BBB ;; Void & Null [Part Three]
Jun. 13th, 2011 10:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bootsonPart Two
[Part Three]
The rest of the week passed without anything interesting happening. Brendon taught the girls music. Spencer worked on the house. Bob hovered in that way where he pretended not to and spent a lot of time organizing the attic.
No one really cared about the attic, but Brendon had tripped over an empty drawer last Tuesday and had jammed his wrist. He hadn’t been able to play for two days, spending all his time outside of lessons chattering at Spencer and trying to hang onto him. Spencer tried to remind him he was free; no one could punish him for accidentally injuring himself. He suspected that was the same reason Bob was dealing with the Beckett family’s assorted junk; he was doing his own version of keeping Brendon safe.
Spencer tried not to think about what that meant.
By the time Saturday rolled around, everyone needed a break.
Breakfast was barely over when Brendon and Siska scampered off to get their things together. Spencer was helping Ray clean up the kitchen when they finally resurfaced. Both Brendon and Siska were wearing tattered trousers that had been patched a few times and simple shirts that didn’t look too thick. Siska started getting some water together as Brendon bounced up to Spencer.
“Today, my fair lady - “
Ray snorted and Spencer flicked him with the edge of a towel.
Brendon was still talking. “Today, we embark on adventures for parts unknown! The dangers will be many. There will be wildlife-”
“Squirrels,” Spencer nodded, solemn.
“-food of questionable origin-”
“I think Frank made the bread you’re taking so... about right,” Ray added.
“-and other dangers we cannot foresee,” Brendon finished, as if no one had said anything at all. Instead, he grinned, wide and disarming. “Will you wait for me, Spencer Smith?”
Something knotted in Spencer’s stomach.
“Yeah,” he forced out. “Where else am I going to go?”
“That’s what I like to hear.” Still grinning, Brendon stretched up, chin tilted expectantly.
Spencer dropped a quick kiss to Brendon’s lips, but his throat was too dry for him to say anything as Brendon followed Siska toward the foyer. Brendon was calling something over his shoulder, but there was this inexplicable buzzing in Spencer’s ears, white noise that wouldn’t let anything else in.
Brendon was doing something fun. He’d finally talked Siska into investigating the more complicated route. Nothing about that should be so alarming. Except the part where Brendon could go do that without worrying about anything.
Brendon could go anywhere he wanted. He was free now, had papers with all the wax seals in the right places and the signatures over the designated lines. And Spencer was going to be left waiting. Whereever Brendon wanted to go, all Spencer could do was wait and hope like hell that Brendon would come home.
“Fuck,” Spencer whispered. He blinked quickly, several times, trying to focus in on anything
When he could make sense of reality again, Ray was gone. Instead, Bob was leaning in the doorway, watching Spencer with some sort of fascination. Or pity; Spencer really hoped it wasn’t pity.
Bob opened his mouth but instead of asking what was wrong or telling Spencer to get over himself, all he said was, “You about ready?”
“Um,” Spencer squinted. “For what?”
Bob smiled, sort of; it was the same look he always got when Spencer glared. “Pedicone’s? You need shit for the fieldhouse. Butcher has the cart hooked up to one of the horses and the one you like is saddled up.”
Spencer knew he was getting a little pink. Oh. He’d sort of forgotten about this. He’d forgotten about it in that way that happens when you think about it constantly until right before you actually need to remember it.
He looked down at the pants he’d slept in and the too-small shirt he’d pulled on that morning; it may have actually belonged to Brendon. “Uh. Give me a few minutes?”
“Sure,” Bob shrugged.
The prickle on the back of Spencer’s neck, the feeling of being watched, stayed with him until he cleared the back stairs and hit the landing for the second floor.
Spencer tried to rush around, running a comb through his hair and finding acceptable town clothes. Town always made him nervous. Towns meant shopping centers and merchant squares. Merchant squares meant stationary and/or traveling sales houses: traders and resigned looking slaves being gawked at by potential owners.
It was never really a fun experience. Even Brendon - who could fake his way through anything and always smiled more when he was upset - avoided town when he could and usually held onto whoever was conveniently close.
Spencer really didn’t want to look out of place, so he tried to emulate the things he’d seen Bill wear when he’d been going to parties at Pete’s or dinners at Greta’s. He ended up in slim-legged white trousers with gray pinstripes and a matching vest over a white collared shirt. He threw on a black bow tie just for kicks and tied up a pair of black boots that Bob had handeddown to him.
It was as good as things were going to get.
Spencer found Bob outside with their horses. Both were field hunters - even if they probably hadn’t been used for hunting since Siska made Bill buy them - and roughly the same color; Spencer couldn’t tell one brown horse from the next.
Bob finished toying with the flat-bed cart hitched to his horse and turned to Spencer.
“Need a leg up?”
Spencer’s eyes narrowed before he even thought about it. What the hell? He didn’t need help for something so trivial.
“No. I’ve got this shit.”
Squaring his shoulders, Spencer walked purposefully to the horse they’d brought out for him. He really did hate horses and the feeling seemed to be mutual; it was a definite hate-hate relationship. Still, since Bob was watching with his half-amused and judging stare, Spencer gripped the pommel and slipped his foot into the stirrup.
“Please don’t throw me,” he whispered in his most soothing voice. He didn’t know much about horses, but politeness couldn’t hurt.
He pulled himself up, swinging his leg around at the last second and...managed not to fall or get thrown on his ass. Awesome!
Bob laughed, not just a resigned chuckle. It was a surprisingly clear, bright sound. Spencer was startled when he realized he wanted to hear it basically all the time; the only other thing that came close to that was his desire to see Brendon’s smile every second.
“The road shouldn’t be too busy this late. Shouldn’t take more than three-quarters of an hour,” Bob explained, already urging his horse forward.
Spencer sat up a little straighter and followed along.
**********
Bob ended up being right: the road was nearly empty. A couple men tipped their hats as they rode by, and a few girls giggled and ducked their heads as they picked wildflowers. Otherwise, the area seemed deserted, except for the people he barely glimpsed as they worked in the fields; he tried not to wonder if they were slaves.
As town grew closer, the houses did as well. Where Beckett’s neighbors were acres away, the ones in town became clusters with narrow alleys separating them. That led to buildings that touched, seemed crammed into too small a space, but were beautiful nonetheless.
Shepherdville was actually a picturesque little township. The light bricked homes, cobblestone streets, and recently painted storefronts were all things Spencer couldn’t help finding beautiful. Superficially.
There were maybe ten shops total. Most of them, through necessity, were strange combinations of unrelated trades: Decaydance (Pete and Patrick’s tailor-slash-funeral home), Summer House (Greta’s inn-slash-bakery-slash-instrument repair), and, with the most obvious name, Pedicone’s Hardware and Jewel Emporium. There were other buildings, as well - a pub, a bank, an upscale restaurant, the church, the dancehall, the sheriff's office, and the post office - but Spencer hadn’t been in any of those yet. Basically, this wasn’t a sprawling city, not large enough for an actual slave house or busy enough to catch the attention of the traveling sales houses.
There was no reason Spencer should be so nervous. Except for how everyone seemed to know everyone else. He was going to look like such an impostor.
As they entered the slightly busier Main Street, Spencer’s skin started crawling. He was getting twitchy and shifting almost constantly in the saddle. After the fifth person waved to Bob and shouted some sort of nonsense, Spencer gave up and slouched back against the cantle.
Bob rode to the alley behind Pedicone’s and tied his horse to the rein hitch carved into a post. Spencer followed his actions, mostly on autopilot. Spencer spent an inordinate amount of time staring at the reins he was holding, wondering why his hands were vibrating.
“Hey,” Bob said. He dropped a hand on Spencer’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze before sliding down to grip Spencer’s elbow. “Got your list?”
Spencer let himself be steered around to the front of the shop while he dug through his pockets for his list. He handed it to Bob, because he didn’t know what else to do. Bob looked it over and nodded.
“All right. He should have all this in stock. Most people mend everything over the summer.” Bobpushed through the door and kept talking. If Spencer had been paying any attention, he would have been startled by the sheer amount of words coming out of Bob’s mouth.
As it were, Spencer didn’t hear any of it, too busy looking at everything. He hadn’t been in a real store (other than Pete’s, which didn’t hold many finished products) in... he actually didn’t know how long. There were just so many... things. It was sort of overwhelming, almost as bad as the amount of people browsing shelves and chatting in aisles.
He felt sort of aimless as Bob moved deftly around the store, picking things up and handing a few back for Spencer to carry. When they had everything except the lumber Spencer needed for the doorframe and windowpanes, Bob left him on his own.
Bob was off getting whoever was working to help load the things that were held in the storage shed and Spencer didn’t know what to do with himself. Spencer was wandering, trying to ignore the stares he was imagining on his back.
He stopped at a counter, looking through the open window behind it to the rows of jewels and other shiny objects hanging along the walls. Gold and silver glittered in the afternoon sun filtering in through the windows. He was honestly a little mesmerized by it all.
A loud cough caught his attention.
“You going to stand there all day, boy, or are you buying something?” A deep voice asked.
Spencer had been on edge since they hit Main Street, and sharp tones from people he didn’t know weren’t exactly what he was prepared for. Schooling his features into his best glower, all squinted eyes and his mouth in a straight line, Spencer turned. His arms were still full of merchandise so he couldn’t cock his hips the way he wanted, but he doubted that would have mattered.
The man was wearing clothes that put Spencer’s to shame, meaning he must have bought them in the city instead of from Pete. He was about Spencer’s height, with darker hair that was cut short but styled perfectly. Spencer sort of wanted to hit him in his smug face.
“Not deaf then. Just stupid? They’ll let anyone in here these days,” the man scoffed. A boy beside him, about thirteen but a near copy of who must be his father, laughed.
“Pardon?” Spencer asked, voice flat.
“I’m waiting here. Soon as Pedicone’s new lackey gets back from helping the oaf load his cart, I’ll be spending more money than you’ve ever seen.” He sounded perfectly uninterested in everything.
The bored ones were always the most dangerous. But this jerk didn’t own Spencer - Bill did, sort of, technically - so he couldn’t actually do anything.
“Were you here first?” Spencer tried not to sound confrontational but knew his words were clipped.
“Does it matter?” He huffed. “Not from around here? I own half this township, boy. If I say move, you do it.”
Spencer bristled. The man’s kid laughed again. Spencer tightened his hold on the boxes he was gripping; the sharp edges kept him from lashing out. Instead, he thought about his tone, controlled it as much as he could, and tried to sound like the coldest asshole he’d ever met.
“You don’t have the right papers to get to tell me shit.”
When the man and a couple bystanders froze, Spencer realized his mistake. Just fucking great.
“Wait, Dad,” the boy was saying. “What’s...”
“Slave?” His voice lilted like it was a question, but his eyes were mocking. “Out and about in the middle of the day and no owner strapped to you? Let me see your papers,” he demanded.
“Um,” Spencer spluttered.
Shit. Fucking hell. How could he forget to ask Beckett for Papers of Permissions? Whenever slaves were actually sent out, rare as that usually was, they were always supposed to have a sealed letter from their owner outlining where they were going and for what purpose.
“Oh,” the man nodded slowly. “I see. Runaway, then? Trying to sneak supplies out?” He stepped closer, his chest nearly brushing the boxes Spencer was clutching. “That is not how this works. You remember what you are and who controls you. Someone got sloppy; I doubt that happens again. Jonah!” He snapped his fingers until his son stepped up. “Run and grab Sheriff Gilbert. Tell him we have a violent runaway on our hands.”
The boy nodded and was off, the crowded in audience parting smoothly for him. Spencer watched the boy go with a sort of detached horror.
There weren’t many options in a situation like this. Runaways were among the highest level of criminals. Lawmen rarely allowed a runaway any lenience, didn’t have time to pander to those trying to break out of their assigned role. Running was a risk, because if you were caught? If someone caught a slave who was on the run, the slave almost never saw another sale. The types of retraining designed for runaways were enough to reduce someone to a complete neurotic mess. And that was only if the owner didn’t come to claim the slave; owners usually punished runaways far more violently than anything else.
If a slave was running, it was either make it or die. Death was usually preferable.
Spencer was in the middle of trying to figure out how likely he was to make it back to Beckett’s if he could just run fast enough when he heard someone shoving through the crowd.
It was over.
He was going to be taken in, beaten, locked up, and sent to a training master. Spencer was never going to see Brendon again, never get to touch his hand or kiss him or toy with his hair. Hopefully, Bob would tell Brendon that Spencer hadn’t been taken on purpose.
“What the fuck is this?” Bob snapped from somewhere to Spencer’s right.
The man reached out, gripping Spencer’s forearm so hard there would be bruises. “None of your concern, Bryar. A little matter with a runaway. It’s taken care of.”
“The fucking hell it is.” Bob had never sounded so... growly. His voice was low, catching in his throat and rumbling on the way out. His eyes were wide, but it was more of a glare than any glower Spencer had ever seen. “Get your smug-ass fucking hands off him, Nance.”
Nance scoffed, his fingers digging in deeper when Spencer tried to jerk away. “Don’t go getting sympathetic with the livestock. We don’t need more runaways tarnishing out good tow-”
The hold on Spencer’s arm was gone in an instant. He turned, eyes so wide and unblinking that they were already drying out. This couldn’t... It didn’t make any sense.
Bob had Nance bent backwards over the counter. One hand was around the man’s throat, the other fisted in his overpriced shirt. Bob’s mouth was twisted into a sneer and he was speaking quick and low. Spencer was the closest to them, but he couldn’t make out any of the words.
Nance was gasping, or trying to - both hands tugging unsuccessfully at Bob’s arm.
“Dad!” Jonah was back, looking terrified and panting for breath from having run down the street and back.
Suddenly, Bob stepped back and dropped his hands. Nance rolled to his side, dragging in heavy breaths, coughing.
“Don’t make me bring in the good Baronet Beckett,” Bob said, nastily. “He’ll make your finances a living hell after I ruin your fucking life. Fucking try me.” Without taking his eyes off of Nance or acknowledging the lawman working his way through the crowd, Bob started talking again. “Spencer, put that on Bill’s tab. Mike already did the rest.”
“What the - “
“Spencer,” Bob whispered, urgent.
Spencer tried not to stomp to the till at the end of the counter or slam his things down onto it. He knew he was a little violent with the bell, but fuck.
He wasn’t sure he said another word as his purchases were added to Beckett’s running total and he headed back toward the door.
Such a waste of a day.
**********
Halfway back to Beckett’s, they still hadn’t said anything. Spencer was too busy trying to stay on his horse while hating the entire world to make any attempts at conversation.
What the hell had been that guy’s problem? Spencer didn’t have much faith in people that weren’t Brendon, Ryan, Jon, Bob, Travie, or Gerard - it was, admittedly, a slowly growing list. He’d seen the type of evil that came with giving someone power over anything or anyone else. But he hadn’t done anything, as far as he could tell.
Then there was Bob. Maybe Spencer should be grateful, should be thanking Bob from the bottom of his heart, but what? Spencer was fucking self-sufficient, all right? He didn’t need someone jumping to his defense, especially not Bob with his perfect ability to remain unruffled in every other situation. Spencer wasn’t sure who he was angrier with at the moment.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he muttered before he could stop himself.
Spencer didn’t bother to look away from the road to check Bob’s reaction. The subsequent silence went on for so long that Spencer thought his comment had been lost under the sound of hoof-beats and clicking cart wheels.
“Yeah, I did,” Bob snapped.
Spencer turned his head fast enough to crack his neck, but Bob wasn’t looking at him. While he was actually looking forward, his eyes seemed distant from what Spencer could see.
“Why? I could have... I don’t know. I would have figured something out.” Which was a lie. Spencer had no idea what he had planned on doing back there, but people didn’t do this for him. They didn’t just jump on people or give things up to protect him.
Except Brendon, who was a special case.
“Spencer... You don’t get caught when you run. I learned from fucking experience, okay? If Butcher hadn’t been in the right fucking place at the right time...” He trailed off; they both knew where he’d have ended up.
“But I thought Bill bought you,” Spencer said softly. It was a faux pas to bring up how a slave or former slave had changed hands, but Spencer couldn’t make sense of it.
“He did,” Bob nodded. Taking a deep breath, he glanced at Spencer quickly before continuing. “I wasn’t supposed to be a slave. But my family didn’t make harvest a few times, my father took off, my mother got sick. I couldn’t cover the bills on my own and the debt piled up too fast.”
Bob should have sounded upset, but Spencer only heard emptiness in his voice. It made him shiver, even though the wind was still and the sun was ironically bright.
“I got contracted into servitude. Five years of working security for some asshole bougie type and I was free to do what I wanted.” Bob laughed then, a harsh ugly sound.
Spencer winced.
“He kept changing my time served. Every time I signed my paperwork, he had removed tasks or added a room and board fee. I probably never would have gotten out, so I left. I left and I ended up here, working where I could and crashing with anyone who had the space or store rooms when a shop owner felt bad.”
Spencer was starting to see where this was going, and he fucking hated it.
“I was spending half my time doing grunt work at a pub and the rest was out at the butcher shop, mostly doing clean-up, behind the scenes shit. That’s where I met Butcher.” He huffed a little, almost genuine amusement. “He was the worst fucking apprentice. Siska was working for Bill and got Butcher on out there. Then they put me up front.”
Public eye. Spencer knew all about trying to hide under the radar. Today was just one more example of the shit that happened when the lowest class of humans earned unwanted attention.
“It was fine for a week or so. There must have been a warrant out, some sheriff’s deputy saw me running a delivery and they snatched me up about an hour later. Never fucking saw it coming. They had me in lock up for a few days; I don’t even know how long it was.”
Spencer wanted to slide off his horse, pull Bob down, and just hang on for a while. He didn’t remember ever having an intense need to hug someone before; it must be Brendon’s influence. Spencer knew better, though. Bob was too rigid, movement too controlled even considering he was riding a horse, with the extra burden of the cart being pulled along behind him.
“I knew they were gearing up to ship me to the trainers, but Bill got there first. I don’t know how Butcher knew; I guess he overheard some shit. Bill bought me before they bothered to train me. Spent an actual fuckton of money on me, too. Freed me a year later.”
Part of Spencer wanted to ask questions. There was obviously so much going unsaid, but Bob never pushed him so Spencer wasn’t about to be that rude. Eventually, maybe, they’d figure each other out.
“I - ” Spencer took some deep breaths. “I didn’t know...”
Which wasn’t nearly what he should have said, but what the hell was he supposed to do with all this? Sure, he’d wanted to know about Bob’s past, had invented all sorts of sordid tales - most far worse than this one. None of that mattered because now he knew the truth and as simple as the story sounded, Spencer knew, could hear it in the mostly dry and partially bitter tone Bob used that everything had still hurt.
“You couldn’t have,” Bob shrugged. “But now you know. I had to do something today. You deserved someone on your side, anyway.”
There wasn’t anything to say to that, nothing that would explain the slow heat crawling up Spencer’s neck and face, or the way his stomach sort of bottomed out. Spencer just did what his mother had always taught him, one of the few things he still remembered clearly.
“Thank you.”
Bob nodded but just sped up, pushing the horse as fast as he dared with the load he was pulling. Luckily, the lane for the house was close, and the awkwardness wouldn’t have to last too terribly much longer.
Hopefully.
**********
New building materials were enough of an excuse for Spencer to hide from the rest of the estate for a while. He organized his piles of nails and lumber into stacks based on which room they were needed to fix. He measured and cut the wood to fit in frames or arranged stones tentatively around holes in the foundation. Actual mending could be done later, when everything was ready to be properly fixed into place.
The day wore on quickly and Spencer found himself too preoccupied with his fieldhouse to think about Bob or Nance and his fucking owner complex. He worked up a sweat and probably ruined his clothing since he hadn’t bothered to change, just pulled his bow tie free and shrugged out of his vest. He was actually feeling pretty good by the time dusk fell.
Spencer gathered his discarded pieces of clothing and shut up the house o he could head in for dinner. He was going to be later than usual; most everyone who spent their time closer to the main house ate as soon as whatever someone cooked was done.
Brendon was usually one of those people, Spencer realized as he walked around to the outer kitchen door. It was sort of strange that Brendon hadn’t come to collect Spencer yet; he always did that when Spencer got busy doing something, or he sent Bob in his place. Brendon must have just been too preoccupied with his tales of adventure. Spencer didn’t worry; Brendon would tell him everything later, regardless of if Spencer had already heard the stories or not.
A small smile curved Spencer’s lips at the thought. They’d fallen into bed still chattering at each other in whispers ever since Brendon was officially freed. They talked about everything and nothing until one of them got distracted kissing lips and necks, petting hair and any exposed skin within reach. It never went much further than that, but it was nice, all the same.
Spencer laughed at himself as he walked into the dining room. It took a moment to notice that things were much quieter than usual, almost somber.
Whatever mirth Spencer had been building up fell flat when the whispered conversations stopped. He was really getting sick of stopping whole conversations with just his presence. They must have heard about the scene he’d caused in town. Fucking great; Beckett was never going to let him out in public again, not that Spencer was too keen on going anyway.
“What’s going on?” He asked, defensive. “Did... something happen?”
Glancing around, Spencer took stock of everyone. Bill was at the head of the table, as always, with Travie to his left and Butcher to his right. Gerard and Frank were beside Butcher, Mikey and Carden rounding out their side. Siska was beside Travie, Ray next with an empty seat between him and Bob.
Brendon was nowhere to be seen.
“Where’s Brendon?”
Siska shifted, squirmed around.
“Come sit,” Ray suggested.
Spencer bristled. Something was going on with Brendon, and no one was saying anything. “No. Where’s Brendon?”
Bob bit at his lip ring. He did that sometimes when Spencer was being particularly contrary. “Spencer, please. Sit down and we’ll tell you.”
That sounded like a trap, but Spencer was willing to do anything to find out what everyone else already knew. Spencer felt especially conscious of his body’s every shift as he walked around the table and slid into the seat Bob pushed out for him. He sat rigid, posture perfect, staring at Gerard because he was always a talker and usually an easy target.
When no one said anything, Spencer squinted. He pursed his lips a little and turned the corners down. Without thinking about it, he crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head.
Gerard watched the whole thing, glancing toward Ray then Bob. He turned to look at Bill then stared intently at Siska. He shifted, apparently still feeling the weight of Spencer’s best – as Ryan had dubbed it – bitchface.
Carden snorted. Bill opened his mouth. Siska slouched further in his seat.
Gerard broke.
“Adam fucking lost Brendon!”
“I did not!” Siska practically yelled. He leaned around Ray to look at Spencer, recoiling a little when Spencer turned to look at him instead of Gerard. “I didn’t lose him. I left him on the path when Mike came to get me. One of the horses was having a fit and not letting Frank near her. I was gone maybe an hour. Brendon must have taken a different route; he wasn’t where he should have been.”
Spencer’s blood ran cold, a chill running down his spine fast enough to actually shake him.
“Brendon’s gone?”
“I’m sure he just got distracted,” Beckett promised. “He’ll be back. Just give it a little while.”
Spencer shook his head. His gaze fell on the wide windows set at the far end of the room. Dusk was quickly fading, the sunset colors growing duller by the minute.
“Brendon doesn’t like being outside after dark,” Spencer heard himself whispering, but couldn’t seem to stop it. “He had a master that wouldn’t give slaves rooms in the house and put them in this... high-walled kennel thing. There wasn’t a roof. When the moon was gone or the clouds were thick or the lanterns were out... When it was like that, he couldn’t see anything, even the people right beside him. Didn’t know what they were doing when straw cracked or someone gasped or...”
He didn’t realize how quickly he was talking until Bob’s arm settled around his shoulder.
“Okay. Okay. We’re going to go look for him.” Travie sounded more urgent than Spencer had ever heard him. “All right. Where do we need to go?”
Everyone started talking at once, their tones still soft but laced with urgency. Gerard in particular was rambling off people who were nearby. Someone made a list, but Spencer wasn’t sure who it was, too wrapped up in feeling like he was floating somewhere independent of his body.
The solid weight of Bob’s arm was the only thing holding Spencer together.
Spencer didn’t eat, couldn’t even look at anything long enough to fill a plate, but no one pushed. He wasn’t even sure what he was doing, other than sitting there and trying to will himself not to exist.
He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the conversation, the plans, happening around him, but all he kept hearing was Brendon’s voice. Brendon’s voice, quiet and serious in the dark of their room upstairs as he talked about the outside slave kennel and how he hadn’t slept more than an hour a night for the six months he’d been there. He’d only been thirteen years old.
“We’ll be back as soon as we can,” Mikey said, close enough to Spencer’s ear that Spencer actually heard him.
Spencer nodded.
“I swear he’ll be okay, Spencer. We’re going to find him; he’ll probably be back before we are,” Siska told him, more earnest than usual.
Spencer nodded again and didn’t open his eyes until everything had fallen silent. He opened his eyes and the room was empty, save for Bob still sitting beside him.
“Let’s go to the lounge.”
“I... can’t. We have to go... We have to do something. I can’t... If Brendon’s hurt or...” Spencer swallowed around the lump in his throat, keeping what came after that or locked inside.
“It’s taken care of. We’re going to stay and wait, be here when Brendon shows up and gets all fluttery and shit because he caused such a fuss.” Bob sounded so reasonable that Spencer let himself be pulled up and urged to the other side of the house.
Bob explained all the things Spencer had been too panicked to hear. Frank, Butcher, and Siska could work the horses better so they headed for the path where Siska had left Brendon; it would take some serious maneuvering to get around the overgrowth and fallen trees. Gerard and Mikey headed out to their closest neighbors, the four estates bordering Beckett’s. Ray took Carden to call on Sarah, Cassadee, Hayley, and Ashlee in hopes that Brendon had remembered an in-home lesson or something. Bill and Travie were tackling the tavern, well aware that the lay-abouts downing pints were the most likely to let all the local gossip slip.
Everything was covered, and Spencer honestly didn’t know if he should be thankful that he didn’t have to do anything or pissed that all he could do was wait.
The nothing that came with waiting was harder for Spencer to deal with than he wanted to admit. Bob seemed to know, though, holding onto Spencer in the least obvious ways and telling stories about Gerard’s first month on the estate - which seemed to consist of a lot of getting lost in the attic or the cellar and Mikey having silent tantrums for hours on end.
It only marginally helped.
As it got later, Spencer got touchier. No one seemed to consider the real worse case scenarios here. Things could be so much worse than Brendon getting hurt and needing help getting back. Even if thinking about Brendon being alone and too terrified to trace his steps home made Spencer’s heart ache, that was still not the scariest situation imaginable.
Filching happened all the time; Spencer knew that from personal fucking experience. He was a kid, a freeborn kid, who got sidetracked when he was running an errand for his mother, and he was filched right in the middle of the village where he’d spent his entire, safe childhood. Brendon being filched, a former slave, someone who might not look like he was owned but still acted like he might be beaten when he was nervous… people like that could be filched in a second. It’s not like Brendon knew how to fight.
Leaning into Spencer’s shoulder, just enough to make his presence known, Bob settled more firmly against the short sofa.
“I’ll teach him. When he’s back. I’ll make sure he can handle himself. I should have fucking done that from the beginning. Jesus.” Bob’s voice seemed thin and worn out.
When Spencer turned to look at him, there were shadows over his eyes from the way he had his head tilted, and his hair was hiding his face. Spencer had never seen Bob like that, hadn’t even known it was possible for Bob to be so… lost? Lost didn’t seem right, but Spencer didn’t have Ryan’s antiquated vocabulary to guide him.
At a loss for anything else to do, Spencer pressed his knee against Bob’s and reached out to push the hair from his eyes. “I tried to teach him once. So did Nate, when Saporta still owned us. His left hook sucks, and there’s no subtlety to his moves.”
Bob snorted. “You tried? Since when are you a fighter? The bitchface is killer, but really?”
There was so much skepticism hitting him that Spencer bristled for a second. He’d spent his share of time in traveling sales houses fighting with the other slaves over the ludicrously meager rations they were offered. He’d had an owner who made his new slaves prove themselves against the veterans. Then there was the one who was overly preoccupied with the stories of gladiators in Ancient Greece and set them up for unevenly matched battles in the caged-in basement room.
But Bob didn’t know that, and Spencer wasn’t sure he could bring himself to talk about it. No, not with the way his heart was pounding harder with every tick and tock on the antique grandfather clock Beckett kept in the corner. Every second Brendon didn’t stumble in the door laughing and no one came back with any information, Spencer felt himself slipping a little more into the headspace he’d maintained during the last traveling sales house after Jon and Ryan had been taken and the ever elusive Tom had stumbled across Brendon, actually remembering him as one of Jon’s friends from Saporta’s.
He shook himself. “Didn’t Bren tell you why he got me out? I mauled the trader.” That wasn’t strictly true, but it sounded better than I broke his nose and was thrown in a cage for three days.
Bob raised an eyebrow. “You have hidden depths I don’t know about, Smith?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe, Bryar.” Surprisingly, Spencer felt a tug at the corner of his lips, not a smile but a close approximation to one.
“We’ll see.” It was cryptic, even for Bob, but Spencer didn’t actually mind.
Not until Gerard and Mikey came stomping in. Mikey’s face was drawn, more so than usual. To anyone who didn’t know better, he’d look blank. Luckily, Spencer had been around just long enough to know the difference between blank and terrified. Gerard shrugged, apologies falling from his lips like it was his fault they didn’t find Brendon.
“We asked the DeLonges, but they don’t know anything. Hoppus was gone; the maid answered the door but said he’d been called out earlier in the evening and had no idea when he’d be back. And Barker hasn’t seen him since raspberry season. Brian said there was a lot of traffic on the lane today… but they didn’t see any traders or slaves...” He hadn’t seemed to take a breath, which was fairly normal for Gerard when he was worked up, but that also didn’t seem to be the end of it.
Mikey elbowed him, giving him a significant look full of eyebrow movements and tiny lip quirks. Gerard was all but cringing, grimacing and looking between Spencer and the wall. Finally, Mikey sighed.
“There were wagons. Looked like regular tradesmen, but…”
Spencer closed his eyes, letting his head drop forward.
“But,” he repeated. They all knew that wagons could masquerade as anything, cover all manner of legal and illegal indiscretions.
A warm weight settled against his neck, Bob’s finger carding lightly through the hair Brendon was surprisingly letting Spencer grow out. Spencer tried to sigh, push the breath out of his lungs under the reassuring weight of the touch, but. But it wouldn’t happen. His chest tightened, throat burned, eyes stung from lack of oxygen or Brendon deprivation.
“Spencer-“ Gerard started, tone a little frantic. Spencer tried to wave him off, shrug off the heavy looks Mikey was giving him as he stepped closer.
“Smith, come on,” Bob muttered, squeezing Spencer’s neck enough to get him to exhale, follow that up with a few gasps. “Good.”
“Do you… Is there anything? Seriously, fucking anything, Spencer, we’ll just…” Gerard would have kept going if not for Mikey.
“Gee. See if Carden and Ray are back from seeing the girls yet. Maybe they know something.” It was a good try, but it was obvious that Mikey didn’t think anyone would have any more information than he did.
Spencer looked up, trying to… something. Thank Mikey for getting Gerard and his fucking earnest desire to fix everything out of there, or show Gerard he appreciated the optimism when everything just looked empty from where Spencer was sitting. Whatever he was attempting, Spencer knew he missed it by a fucking landslide.
Bob wouldn’t let him get the words out, saved him from stuttering some type of nonsense. “You’re going to bed.”
Spencer fell back against the cushions as Bob stood up, knowing he wasn’t hiding the incredulous expression he felt on his face. “No. What the fuck. Brendon’s…where ever the hell he is! I can’t… he’s just… gone, and if he’s not here something’s happened and…I ’m not. Sleeping isn’t. I can’t just. Bob.”
There wasn’t actually a reaction. Bob stared at him, his eyes looking more like steel than anything else, expressionless, challenging.
“Up, Spencer. You’re not doing anyone any favors sitting here and panicking.” The words were harsh, but Bob’s eyes were so... sad that Spencer couldn’t take offense. “We’ll go upstairs and wait for him. Someone will come get us when they know something. Just rest a while, yeah?”
Spencer sighed, but took Bob’s hand when it was offered.
Part Four
The rest of the week passed without anything interesting happening. Brendon taught the girls music. Spencer worked on the house. Bob hovered in that way where he pretended not to and spent a lot of time organizing the attic.
No one really cared about the attic, but Brendon had tripped over an empty drawer last Tuesday and had jammed his wrist. He hadn’t been able to play for two days, spending all his time outside of lessons chattering at Spencer and trying to hang onto him. Spencer tried to remind him he was free; no one could punish him for accidentally injuring himself. He suspected that was the same reason Bob was dealing with the Beckett family’s assorted junk; he was doing his own version of keeping Brendon safe.
Spencer tried not to think about what that meant.
By the time Saturday rolled around, everyone needed a break.
Breakfast was barely over when Brendon and Siska scampered off to get their things together. Spencer was helping Ray clean up the kitchen when they finally resurfaced. Both Brendon and Siska were wearing tattered trousers that had been patched a few times and simple shirts that didn’t look too thick. Siska started getting some water together as Brendon bounced up to Spencer.
“Today, my fair lady - “
Ray snorted and Spencer flicked him with the edge of a towel.
Brendon was still talking. “Today, we embark on adventures for parts unknown! The dangers will be many. There will be wildlife-”
“Squirrels,” Spencer nodded, solemn.
“-food of questionable origin-”
“I think Frank made the bread you’re taking so... about right,” Ray added.
“-and other dangers we cannot foresee,” Brendon finished, as if no one had said anything at all. Instead, he grinned, wide and disarming. “Will you wait for me, Spencer Smith?”
Something knotted in Spencer’s stomach.
“Yeah,” he forced out. “Where else am I going to go?”
“That’s what I like to hear.” Still grinning, Brendon stretched up, chin tilted expectantly.
Spencer dropped a quick kiss to Brendon’s lips, but his throat was too dry for him to say anything as Brendon followed Siska toward the foyer. Brendon was calling something over his shoulder, but there was this inexplicable buzzing in Spencer’s ears, white noise that wouldn’t let anything else in.
Brendon was doing something fun. He’d finally talked Siska into investigating the more complicated route. Nothing about that should be so alarming. Except the part where Brendon could go do that without worrying about anything.
Brendon could go anywhere he wanted. He was free now, had papers with all the wax seals in the right places and the signatures over the designated lines. And Spencer was going to be left waiting. Whereever Brendon wanted to go, all Spencer could do was wait and hope like hell that Brendon would come home.
“Fuck,” Spencer whispered. He blinked quickly, several times, trying to focus in on anything
When he could make sense of reality again, Ray was gone. Instead, Bob was leaning in the doorway, watching Spencer with some sort of fascination. Or pity; Spencer really hoped it wasn’t pity.
Bob opened his mouth but instead of asking what was wrong or telling Spencer to get over himself, all he said was, “You about ready?”
“Um,” Spencer squinted. “For what?”
Bob smiled, sort of; it was the same look he always got when Spencer glared. “Pedicone’s? You need shit for the fieldhouse. Butcher has the cart hooked up to one of the horses and the one you like is saddled up.”
Spencer knew he was getting a little pink. Oh. He’d sort of forgotten about this. He’d forgotten about it in that way that happens when you think about it constantly until right before you actually need to remember it.
He looked down at the pants he’d slept in and the too-small shirt he’d pulled on that morning; it may have actually belonged to Brendon. “Uh. Give me a few minutes?”
“Sure,” Bob shrugged.
The prickle on the back of Spencer’s neck, the feeling of being watched, stayed with him until he cleared the back stairs and hit the landing for the second floor.
Spencer tried to rush around, running a comb through his hair and finding acceptable town clothes. Town always made him nervous. Towns meant shopping centers and merchant squares. Merchant squares meant stationary and/or traveling sales houses: traders and resigned looking slaves being gawked at by potential owners.
It was never really a fun experience. Even Brendon - who could fake his way through anything and always smiled more when he was upset - avoided town when he could and usually held onto whoever was conveniently close.
Spencer really didn’t want to look out of place, so he tried to emulate the things he’d seen Bill wear when he’d been going to parties at Pete’s or dinners at Greta’s. He ended up in slim-legged white trousers with gray pinstripes and a matching vest over a white collared shirt. He threw on a black bow tie just for kicks and tied up a pair of black boots that Bob had handeddown to him.
It was as good as things were going to get.
Spencer found Bob outside with their horses. Both were field hunters - even if they probably hadn’t been used for hunting since Siska made Bill buy them - and roughly the same color; Spencer couldn’t tell one brown horse from the next.
Bob finished toying with the flat-bed cart hitched to his horse and turned to Spencer.
“Need a leg up?”
Spencer’s eyes narrowed before he even thought about it. What the hell? He didn’t need help for something so trivial.
“No. I’ve got this shit.”
Squaring his shoulders, Spencer walked purposefully to the horse they’d brought out for him. He really did hate horses and the feeling seemed to be mutual; it was a definite hate-hate relationship. Still, since Bob was watching with his half-amused and judging stare, Spencer gripped the pommel and slipped his foot into the stirrup.
“Please don’t throw me,” he whispered in his most soothing voice. He didn’t know much about horses, but politeness couldn’t hurt.
He pulled himself up, swinging his leg around at the last second and...managed not to fall or get thrown on his ass. Awesome!
Bob laughed, not just a resigned chuckle. It was a surprisingly clear, bright sound. Spencer was startled when he realized he wanted to hear it basically all the time; the only other thing that came close to that was his desire to see Brendon’s smile every second.
“The road shouldn’t be too busy this late. Shouldn’t take more than three-quarters of an hour,” Bob explained, already urging his horse forward.
Spencer sat up a little straighter and followed along.
Bob ended up being right: the road was nearly empty. A couple men tipped their hats as they rode by, and a few girls giggled and ducked their heads as they picked wildflowers. Otherwise, the area seemed deserted, except for the people he barely glimpsed as they worked in the fields; he tried not to wonder if they were slaves.
As town grew closer, the houses did as well. Where Beckett’s neighbors were acres away, the ones in town became clusters with narrow alleys separating them. That led to buildings that touched, seemed crammed into too small a space, but were beautiful nonetheless.
Shepherdville was actually a picturesque little township. The light bricked homes, cobblestone streets, and recently painted storefronts were all things Spencer couldn’t help finding beautiful. Superficially.
There were maybe ten shops total. Most of them, through necessity, were strange combinations of unrelated trades: Decaydance (Pete and Patrick’s tailor-slash-funeral home), Summer House (Greta’s inn-slash-bakery-slash-instrument repair), and, with the most obvious name, Pedicone’s Hardware and Jewel Emporium. There were other buildings, as well - a pub, a bank, an upscale restaurant, the church, the dancehall, the sheriff's office, and the post office - but Spencer hadn’t been in any of those yet. Basically, this wasn’t a sprawling city, not large enough for an actual slave house or busy enough to catch the attention of the traveling sales houses.
There was no reason Spencer should be so nervous. Except for how everyone seemed to know everyone else. He was going to look like such an impostor.
As they entered the slightly busier Main Street, Spencer’s skin started crawling. He was getting twitchy and shifting almost constantly in the saddle. After the fifth person waved to Bob and shouted some sort of nonsense, Spencer gave up and slouched back against the cantle.
Bob rode to the alley behind Pedicone’s and tied his horse to the rein hitch carved into a post. Spencer followed his actions, mostly on autopilot. Spencer spent an inordinate amount of time staring at the reins he was holding, wondering why his hands were vibrating.
“Hey,” Bob said. He dropped a hand on Spencer’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze before sliding down to grip Spencer’s elbow. “Got your list?”
Spencer let himself be steered around to the front of the shop while he dug through his pockets for his list. He handed it to Bob, because he didn’t know what else to do. Bob looked it over and nodded.
“All right. He should have all this in stock. Most people mend everything over the summer.” Bobpushed through the door and kept talking. If Spencer had been paying any attention, he would have been startled by the sheer amount of words coming out of Bob’s mouth.
As it were, Spencer didn’t hear any of it, too busy looking at everything. He hadn’t been in a real store (other than Pete’s, which didn’t hold many finished products) in... he actually didn’t know how long. There were just so many... things. It was sort of overwhelming, almost as bad as the amount of people browsing shelves and chatting in aisles.
He felt sort of aimless as Bob moved deftly around the store, picking things up and handing a few back for Spencer to carry. When they had everything except the lumber Spencer needed for the doorframe and windowpanes, Bob left him on his own.
Bob was off getting whoever was working to help load the things that were held in the storage shed and Spencer didn’t know what to do with himself. Spencer was wandering, trying to ignore the stares he was imagining on his back.
He stopped at a counter, looking through the open window behind it to the rows of jewels and other shiny objects hanging along the walls. Gold and silver glittered in the afternoon sun filtering in through the windows. He was honestly a little mesmerized by it all.
A loud cough caught his attention.
“You going to stand there all day, boy, or are you buying something?” A deep voice asked.
Spencer had been on edge since they hit Main Street, and sharp tones from people he didn’t know weren’t exactly what he was prepared for. Schooling his features into his best glower, all squinted eyes and his mouth in a straight line, Spencer turned. His arms were still full of merchandise so he couldn’t cock his hips the way he wanted, but he doubted that would have mattered.
The man was wearing clothes that put Spencer’s to shame, meaning he must have bought them in the city instead of from Pete. He was about Spencer’s height, with darker hair that was cut short but styled perfectly. Spencer sort of wanted to hit him in his smug face.
“Not deaf then. Just stupid? They’ll let anyone in here these days,” the man scoffed. A boy beside him, about thirteen but a near copy of who must be his father, laughed.
“Pardon?” Spencer asked, voice flat.
“I’m waiting here. Soon as Pedicone’s new lackey gets back from helping the oaf load his cart, I’ll be spending more money than you’ve ever seen.” He sounded perfectly uninterested in everything.
The bored ones were always the most dangerous. But this jerk didn’t own Spencer - Bill did, sort of, technically - so he couldn’t actually do anything.
“Were you here first?” Spencer tried not to sound confrontational but knew his words were clipped.
“Does it matter?” He huffed. “Not from around here? I own half this township, boy. If I say move, you do it.”
Spencer bristled. The man’s kid laughed again. Spencer tightened his hold on the boxes he was gripping; the sharp edges kept him from lashing out. Instead, he thought about his tone, controlled it as much as he could, and tried to sound like the coldest asshole he’d ever met.
“You don’t have the right papers to get to tell me shit.”
When the man and a couple bystanders froze, Spencer realized his mistake. Just fucking great.
“Wait, Dad,” the boy was saying. “What’s...”
“Slave?” His voice lilted like it was a question, but his eyes were mocking. “Out and about in the middle of the day and no owner strapped to you? Let me see your papers,” he demanded.
“Um,” Spencer spluttered.
Shit. Fucking hell. How could he forget to ask Beckett for Papers of Permissions? Whenever slaves were actually sent out, rare as that usually was, they were always supposed to have a sealed letter from their owner outlining where they were going and for what purpose.
“Oh,” the man nodded slowly. “I see. Runaway, then? Trying to sneak supplies out?” He stepped closer, his chest nearly brushing the boxes Spencer was clutching. “That is not how this works. You remember what you are and who controls you. Someone got sloppy; I doubt that happens again. Jonah!” He snapped his fingers until his son stepped up. “Run and grab Sheriff Gilbert. Tell him we have a violent runaway on our hands.”
The boy nodded and was off, the crowded in audience parting smoothly for him. Spencer watched the boy go with a sort of detached horror.
There weren’t many options in a situation like this. Runaways were among the highest level of criminals. Lawmen rarely allowed a runaway any lenience, didn’t have time to pander to those trying to break out of their assigned role. Running was a risk, because if you were caught? If someone caught a slave who was on the run, the slave almost never saw another sale. The types of retraining designed for runaways were enough to reduce someone to a complete neurotic mess. And that was only if the owner didn’t come to claim the slave; owners usually punished runaways far more violently than anything else.
If a slave was running, it was either make it or die. Death was usually preferable.
Spencer was in the middle of trying to figure out how likely he was to make it back to Beckett’s if he could just run fast enough when he heard someone shoving through the crowd.
It was over.
He was going to be taken in, beaten, locked up, and sent to a training master. Spencer was never going to see Brendon again, never get to touch his hand or kiss him or toy with his hair. Hopefully, Bob would tell Brendon that Spencer hadn’t been taken on purpose.
“What the fuck is this?” Bob snapped from somewhere to Spencer’s right.
The man reached out, gripping Spencer’s forearm so hard there would be bruises. “None of your concern, Bryar. A little matter with a runaway. It’s taken care of.”
“The fucking hell it is.” Bob had never sounded so... growly. His voice was low, catching in his throat and rumbling on the way out. His eyes were wide, but it was more of a glare than any glower Spencer had ever seen. “Get your smug-ass fucking hands off him, Nance.”
Nance scoffed, his fingers digging in deeper when Spencer tried to jerk away. “Don’t go getting sympathetic with the livestock. We don’t need more runaways tarnishing out good tow-”
The hold on Spencer’s arm was gone in an instant. He turned, eyes so wide and unblinking that they were already drying out. This couldn’t... It didn’t make any sense.
Bob had Nance bent backwards over the counter. One hand was around the man’s throat, the other fisted in his overpriced shirt. Bob’s mouth was twisted into a sneer and he was speaking quick and low. Spencer was the closest to them, but he couldn’t make out any of the words.
Nance was gasping, or trying to - both hands tugging unsuccessfully at Bob’s arm.
“Dad!” Jonah was back, looking terrified and panting for breath from having run down the street and back.
Suddenly, Bob stepped back and dropped his hands. Nance rolled to his side, dragging in heavy breaths, coughing.
“Don’t make me bring in the good Baronet Beckett,” Bob said, nastily. “He’ll make your finances a living hell after I ruin your fucking life. Fucking try me.” Without taking his eyes off of Nance or acknowledging the lawman working his way through the crowd, Bob started talking again. “Spencer, put that on Bill’s tab. Mike already did the rest.”
“What the - “
“Spencer,” Bob whispered, urgent.
Spencer tried not to stomp to the till at the end of the counter or slam his things down onto it. He knew he was a little violent with the bell, but fuck.
He wasn’t sure he said another word as his purchases were added to Beckett’s running total and he headed back toward the door.
Such a waste of a day.
Halfway back to Beckett’s, they still hadn’t said anything. Spencer was too busy trying to stay on his horse while hating the entire world to make any attempts at conversation.
What the hell had been that guy’s problem? Spencer didn’t have much faith in people that weren’t Brendon, Ryan, Jon, Bob, Travie, or Gerard - it was, admittedly, a slowly growing list. He’d seen the type of evil that came with giving someone power over anything or anyone else. But he hadn’t done anything, as far as he could tell.
Then there was Bob. Maybe Spencer should be grateful, should be thanking Bob from the bottom of his heart, but what? Spencer was fucking self-sufficient, all right? He didn’t need someone jumping to his defense, especially not Bob with his perfect ability to remain unruffled in every other situation. Spencer wasn’t sure who he was angrier with at the moment.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he muttered before he could stop himself.
Spencer didn’t bother to look away from the road to check Bob’s reaction. The subsequent silence went on for so long that Spencer thought his comment had been lost under the sound of hoof-beats and clicking cart wheels.
“Yeah, I did,” Bob snapped.
Spencer turned his head fast enough to crack his neck, but Bob wasn’t looking at him. While he was actually looking forward, his eyes seemed distant from what Spencer could see.
“Why? I could have... I don’t know. I would have figured something out.” Which was a lie. Spencer had no idea what he had planned on doing back there, but people didn’t do this for him. They didn’t just jump on people or give things up to protect him.
Except Brendon, who was a special case.
“Spencer... You don’t get caught when you run. I learned from fucking experience, okay? If Butcher hadn’t been in the right fucking place at the right time...” He trailed off; they both knew where he’d have ended up.
“But I thought Bill bought you,” Spencer said softly. It was a faux pas to bring up how a slave or former slave had changed hands, but Spencer couldn’t make sense of it.
“He did,” Bob nodded. Taking a deep breath, he glanced at Spencer quickly before continuing. “I wasn’t supposed to be a slave. But my family didn’t make harvest a few times, my father took off, my mother got sick. I couldn’t cover the bills on my own and the debt piled up too fast.”
Bob should have sounded upset, but Spencer only heard emptiness in his voice. It made him shiver, even though the wind was still and the sun was ironically bright.
“I got contracted into servitude. Five years of working security for some asshole bougie type and I was free to do what I wanted.” Bob laughed then, a harsh ugly sound.
Spencer winced.
“He kept changing my time served. Every time I signed my paperwork, he had removed tasks or added a room and board fee. I probably never would have gotten out, so I left. I left and I ended up here, working where I could and crashing with anyone who had the space or store rooms when a shop owner felt bad.”
Spencer was starting to see where this was going, and he fucking hated it.
“I was spending half my time doing grunt work at a pub and the rest was out at the butcher shop, mostly doing clean-up, behind the scenes shit. That’s where I met Butcher.” He huffed a little, almost genuine amusement. “He was the worst fucking apprentice. Siska was working for Bill and got Butcher on out there. Then they put me up front.”
Public eye. Spencer knew all about trying to hide under the radar. Today was just one more example of the shit that happened when the lowest class of humans earned unwanted attention.
“It was fine for a week or so. There must have been a warrant out, some sheriff’s deputy saw me running a delivery and they snatched me up about an hour later. Never fucking saw it coming. They had me in lock up for a few days; I don’t even know how long it was.”
Spencer wanted to slide off his horse, pull Bob down, and just hang on for a while. He didn’t remember ever having an intense need to hug someone before; it must be Brendon’s influence. Spencer knew better, though. Bob was too rigid, movement too controlled even considering he was riding a horse, with the extra burden of the cart being pulled along behind him.
“I knew they were gearing up to ship me to the trainers, but Bill got there first. I don’t know how Butcher knew; I guess he overheard some shit. Bill bought me before they bothered to train me. Spent an actual fuckton of money on me, too. Freed me a year later.”
Part of Spencer wanted to ask questions. There was obviously so much going unsaid, but Bob never pushed him so Spencer wasn’t about to be that rude. Eventually, maybe, they’d figure each other out.
“I - ” Spencer took some deep breaths. “I didn’t know...”
Which wasn’t nearly what he should have said, but what the hell was he supposed to do with all this? Sure, he’d wanted to know about Bob’s past, had invented all sorts of sordid tales - most far worse than this one. None of that mattered because now he knew the truth and as simple as the story sounded, Spencer knew, could hear it in the mostly dry and partially bitter tone Bob used that everything had still hurt.
“You couldn’t have,” Bob shrugged. “But now you know. I had to do something today. You deserved someone on your side, anyway.”
There wasn’t anything to say to that, nothing that would explain the slow heat crawling up Spencer’s neck and face, or the way his stomach sort of bottomed out. Spencer just did what his mother had always taught him, one of the few things he still remembered clearly.
“Thank you.”
Bob nodded but just sped up, pushing the horse as fast as he dared with the load he was pulling. Luckily, the lane for the house was close, and the awkwardness wouldn’t have to last too terribly much longer.
Hopefully.
New building materials were enough of an excuse for Spencer to hide from the rest of the estate for a while. He organized his piles of nails and lumber into stacks based on which room they were needed to fix. He measured and cut the wood to fit in frames or arranged stones tentatively around holes in the foundation. Actual mending could be done later, when everything was ready to be properly fixed into place.
The day wore on quickly and Spencer found himself too preoccupied with his fieldhouse to think about Bob or Nance and his fucking owner complex. He worked up a sweat and probably ruined his clothing since he hadn’t bothered to change, just pulled his bow tie free and shrugged out of his vest. He was actually feeling pretty good by the time dusk fell.
Spencer gathered his discarded pieces of clothing and shut up the house o he could head in for dinner. He was going to be later than usual; most everyone who spent their time closer to the main house ate as soon as whatever someone cooked was done.
Brendon was usually one of those people, Spencer realized as he walked around to the outer kitchen door. It was sort of strange that Brendon hadn’t come to collect Spencer yet; he always did that when Spencer got busy doing something, or he sent Bob in his place. Brendon must have just been too preoccupied with his tales of adventure. Spencer didn’t worry; Brendon would tell him everything later, regardless of if Spencer had already heard the stories or not.
A small smile curved Spencer’s lips at the thought. They’d fallen into bed still chattering at each other in whispers ever since Brendon was officially freed. They talked about everything and nothing until one of them got distracted kissing lips and necks, petting hair and any exposed skin within reach. It never went much further than that, but it was nice, all the same.
Spencer laughed at himself as he walked into the dining room. It took a moment to notice that things were much quieter than usual, almost somber.
Whatever mirth Spencer had been building up fell flat when the whispered conversations stopped. He was really getting sick of stopping whole conversations with just his presence. They must have heard about the scene he’d caused in town. Fucking great; Beckett was never going to let him out in public again, not that Spencer was too keen on going anyway.
“What’s going on?” He asked, defensive. “Did... something happen?”
Glancing around, Spencer took stock of everyone. Bill was at the head of the table, as always, with Travie to his left and Butcher to his right. Gerard and Frank were beside Butcher, Mikey and Carden rounding out their side. Siska was beside Travie, Ray next with an empty seat between him and Bob.
Brendon was nowhere to be seen.
“Where’s Brendon?”
Siska shifted, squirmed around.
“Come sit,” Ray suggested.
Spencer bristled. Something was going on with Brendon, and no one was saying anything. “No. Where’s Brendon?”
Bob bit at his lip ring. He did that sometimes when Spencer was being particularly contrary. “Spencer, please. Sit down and we’ll tell you.”
That sounded like a trap, but Spencer was willing to do anything to find out what everyone else already knew. Spencer felt especially conscious of his body’s every shift as he walked around the table and slid into the seat Bob pushed out for him. He sat rigid, posture perfect, staring at Gerard because he was always a talker and usually an easy target.
When no one said anything, Spencer squinted. He pursed his lips a little and turned the corners down. Without thinking about it, he crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head.
Gerard watched the whole thing, glancing toward Ray then Bob. He turned to look at Bill then stared intently at Siska. He shifted, apparently still feeling the weight of Spencer’s best – as Ryan had dubbed it – bitchface.
Carden snorted. Bill opened his mouth. Siska slouched further in his seat.
Gerard broke.
“Adam fucking lost Brendon!”
“I did not!” Siska practically yelled. He leaned around Ray to look at Spencer, recoiling a little when Spencer turned to look at him instead of Gerard. “I didn’t lose him. I left him on the path when Mike came to get me. One of the horses was having a fit and not letting Frank near her. I was gone maybe an hour. Brendon must have taken a different route; he wasn’t where he should have been.”
Spencer’s blood ran cold, a chill running down his spine fast enough to actually shake him.
“Brendon’s gone?”
“I’m sure he just got distracted,” Beckett promised. “He’ll be back. Just give it a little while.”
Spencer shook his head. His gaze fell on the wide windows set at the far end of the room. Dusk was quickly fading, the sunset colors growing duller by the minute.
“Brendon doesn’t like being outside after dark,” Spencer heard himself whispering, but couldn’t seem to stop it. “He had a master that wouldn’t give slaves rooms in the house and put them in this... high-walled kennel thing. There wasn’t a roof. When the moon was gone or the clouds were thick or the lanterns were out... When it was like that, he couldn’t see anything, even the people right beside him. Didn’t know what they were doing when straw cracked or someone gasped or...”
He didn’t realize how quickly he was talking until Bob’s arm settled around his shoulder.
“Okay. Okay. We’re going to go look for him.” Travie sounded more urgent than Spencer had ever heard him. “All right. Where do we need to go?”
Everyone started talking at once, their tones still soft but laced with urgency. Gerard in particular was rambling off people who were nearby. Someone made a list, but Spencer wasn’t sure who it was, too wrapped up in feeling like he was floating somewhere independent of his body.
The solid weight of Bob’s arm was the only thing holding Spencer together.
Spencer didn’t eat, couldn’t even look at anything long enough to fill a plate, but no one pushed. He wasn’t even sure what he was doing, other than sitting there and trying to will himself not to exist.
He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the conversation, the plans, happening around him, but all he kept hearing was Brendon’s voice. Brendon’s voice, quiet and serious in the dark of their room upstairs as he talked about the outside slave kennel and how he hadn’t slept more than an hour a night for the six months he’d been there. He’d only been thirteen years old.
“We’ll be back as soon as we can,” Mikey said, close enough to Spencer’s ear that Spencer actually heard him.
Spencer nodded.
“I swear he’ll be okay, Spencer. We’re going to find him; he’ll probably be back before we are,” Siska told him, more earnest than usual.
Spencer nodded again and didn’t open his eyes until everything had fallen silent. He opened his eyes and the room was empty, save for Bob still sitting beside him.
“Let’s go to the lounge.”
“I... can’t. We have to go... We have to do something. I can’t... If Brendon’s hurt or...” Spencer swallowed around the lump in his throat, keeping what came after that or locked inside.
“It’s taken care of. We’re going to stay and wait, be here when Brendon shows up and gets all fluttery and shit because he caused such a fuss.” Bob sounded so reasonable that Spencer let himself be pulled up and urged to the other side of the house.
Bob explained all the things Spencer had been too panicked to hear. Frank, Butcher, and Siska could work the horses better so they headed for the path where Siska had left Brendon; it would take some serious maneuvering to get around the overgrowth and fallen trees. Gerard and Mikey headed out to their closest neighbors, the four estates bordering Beckett’s. Ray took Carden to call on Sarah, Cassadee, Hayley, and Ashlee in hopes that Brendon had remembered an in-home lesson or something. Bill and Travie were tackling the tavern, well aware that the lay-abouts downing pints were the most likely to let all the local gossip slip.
Everything was covered, and Spencer honestly didn’t know if he should be thankful that he didn’t have to do anything or pissed that all he could do was wait.
The nothing that came with waiting was harder for Spencer to deal with than he wanted to admit. Bob seemed to know, though, holding onto Spencer in the least obvious ways and telling stories about Gerard’s first month on the estate - which seemed to consist of a lot of getting lost in the attic or the cellar and Mikey having silent tantrums for hours on end.
It only marginally helped.
As it got later, Spencer got touchier. No one seemed to consider the real worse case scenarios here. Things could be so much worse than Brendon getting hurt and needing help getting back. Even if thinking about Brendon being alone and too terrified to trace his steps home made Spencer’s heart ache, that was still not the scariest situation imaginable.
Filching happened all the time; Spencer knew that from personal fucking experience. He was a kid, a freeborn kid, who got sidetracked when he was running an errand for his mother, and he was filched right in the middle of the village where he’d spent his entire, safe childhood. Brendon being filched, a former slave, someone who might not look like he was owned but still acted like he might be beaten when he was nervous… people like that could be filched in a second. It’s not like Brendon knew how to fight.
Leaning into Spencer’s shoulder, just enough to make his presence known, Bob settled more firmly against the short sofa.
“I’ll teach him. When he’s back. I’ll make sure he can handle himself. I should have fucking done that from the beginning. Jesus.” Bob’s voice seemed thin and worn out.
When Spencer turned to look at him, there were shadows over his eyes from the way he had his head tilted, and his hair was hiding his face. Spencer had never seen Bob like that, hadn’t even known it was possible for Bob to be so… lost? Lost didn’t seem right, but Spencer didn’t have Ryan’s antiquated vocabulary to guide him.
At a loss for anything else to do, Spencer pressed his knee against Bob’s and reached out to push the hair from his eyes. “I tried to teach him once. So did Nate, when Saporta still owned us. His left hook sucks, and there’s no subtlety to his moves.”
Bob snorted. “You tried? Since when are you a fighter? The bitchface is killer, but really?”
There was so much skepticism hitting him that Spencer bristled for a second. He’d spent his share of time in traveling sales houses fighting with the other slaves over the ludicrously meager rations they were offered. He’d had an owner who made his new slaves prove themselves against the veterans. Then there was the one who was overly preoccupied with the stories of gladiators in Ancient Greece and set them up for unevenly matched battles in the caged-in basement room.
But Bob didn’t know that, and Spencer wasn’t sure he could bring himself to talk about it. No, not with the way his heart was pounding harder with every tick and tock on the antique grandfather clock Beckett kept in the corner. Every second Brendon didn’t stumble in the door laughing and no one came back with any information, Spencer felt himself slipping a little more into the headspace he’d maintained during the last traveling sales house after Jon and Ryan had been taken and the ever elusive Tom had stumbled across Brendon, actually remembering him as one of Jon’s friends from Saporta’s.
He shook himself. “Didn’t Bren tell you why he got me out? I mauled the trader.” That wasn’t strictly true, but it sounded better than I broke his nose and was thrown in a cage for three days.
Bob raised an eyebrow. “You have hidden depths I don’t know about, Smith?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe, Bryar.” Surprisingly, Spencer felt a tug at the corner of his lips, not a smile but a close approximation to one.
“We’ll see.” It was cryptic, even for Bob, but Spencer didn’t actually mind.
Not until Gerard and Mikey came stomping in. Mikey’s face was drawn, more so than usual. To anyone who didn’t know better, he’d look blank. Luckily, Spencer had been around just long enough to know the difference between blank and terrified. Gerard shrugged, apologies falling from his lips like it was his fault they didn’t find Brendon.
“We asked the DeLonges, but they don’t know anything. Hoppus was gone; the maid answered the door but said he’d been called out earlier in the evening and had no idea when he’d be back. And Barker hasn’t seen him since raspberry season. Brian said there was a lot of traffic on the lane today… but they didn’t see any traders or slaves...” He hadn’t seemed to take a breath, which was fairly normal for Gerard when he was worked up, but that also didn’t seem to be the end of it.
Mikey elbowed him, giving him a significant look full of eyebrow movements and tiny lip quirks. Gerard was all but cringing, grimacing and looking between Spencer and the wall. Finally, Mikey sighed.
“There were wagons. Looked like regular tradesmen, but…”
Spencer closed his eyes, letting his head drop forward.
“But,” he repeated. They all knew that wagons could masquerade as anything, cover all manner of legal and illegal indiscretions.
A warm weight settled against his neck, Bob’s finger carding lightly through the hair Brendon was surprisingly letting Spencer grow out. Spencer tried to sigh, push the breath out of his lungs under the reassuring weight of the touch, but. But it wouldn’t happen. His chest tightened, throat burned, eyes stung from lack of oxygen or Brendon deprivation.
“Spencer-“ Gerard started, tone a little frantic. Spencer tried to wave him off, shrug off the heavy looks Mikey was giving him as he stepped closer.
“Smith, come on,” Bob muttered, squeezing Spencer’s neck enough to get him to exhale, follow that up with a few gasps. “Good.”
“Do you… Is there anything? Seriously, fucking anything, Spencer, we’ll just…” Gerard would have kept going if not for Mikey.
“Gee. See if Carden and Ray are back from seeing the girls yet. Maybe they know something.” It was a good try, but it was obvious that Mikey didn’t think anyone would have any more information than he did.
Spencer looked up, trying to… something. Thank Mikey for getting Gerard and his fucking earnest desire to fix everything out of there, or show Gerard he appreciated the optimism when everything just looked empty from where Spencer was sitting. Whatever he was attempting, Spencer knew he missed it by a fucking landslide.
Bob wouldn’t let him get the words out, saved him from stuttering some type of nonsense. “You’re going to bed.”
Spencer fell back against the cushions as Bob stood up, knowing he wasn’t hiding the incredulous expression he felt on his face. “No. What the fuck. Brendon’s…where ever the hell he is! I can’t… he’s just… gone, and if he’s not here something’s happened and…I ’m not. Sleeping isn’t. I can’t just. Bob.”
There wasn’t actually a reaction. Bob stared at him, his eyes looking more like steel than anything else, expressionless, challenging.
“Up, Spencer. You’re not doing anyone any favors sitting here and panicking.” The words were harsh, but Bob’s eyes were so... sad that Spencer couldn’t take offense. “We’ll go upstairs and wait for him. Someone will come get us when they know something. Just rest a while, yeah?”
Spencer sighed, but took Bob’s hand when it was offered.
Part Four
