beckett nudged at Spencer's bare foot with the toe of his own shoe. "He'll see in an hour or so. It's going to be worth it."
"We still should have brought him," McCoy went on and Beckett sighed. He leaned a bit toward McCoy until their shoulders touched.
"Yeah, but it would have been suspicious. What if he'd been recognized. You saw how worked up the kid was last night."
"Last night? Did you hear him this morning? It took Bob damn near an hour to get him talking in coherent sentences. And I think chords were scared right out of him."
That didn't make any sense so Spencer went back to ignoring them. Whatever, whomever, this person was...Spencer thought it might really be his new owner instead of Beckett. Spencer didn't trust buying by proxy, but these two didn't seem...awful so maybe this new one would be all right. Maybe he wouldn't make Spencer do too much beyond what his body would let him before his endurance was back up.
He didn't hold out any hopes.
So wrapped up in not hoping, Spencer didn't think about the carriage slowing until it was actually stopped, not that he could see out the windows from his seat without giving up his space.
"Honey, we're home!" Beckett practically bounced through the door. "Sisky, where's Butcher? I have questions!"
Spencer didn't move, not even the slightest shift. They had someone around here known as "the butcher" and what the hell was a "sisky"?
McCoy was wearing a smile Spencer could only call indulgent. "Here's how this is going to work," he explained as he climbed out. It put Spencer behind him and at an advantage being higher up, not smart when Spencer was "dangerous."
Spencer followed and didn't even think about attacking.Yet.
"I'm going to show you where you'll be sleeping, where you can get a bath, and round you up some decent clothes. What the hell do they have you in, man?"
"Rags? Pretty standard-" Spencer cut himself off. You didn't answer things that way when a free-man asked you questions; most of the time the inquiries were rhetorical.
But McCoy just laughed. "Rags might be being too generous. I'll send someone up with some food and let...him explain everything to you."
That must be this mystery person Beckett was so hell bent on keeping a surprise. Wonderful. Spencer followed close on McCoy's heels, glancing around the estate. It was large. There were stables to the left and back a ways, a few buildings around it that he assumed housed either slaves or equipment. Some smaller buildings were off to the right and framed the fields. Strange as it may sound, Spencer hoped he ended up there, with the imaginary freedom being outside allowed him.
Spencer nearly stumbled as McCoy pushed the door open and waited for Spencer to clear the stairs. He couldn't remember the last time he'd used the front entrance to an owner's home but was fairly sure he had scars to remind him what a bad idea it had been.
McCoy waited, standing there and looking across the doorway but not at Spencer. He seemed to be having a conversation over Spencer's head and it was usually better to just keep your head down and try not to let on that you'd noticed those sorts of things. Instead of lollygagging any longer, Spencer hurried up the steps and through the door, waiting for McCoy to lead him to overcrowded, hidden quarters.
But he didn't.
Spencer was being herded through a well lit entrance hall with high ceilings and an ostentatious chandelier. The main staircase was covered in plush carpet with intricately carved handrails. A trail of expensive looking paintings led to the top which opened into a hall with a large mirror Spencer averted his eyes from and heavy looking doors. They stopped at the third one on the right.
"Right then. This is your room."
The words barely registered. Instead of a row of cots or threadbare blankets thrown on the floor, there were only two beds - real beds! - and two dressers. A vanity was set off to the side with a shaving kit and basin. Two plush chairs framed a small table under the window.
It was more elegant than anything Spencer had ever had, maybe even before he was abducted.
"Um. Is...I don't think...wait..."
McCoy chuckled deep in his throat. "This is yours. We didn't want to make you share but your...roommate practically begged and Bill has serious issues telling the kid no." His tone suggested that he shared Beckett's problem.
"There's water in the basin and that kit on the counter is yours if you want it. We'll get you a bath drawn up after dinner. I'll send someone up with lunch in a while." McCoy started to step back, pulling the door with him. "I'll be back in a few with some clothes for you, see if I can find a decent fit."
"Anything...is fine," Spencer muttered, not sure why he felt compelled to assure a freeman of anything. When the door shut, Spencer stood in the center of the room, stock still and waiting for the lock to click into place. It didn't.
Probably five minutes later, he got moving. It hadn't sounded like an order, but it was implied that he should clean up. There were two pitchers by the basin, both room temperature, soap and a surprisingly soft cloth. Immediately, he started scrubbing the grime from his face and arms. Halfway through he got distracted when his fingers brushed the leather case holding a set of clippers and razors.
Finally raising his eyes, Spencer looked into the mirror and had to remind himself not to punch the vision looking back at him. His eyes were glassy, sunken and ringed with a pale purple color. There were real bruises high on his cheeks, a cut on his forehead. His skin was more pale than the amount of time he spent outside should have allowed and his shoulders looked too sharp under the thin material of his shirt.
Spencer couldn't stand it. In hopes of looking a little less like something left out in the wild too long, regardless of the truth in that, he set about shaving off the beard he'd never allowed to grow that thick at Saporta's. About when he was finishing up, some indeterminate amount of time later, there was a knock on the door.
It didn't open, but he still tensed. There was another knock and McCoy's voice asking if he could come in. Spencer gave some sort of affirmative response and the door was pushed open slowly. McCoy smiled a little sadly at him and set a bundle of fabric on the bed.
"These should do you for a few days. Should fit all right. We're going to bring Pete around and get him on making you something proper."
"Thank you." He knew his voice was stilted but Spencer didn't know how to help that. McCoy nodded and was gone as suddenly as he'd come.
Going through the clothes he'd been given was even more culture shock than he'd already been hit with that morning. There were no holes and it felt like quality material. Everything was plain but didn't suggest a uniform.
Stripping quickly, he scrubbed down, hating the thought of wearing actual clean clothes over all that dirt. He pulled on gray slacks and perfect socks, ignoring the lack of shoes and the way everything was just a little too big. He glanced at the little bit of water left in the second pitcher. It should do.
He rinsed his hair with it, running his fingers through it to get some of the tangles before attacking it with a comb. It was too long but he doubted he'd have time to do anything about that. Since it would mean staring into the mirror again, Spencer put that off. If Beckett or this new owner or who ever wanted him to cut it, he'd deal with it then.
There was a black shirt with white buttons in Spencer's pile so he slipped that on quickly and suddenly found himself with nothing to do. McCoy said he'd send someone up so Spencer must not be allowed to wander. After pacing for several minutes, he studied the bed McCoy had placed the clothes on. Presumably, that meant it was designated as his. Slowly, he crawled onto it, forcing himself not to pull the heavy blankets back. He didn't bother to turn over, just buried his face in the pillows and enjoyed the way he sunk into the mattress.
Apparently, that was all it took for him to fall asleep. Granted, he hadn't slept in days, not properly in he didn't know how long, but this was a new place. If he kept making childish mistakes he was going to end up dead or worse. Spencer startled when he heard shuffling, shoes against carpet and then the edge of the bed sank beside him.
Forcing his breathing to stay even, he tried to reason out what was happening, where this was going. Then he felt fingers in his hair. Without meaning to, Spencer whipped around quickly, fingers curling around a thin wrist. The person he grabbed gasped and held the breath.
Then Spencer looked up and the world stopped.
"What the fuck."
"Nice way to treat an old friend, Smith." The statement was breathless, but still. It was Brendon's voice because Brendon was right there.
His fingers tightened and Brendon made a soft sound of discomfort but didn't try to pull away. Spencer kept staring at him, eyes tracing Brendon's face for any traces of abuse but finding none. Brendon looked...he looked good. He'd put on some weight and his smile had fewer edges. Honestly, Spencer didn't know what to do with himself.
Luckily, he didn't have to decide. Having had enough of being gawked at, apparently, Brendon launched himself onto Spencer in a bit of a tackle. One of his hands caught in Spencer's shirt, pulling him over onto his side and wrapping still too thin arms around him.
Just this once, Spencer was willing to admit he was clinging. He found his face buried in Brendon's neck, breaths coming short and nearly panicked.
"Shh. Shh. Spence, it's okay. You're fine," Brendon was whispering, fingers rubbing small circles against his scalp. "We're fine. Fuck, you're shaking."
And, now that Brendon mentioned it, Spencer noticed that he was. He didn't break like this; whatever else happened, Spencer never broke. Yet, here he was, trying not to cry just because he was in this backwards place with these strange ass people and Brendon was safe.
Brendon swallowed hard, Spencer felt the motion, and tightened his hold. Then he was talking, this stream-of-consciousness monologue that Spencer remembered him doing when he was nervous.
"Fuck, I was scared, too. When Tom first brought me here, I was terrified. I don't think I talked for a week, do you know what that's even like for me?" Spencer laughed a little wetly and Brendon sighed before he went on. "And they weren't looking at breaking anyone else out, not right now. But it's just one person and it's you. I wasn't going to fucking leave you there. They had you-" He broke off abruptly, gulping down air before he went on, softer than before.
"They were keeping you in the cage. And you looked worse than when you came to Gabe's. It was so bad, Spence. I about lost it just asking Bill. God, Spencer, what did you do?"
"Punched the trader in the face."
Brendon froze in that way where you never noticed he was moving until he stopped. When he spoke there was some sort of pride in his voice. "You're something else, man. You know that?"
Spencer nodded, sounding less hysterical when he laughed this time. Wiggling around, he managed to get an arm under him and pushed up so he could look at Brendon again. Still, he didn't push away so far that they weren't touching. If the way Brendon's fingers tightened against his neck was any indication, he was as reluctant to let go as Spencer.
"Bren. How'd... What did you do to get them to buy me?" The answer could be anything and Spencer knew Brendon, knew he'd give up any and everything if it would help someone he cared about.
Shaking his head, Brendon tugged his hair a bit. "Nothing. I asked. I....I asked. That's all."
Muscles locking down, Spencer shoved up until he was sitting. Brendon followed, leaning back on his elbows and sprawling across the bed. "Brendon. What did you do? I don't...you shouldn't have done anything. I was fine on my own."
Suddenly, Brendon's eyes were darker, a glare like daggers. "I didn't do anything. And yeah, I had to. You started a fight with a trader. You were....Do you know what they do to slaves who do that? Did you somehow miss that along the way?"
"No," Spencer practically spat the words. "I know as fucking well as you do but still. I don't want you getting hurt for-"
"Shut up."
"Bren-"
"No. Shut up." He started to turn away and Spencer's heart began to race.
"Wait! Brendon, I'm sorry, don't-"
"Woah, woah." He was back, a tray in his hands. "I'm not going anywhere, okay? See? I just brought you food."
For a solid minute, Spencer stared at what Brendon was trying to hand him. There was an apple, an honest to God red apple and Spencer couldn't even remember the last time he had one of those. It's possible that bowl full of what looked like chicken soup was hot when Brendon brought it, but Spencer wasn't sure how long ago that was. There was water, actually clean looking water. All in all, it was sort of mind boggling. He looked from the tray to Brendon and back again, almost afraid he'd touch something only for it to turn to dust.
Brendon laughed and motioned for Spencer to move. Once his back was against the headboard, Brendon set the tray across his knees. "Food, Spence. Food of the gods. I'm not even kidding. Yummy, lukewarm, goodness. Right here for you. There was a roll but I ate it. I sort of skipped lunch when Mike came back to tell me you were here. Don't make my sacrifice have been in vain."
Spencer flicked at Brendon's hair but was laughing too hard for it to even matter. For now, he'd let it go; later, though, he was finding out exactly what Brendon had done to get him here.
"Slowly, or you're going to get sick and I'm not cleaning up that kind of mess."
Laughing was really fucking good. In the next few hours that Spencer had with Brendon, he laughed more than he had since Saporta's. Nothing could beat that. Everything was sort of...not perfect, not with the fear and confusion digging at the back of Spencer's mind, but it was pretty great. He'd almost forgotten where he was, listening to Brendon tell a story about someone named Gerard nearly getting kicked by a horse and claiming it was something to do with repressing wild hearts or whatever, when there was a knock at the door.
"B?"
"You can come in, Bill," Brendon's tone was still light, but Spencer saw the way his eyes shuttered. It was enough to make Spencer's muscles lock down.
The door opened slowly and Beckett stepped in, grinning widely at where they were sitting still mostly curled around each other. "Frank's got dinner going, should be done pretty soon, I figure. You guys want to come down or should I bring it up?"
"Whichever-" Spencer was about to say whichever you would prefer, master but Brendon cut him off. Oddly enough, it still seemed like the gears were turning in Brendon's head.
"We'll probably come down. I promised Frank I'd help him with icing anyway."
Beckett waved a hand. "It's whatever, man. Frank's not going to care, you've got more important shit to deal with." When Brendon practically growled, Beckett raised a hand in apology. "Bad word choice. Chill out, little dude. I'm just saying. We'll see you down there. You're looking a little better, Spencer Smith."
Spencer's brow furrowed in confusion at Brendon's audacity and Beckett's weird brand of contrition. Besides, he'd been called a lot worse things with far more malicious intent so Spencer didn't have it in him to be easily offended anymore. Before Spencer could get his mouth open to say...something...the door was closing and Brendon was bounding off the bed.
"Come on, man, lots to see and lots to do and a hell of a lot to show off."
When Brendon held his hand out, Spencer took it without thinking, just liking the familiarity of Brendon's too hot and slightly sweaty palm.
It took the better part of an hour for Brendon to show Spencer all the little passageways in the house and Spencer was already confused by the hallways that seemed to come out of no where.
"I'm never going to get this. I'm going to get lost and then I'll starve in a corner with some mice." Spencer muttered darkly. Brendon rolled his eyes. "Or I'll show up a week later and get thrown in a dungeon for being insubordinate."
Brendon tapped their shoulders together. "Bill's afraid of dungeons so the whole basement is full of wine, no worries." They were rounding a corner when he reached out to grab Spencer's wrist and pull him to a stop. "And, look, no one's going to punish you for anything. I don't think. I haven't really tested the boundaries but they know Gabe and Tom said Bill was a slave once so..."
"I don't even know who half these people are and what? I'm supposed to trust them?"
"You've got to try, Spencer," Brendon whispered. He leaned in, hiding his eyes against Spencer's shoulder. Without even pausing to think about it, Spencer gripped the back of Brendon's shirt tightly, hanging on. "They don't ask for much, for anything really and...if that's all we have to do to stay? Don't you want to stay?"
"I want to stay with you."
"Then we've got to try this. They've been really good to me so far. The only reason I do anything is because I feel like it." When Brendon looked up, his eyes were bright with what Spencer distantly recognized as excitement. He'd had that same look when Victoria's dog had puppies and she'd given Brendon the runt of the litter because he was so worried about it being too small to be trained properly and then getting into trouble. "I give piano lessons. And someone's asking about vocal lessons. And I get paid, Spencer. They don't take any of it away from me."
Spencer's head spun and his mouth went dry. That didn't make any sense. Slaves didn't get money, if they did then there was no reason to stay, the balance of power started to level out. Not knowing what else to say, he stuck with "You hide it anyway, right?"
Brendon rolled his eyes and stepped away only to grab Spencer's hand and drag him along. "Well, yeah. I'm not a complete idiot."
PART TWO
