Chapter Text
Sometimes Spencer thought about his old life. The one he had before. Back when he had a life. Back before he was ambushed in that airport bathroom.
Sometimes he wondered if the others still searched for him, or if they'd moved onto other cases.
Sometimes he wondered if the Bureau declared him dead, hung his photo on the wall of the fallen, and washed their hands of him.
Sometimes he wondered if his mother wondered about him. If she questioned the lack of letters or phone calls or personal visits. If she remembered him at all.
But after two years of living like this, he locked those thoughts and memories of the Before Time away most days. It made him long for his friends and his job and his life. It made him hope; wondering if he was remembered and sought after.
Hope could be a cruel thing. That was a lesson he learned long ago.
Today was one of those ‘sometimes’ he couldn't quite get rid of completely.
He mentally added a tally as he gazed at the scratched up wall of the basement. Originally, the physical marks were a way to leave proof of his existence. A way to visualize what was in his head, so he didn't lose himself.
The wall wasn't even half full of tally marks when he stopped counting. (Of course, he still counted. He couldn't stop himself from keeping the tally, but it was a lot easier to ignore when it was only in his head and not manifested physically in front of his eyes.)
His master had confiscated the sharp piece of metal he'd used to make the marks a few weeks later. He was mildly surprised it had taken him so long to find it. He wasn't sure if it hurt more that he'd already given up marking the wall or if it would have been worse to have that torn away from him.
One finger poked out between the bars of his cage and traced against the last set of grooves he'd etched into stone. A cluster of three. He hadn't even finished the group.
The door at the top of the cellar clanked, and Spencer hated himself for the brief ache of longing. The way his ears strained to hear someone shouting out ‘FBI!’ The way his eyes searched for a familiar face from the Before Times attached to the pair of feet descending the stairs. The horrible, cruel hope that sparked in his chest.
The face was indeed familiar, but only because Spencer had become well acquainted with him in the past several months.
Master yanked on a chain, and the basement flooded with light from a dim and dying bulb swinging on a chain. It had been long enough since Spencer had seen light that he had to close his eyes to ward off the pain.
The clatter of a key in a lock made his heart sink. This wasn't just a delivery of food or water. Spencer was being taken from his cage.
The horrible, cruel hope posited that he could be getting a bath. The worn, familiar cynicism reminded him that a bath meant a party.
He shuddered as the door of the cage swung open. He didn't want a party.
Hopefully (horrible and cruel still, even when adjusted to be more realistic), he would be entertaining the man on his own.
He tried to tell himself that being used by Master was better than being left in the cage with no stimulation or interaction with another human being. Part of him wondered how broken he was that he longed to be raped and tortured for the companionship.
He knew better than to speak. Absolute silence (with few exceptions) had been beaten into him early on, and he'd always been a quick study.
“Up,” was the command, and Spencer pushed himself to his feet, holding himself up on atrophied legs. Failure to obey would result in punishment. Most things resulted in punishment, even simply existing.
“Out.” Spencer stepped out of the cage and did not jump at the door slamming shut behind him.
Master turned and crossed over to the corner of the basement that had been turned into a shower. A faucet and showerhead jutting out from stone and a drain in the floor was all it really was. Not even a shower curtain. That was a dignity he wasn't allowed.
Another forbidden dignity was clothing. Spencer stood under the showerhead and turned on the faucet. The water was cold (as always. He had a feeling this particular set of pipes wasn't connected to the water heater), and Spencer shivered as he grabbed the bar of soap to wash away his filth.
Master stood there the entire time, watching as Spencer did his best to get clean and presentable. His gaze burned Spencer's skin in the way hot water never could.
When he was as clean as he could get, when his fingers pruned and his teeth chattered, when he couldn't stall any longer, he turned off the shower.
Master crooked two fingers at him, and Spencer stepped closer, eyes falling to the floor. He was not allowed eye contact until otherwise commanded. Staring into his master's eyes warranted punishment. Even when commanded.
Spencer's collar clicked into place around his neck, and he blinked, moving out of his ‘Spencer’ box into his ‘Puppy’ box.
The leash followed, and Puppy dropped to all fours obediently.
Master led Puppy to the stairs and up the steps. The old wood was splintered and moldy, but Puppy knew better than to complain or slow down.
The tv was on, voices blurring together and words unintelligible. Other voices, louder voices, filtered in through the open windows. Music blared outside. The smell of food, real food, food for humans and not for dogs, not for Puppy, permeated the house. Someone was grilling.
Puppy ignored it all. All that mattered was Master.
Master led him out the front door, and Puppy followed him onto the burning concrete sidewalk. Puppy endured it, until Master led him into the softer, cooler grass.
Where Master's friends were.
Once upon a time, Puppy would hope for a car to drive by, for someone to see him and call the police. But no car ever did, and Master's house – at least the house Master kept Puppy in – was isolated enough that no one outside those invited ever stumbled upon it.
The road, within Puppy's sight and very close, not even separated from him by a fence, was a taunt. Puppy never let himself be taunted by it anymore. That was impossible to do when he no longer hoped for anything to come of it.
It was a road. It was there. And Puppy was here. And that was that.
Master unclipped the leash, and Puppy immediately assumed position. His front half dropping down, legs spread, face and chest pressed to the ground, back arched. He was not allowed to move.
Typically, it took mere moments for the hands to descend upon him. And the rest would follow.
Today, no one touched him. Puppy fought against the urge to twitch, to look around, to see why he was being ignored. But he was getting antsy. Had he done something wrong? Why did no one want him? Why was no one using him?
His breath hitched. If no one wanted him, would Master abandon him? Would Master sell him off? Would Master kill him? Would Puppy be taken back to the basement and left to starve? If he didn't please Master, or his friends, if he was useless. . .
He moved, looking around at Master's friends.
The chatter stopped, and Puppy froze.
Master sighed behind him, and Puppy resumed his position, squeezing his eyes shut. Maybe Master would forgive him if he was good. He fixed it; he was good.
“Oh no, Puppy,” Master chided, dashing Puppy's hopes, “Don't think you can go back now. Stand up.”
Puppy hesitated. Puppies didn't stand on two legs. That was for humans. Puppy wasn't human.
“Don't make me repeat myself,” Master warned.
Frantically, Puppy straightened up. Hands and knees. Like a good Puppy.
Master tsked, and Puppy's stomach sank. He still wasn't pleasing Master. His blood turned hot under his skin, boiling him from the inside out the way it did whenever he was in trouble.
“No, Puppy, you stupid dog. Up.”
Up. That was a human command. That was a Spencer command.
He couldn't- Puppy wasn't allowed to- He couldn't!
But Spencer could.
Swallowing around his heart as it jumped into his throat, he slipped out of the ‘Puppy’ box and back into the ‘Spencer’ box, and rose to his feet. He stared at the floor and tried not to fidget. He was about to be punished.
Spencer punishments were always worse than Puppy punishments.
The familiar weight of Master's hands on his body comforted him, and he wished it didn't. His body turned pliant, and he didn't resist when Master began manipulating him into a different position. Bent over, arms looping behind his knees, hands coming through his legs.
Master guided one hand, then the other, to his ears. “Grab.” Spencer did, and Master stepped away. “Don't move.”
Spencer locked himself in place, afraid of what would happen if he disobeyed again.
One of Master's hands rested on his back, caressing the skin there. “If you cry, I'll go easy on you.”
Spencer squeezed his eyes shut. It was a lie; Master wouldn't go easy on him. He never let up on his punishments. But his muscles were already straining at the position. He wasn't sure how long he'd be able to hold it.
Murga, his brain supplied, meaning ‘chicken’ or ‘rooster’ is a stress position named after its resemblance to a chicken laying an egg.
He burned, and it felt like hours, but Spencer knew it was only about a minute. He bit back the whine in his throat.
Sound was not permitted.
A smack against his rear end nearly toppled him over. He lost the battle against the yelp it elicited, though.
Master sighed. “That'll cost you, Puppy.”
He knew that. Which is why he bit his tongue before the next strike, this one whip-like in nature, landed against his skin. Master hadn't brought the whip with him – Spencer had seen it in the basement as they left – so he suspected that he'd improvised. A switch maybe? The plants out here would suffice.
Another strike. And another. And another. Spencer shook, trying not to move from his position. Trying not to make a noise. His skin stung and his muscles shook and threatened to give out on him. He was panting and getting dizzy as the blood rushed to his head, throwing his already precarious balance out of whack. His back ached. So did his shoulders. His thighs and calves and. . . everything.
The switch landed on already punished flesh, and Spencer felt the sharp sting he knew to associate with an open wound as his skin split open. His knees buckled.
He fell, face first into the ground. He barely managed to twist his body to land on his shoulder instead of snapping his neck.
Black spots filled his vision as white hot pain engulfed him. He gasped for air as his muscles spasmed, released from the torment of their prolonged sentence in that horrible position.
He came back to himself when Master began kicking his stomach.
Just like he did every time he found himself in this position, Spencer thought of an emergency room in Illinois. And every time he thought of that emergency room, he forced himself to shove it back in the box of his old life. He didn't want to taint those memories by associating them with his current reality.
He didn't want to associate Hotch with Master.
“It's a simple order!” Master was shouting. “Don't move! That's all you had to do!” Kick. Spencer gasped at the way his ribs cracked. “It's not that hard–” a dalmation could do it “–you stupid,” kick, “fucking,” kick, “dog!”
Spencer began to cry.
Master didn't go easy on him. He dragged Spencer off the ground and forced him back into that position, taking advantage of the way it exposed his hole. Master's hands gripped Spencer's hips hard enough to bruise as he forced his way inside.
Spencer cried as he tore. He cried as Master began thrusting inside him. He cried when he felt the blood trickling down his legs. He cried when Master buried himself as deep as he could go and released inside him. He cried when Master stepped away and the next man took his place. And the next man, and the next.
And when Spencer fell again, they only picked his hips up – leaving the rest of him where he fell – and continued using him. And still, he cried. It didn't stop, didn't ease up, no matter how many tears he shed.
Master was a liar, but Spencer knew that anyway.