And maybe, just maybe, sneaking in a few sips.
Except it felt dirty. For the first time ever, taking those drinks, knowing what had happened, it made Brandon feel sort of slimey. Like he was just another drunk loser without a purpose. But he wasn't. He shook his head. He was Brandon. Happy-go-lucky, carefree, young and ready to party Brandon. And he needed this. He deserved this, earned it.
Well, that's what he told himself, anyway.
He shut the water off, toweling himself down before slipping into his uniform and his anti-skid shoes. Part of him wished it were a clean white chef's jacket instead of a ratty, torn tee shirt with the name of some pub scrawled across the back, but hey. It was something. It was what he could manage now.
That's when he heard the scratching at Spencer's window. It was faint, but it was definitely there. Maybe a cat?
Brandon opened the curtains, looking out. Not a cat.
Abby.
"He's not here," Brandon snapped, slamming the window down. He'd turned away when her sob caught his ear. Turning back, he opened the window once more. Abby slumped down against the iron balcony, blood dripping from between her fingers, tears staining her face.
"P-please, help," Abby whimpered.
Every instinct told him to let the bitch rot outside, especially after what she did to poor Finch, but Brandon found himself lifting her up into his arms and dumping her down on the brat's bed. Well, didn't they just each have their own addictions. He took out his phone, snapping a picture.
"Alright, I'll text him you're here, but I have to go to work. Don't die before he gets here or he'll probably be put out," Brandon said, texting on his way down the hall.
[Yo baby bitch, come get your girlfriend before she bleeds out. - B]
***
Spencer woke up in his mother's arms at the buzz of his phone. He jerked awake, opening the text with sleepy eyes. It was early, the only person who texted him this early -
"Mum, Mum," he said, pulling out of her grasp and out from under the warm comforting covers. He noticed his father had joined them sometime in the night.
"Yes, darling?" Mary mumbled, turning from him to snuggle into Sherlock. She so rarely slept with Sherlock, because of Seb and Jack and Freya. She smoothed her hands over his hair. "Problem?"
"Uh, no," Spencer said pulling on his shoes. "Just an incident with um, one of the irregulars. Dad still keep a first aid kit in the kitchen?"
"Mmhmm. And in the bathroom, the living room desk drawer and two under the sofa," Mary said, cracking her eyes open to watch him. "Drive safely, baby."
Spencer tore out of the house grabbing one of the two larger ones. He was peeling out with one of the cars in record time. Spencer had his license on a technicality. He didn't exactly obey street laws or traffic signs... or lights, or speeding past police. If he saw lights in his rear view mirror, they weren't there for long before the lights turned off and the police car turned off at the next street.
Normally the drive from the cottage in normal traffic would take about an hour. Spencer made the drive in half that.
"Abby!" Spencer screamed up the stairs. "Brandon?" The kit flopped against his leg as he hauled it up. "Abby!!"
She had been on his bed so he bypassed the living room all together, puffing through the kitchen and into his room.
Her eyes flickered open. "Spencer?"
Spencer dropped the kit at the foot of the bed, ripping away Abby's bloodied shirt. He felt like his Dad in the battle field. Or helping Sherlock. Blood oozed and he tried not to feel sick as he turned grabbing his wadded up sheet to stem the flow.
"Hold pressure there if you can," he said, turning to knock open the kit one handed. "What was the weapon?" He asked looking back at her bloodless face. "Jesus you should be in hospital."
"No, no hospital, please," Abby gasped, the pain evident in her eyes. She swallowed, trying to keep her wits in place while her weak fingers held pressure to the wound. "Knife, go' in a figh'. Ah, um, di'n' go s'well."
"Better than a bullet graze," Spencer said, pulling out antiseptic and a hook shaped needle and thread. He set them all on the nightstand, before heading back. "Ah, thanks, Dad," he said, picking up lidocaine. He filled a syringe, reaching back to the antiseptic and guaze. "Pull it away," he urged. "Least I can make you stop feeling it. My dad, Sherlock, he was all time getting messed up. He didn't even need a criminal to chase. Just got bored sometimes."
"Di'n' know where else to go," Abby said, wincing. She let out a groan, gritting her teeth together. "Your boyfrien' was mad."
"Obviously not," Spencer said. "He let you in. If he was really mad, he would've left you on the escape and not told me." He grabbed for the syringe. "Little stick." He shot in the numbing medicine. "Okay a few little sticks. Damn it. Let me know when you start feeling numb. I need to get you stitched back together. It's not going to be pretty. I'm not a natural at this."
"Trust you," Abby whispered, tears shining on her cheeks. "Sorry. You mad?"
"Furious, but Dad says wait until your patient isn't dying to scold them," Spencer said, tapping her wound. "Still feel that?"
"No," Abby said, closing her eyes so she wouldn't have to watch. "Go 'head, ge' started."
Spencer nodded. His hands eerily calm. He nodded again, as if to reassure himself. If she could put ink his body for fun, he could sew up a clean slice of her.. oh god. He swallowed, threading things up. He didn't think she'd appreciate knowing that his only experience with sewing skin was on autopsying rats, pigs, and cats. Maybe the occasional rabbit.
He worked quick though, pulling her skin together the best he could while cleaning in out behind him. He didn't go to medical school, but between Sherlock and John, he could probably do one thing better than Finch.
"Last one," he said, pulling it into a knot. He grabbed more antibiotic ointment, rubbing it across before putting on a patch bandage. "I'll need to wrap around your stomach. That patch is going to need to be changed, but the pressure of the wrap will help stem the bleeding. I'll need you to hang onto me while you sit up."
"Alrigh'," Abby whispered, barely conscious, but she tried to hold him as he asked. "I'm sorry, sorry ta hafta come 'ere. Trouble."
Spencer wrapped the ace bandage tight, knowing she might pass out before he got it wrapped. "Trouble coming here? Were you followed?" he asked, tugging everything into place.
"No. Trouble for you," Abby grunted, trying to shake her head.
Spencer huffed out a laugh, kissing her cheek. "No trouble at all. Think you can drink some water and take a pain pill? There's nothing good in there, but my erm, well, family with addictions."
"Sure," Abby said, but her eyes were drooping. She just wanted to sleep, maybe even with him.
Spencer laid her back long enough to get a bottle of water. He helped her swallow two pills and moved everything off into the floor as he realized her lips were nearly white and her temperature had dropped. He wished he had some saline, but that would've been in one of the big kits back home.
"Alright, and sit up again, just a bit," Spencer said.
"Why?" Abby whined, turning her face to look up at him. "Something wrong?"
"You're cold, at least your core temperature is from blood loss," Spencer said, shifting his arm behind her. "If I were Dad, I'd give you warm saline. Seeing as I'm not, you get body heat."
"I like body heat," the purple-haired girl said, leaning into him as best she could. "I feel cold. You should be mad at me. Ever'one else is."
"Don't worry, I'll be mad when I've not got your blood all over my hands," Spencer said, rubbing her as best he could. "Go to sleep, or not. Either way those pain pills will knock you out sooner or later. You can tell me what you did when you wake up."
"Yes, darling?" Mary mumbled, turning from him to snuggle into Sherlock. She so rarely slept with Sherlock, because of Seb and Jack and Freya. She smoothed her hands over his hair. "Problem?"
"Uh, no," Spencer said pulling on his shoes. "Just an incident with um, one of the irregulars. Dad still keep a first aid kit in the kitchen?"
"Mmhmm. And in the bathroom, the living room desk drawer and two under the sofa," Mary said, cracking her eyes open to watch him. "Drive safely, baby."
Spencer tore out of the house grabbing one of the two larger ones. He was peeling out with one of the cars in record time. Spencer had his license on a technicality. He didn't exactly obey street laws or traffic signs... or lights, or speeding past police. If he saw lights in his rear view mirror, they weren't there for long before the lights turned off and the police car turned off at the next street.
Normally the drive from the cottage in normal traffic would take about an hour. Spencer made the drive in half that.
"Abby!" Spencer screamed up the stairs. "Brandon?" The kit flopped against his leg as he hauled it up. "Abby!!"
She had been on his bed so he bypassed the living room all together, puffing through the kitchen and into his room.
Her eyes flickered open. "Spencer?"
Spencer dropped the kit at the foot of the bed, ripping away Abby's bloodied shirt. He felt like his Dad in the battle field. Or helping Sherlock. Blood oozed and he tried not to feel sick as he turned grabbing his wadded up sheet to stem the flow.
"Hold pressure there if you can," he said, turning to knock open the kit one handed. "What was the weapon?" He asked looking back at her bloodless face. "Jesus you should be in hospital."
"No, no hospital, please," Abby gasped, the pain evident in her eyes. She swallowed, trying to keep her wits in place while her weak fingers held pressure to the wound. "Knife, go' in a figh'. Ah, um, di'n' go s'well."
"Better than a bullet graze," Spencer said, pulling out antiseptic and a hook shaped needle and thread. He set them all on the nightstand, before heading back. "Ah, thanks, Dad," he said, picking up lidocaine. He filled a syringe, reaching back to the antiseptic and guaze. "Pull it away," he urged. "Least I can make you stop feeling it. My dad, Sherlock, he was all time getting messed up. He didn't even need a criminal to chase. Just got bored sometimes."
"Di'n' know where else to go," Abby said, wincing. She let out a groan, gritting her teeth together. "Your boyfrien' was mad."
"Obviously not," Spencer said. "He let you in. If he was really mad, he would've left you on the escape and not told me." He grabbed for the syringe. "Little stick." He shot in the numbing medicine. "Okay a few little sticks. Damn it. Let me know when you start feeling numb. I need to get you stitched back together. It's not going to be pretty. I'm not a natural at this."
"Trust you," Abby whispered, tears shining on her cheeks. "Sorry. You mad?"
"Furious, but Dad says wait until your patient isn't dying to scold them," Spencer said, tapping her wound. "Still feel that?"
"No," Abby said, closing her eyes so she wouldn't have to watch. "Go 'head, ge' started."
Spencer nodded. His hands eerily calm. He nodded again, as if to reassure himself. If she could put ink his body for fun, he could sew up a clean slice of her.. oh god. He swallowed, threading things up. He didn't think she'd appreciate knowing that his only experience with sewing skin was on autopsying rats, pigs, and cats. Maybe the occasional rabbit.
He worked quick though, pulling her skin together the best he could while cleaning in out behind him. He didn't go to medical school, but between Sherlock and John, he could probably do one thing better than Finch.
"Last one," he said, pulling it into a knot. He grabbed more antibiotic ointment, rubbing it across before putting on a patch bandage. "I'll need to wrap around your stomach. That patch is going to need to be changed, but the pressure of the wrap will help stem the bleeding. I'll need you to hang onto me while you sit up."
"Alrigh'," Abby whispered, barely conscious, but she tried to hold him as he asked. "I'm sorry, sorry ta hafta come 'ere. Trouble."
Spencer wrapped the ace bandage tight, knowing she might pass out before he got it wrapped. "Trouble coming here? Were you followed?" he asked, tugging everything into place.
"No. Trouble for you," Abby grunted, trying to shake her head.
Spencer huffed out a laugh, kissing her cheek. "No trouble at all. Think you can drink some water and take a pain pill? There's nothing good in there, but my erm, well, family with addictions."
"Sure," Abby said, but her eyes were drooping. She just wanted to sleep, maybe even with him.
Spencer laid her back long enough to get a bottle of water. He helped her swallow two pills and moved everything off into the floor as he realized her lips were nearly white and her temperature had dropped. He wished he had some saline, but that would've been in one of the big kits back home.
"Alright, and sit up again, just a bit," Spencer said.
"Why?" Abby whined, turning her face to look up at him. "Something wrong?"
"You're cold, at least your core temperature is from blood loss," Spencer said, shifting his arm behind her. "If I were Dad, I'd give you warm saline. Seeing as I'm not, you get body heat."
"I like body heat," the purple-haired girl said, leaning into him as best she could. "I feel cold. You should be mad at me. Ever'one else is."
"Don't worry, I'll be mad when I've not got your blood all over my hands," Spencer said, rubbing her as best he could. "Go to sleep, or not. Either way those pain pills will knock you out sooner or later. You can tell me what you did when you wake up."
***
The door closed behind Brandon and he locked it, half-hoping the bitch was out of Spencer's room. Actually, he hoped Spencer was out, too. He giggled. The lads had all gone out together after his shift, and he went, too. Oz hadn't taken the break up well, but hey, you had to be together to break up. All in all, Brandon was grinning inappropriately when he hit the top of the first flight of stairs.
Spencer's eyes flashed open at the noise. He wasn't sure when he had fallen asleep, but he hadn't one hundred percent trusted that Abby hadn't lured trouble back to the flat and had one his parent's nicked guns off to the side.
Abby's color was still off as Spencer slid out from under her. He stroked her face and headed out into the flat, gun at the ready. Brandon was halfway up to his room.
"Brandon Murphy," Spencer hissed. "Git your arse down here."
"You're not my boss," Brandon said casually, hurrying up into his room.
Spencer was hot on his tail. "Are you drunk?" he said, disbelieving.
"No," Brandon lied, shucking his shirt. "Have I been drinking? Yeah. Went out with the other cocks, I mean, cooks."
Spencer saw red. He shoved Brandon at the older boy's bed, bursting the butt of the pistol across Brandon's cheek and aiming the gun at his forehead.
"Are you out of your goddamn mind?" he seethed.
"No, but clearly you are," Brandon said, raising his hands like a criminal. "What's your goddamn problem?"
"You leave a bleeding girl in my bed," Spencer said, showing his still bloodstained free hand. He'd been in too much of a hurry to use gloves. "You go out and get drunk. And fucked God knows who. I'm debating whether it's kinder to shoot you or call your Mum."
"Yeah, yeah, go ahead and do either. Do both, she'd probably bake you a cake," Brandon snarled, reaching up to twist the gun out of Spencer's hands. "Don't play with toys you can't handle."
Spencer ducked under Brandon's hands, twisting his body and arms until he had Brandon in a choke hold. "Dad taught me to never rely on anything I can't hold onto," he said, his cousin's trachea in the crook of his elbow. He tightened his grip. "Drop it."
Brandon choked out a growl but he did as he was commanded. "Fuck. You."
Spencer leaned in to hiss into his cousin's ear. "She's mine," he said. "Do you understand that? Mine, with a capital M. My protection, my responsibility, mine."
"Congrats," Brandon gasped, twisting in his cousin-brother's gasp. "Didn't know you could own a person still. Plan on marrying her? She keeps fuckin' you over, draggin' you down. You're better than that cunt, Mr. High and Mighty lecturer!"
Spencer pushed Brandon towards the floor.
"Only one bringing me down is you and your addiction," Spencer said from his knees on the bed. He pulled up his tee shirt sleeve to show off the crop tattoo. "People like me, we live a different kind of life, Brandon. She's mine. Think about what I've done for her." He got up, scooping up the gun, unchambering the magazine as he walked past his cousin. "Think about what I could do for you. Punishment's comin', cuz. If you needed something, all you had to do was ask."
"I'll be out in the mornin'. Fuck you, fuck your bitch and fuck your punishments," Brandon said, rubbing at the reddish marks on his throat.
"No. No you won't. It's here or rehab, so unless you're going to dry out, you'll be here in the morning. And you'll make breakfast. For me, and Abby," Spencer said. "Try me, Brandon. Fuckin' try me."
Brandon narrowed his eyes at Spencer. "Take care, baby cuz. I just might."
Spencer headed back down the stairs before he did something they'd both regret. If Brandon wanted a war, he'd give it to him. Anything, but the booze.
"Abby," he said softly, heading back into his room.
The groggy girl opened her eyes to look at him. "Heard you figh'in'. You alrigh'?"
"Yeah, Brandon came home," Spencer said, setting the gun parts inside the table drawer. "Um, if you heard anything specific, please - ignore anything you heard. I might have made some statements that. weren't exactly true in the strictest sense."
"What'd ya say?" Abby asked, looking for any way to keep herself distracted from the throbbing in her side.
Spencer looked embarrassed. "That uh, you were mine," he said, fidgeting as he sat at her feet. "Not just in a 'you're my girlfriend' sort of way, but um, well- God, I feel like I'm coming out." He laughed, running his hands through his hair. He needed a new cut.
"Spencer," Abby groaned, closing her eyes. "Can't be your girlfriend. Moriarty's son. Romeo and Juliet."
"Well they both die in the end," Spencer laughed pathetically. "No, I was telling him - fuck. I'm trying to negotiate with Brandon for him to.. to.. submit to me. Instead of drinking." He ran his hand up her leg in a comforting way. "I might have alluded to the fact that you already were.. my.. um.."
"I don't fink there's enough pills in the worl' for me to handle this conversation righ' now," Abby said, her own words slurring a little. Still, she reached out for him to move closer. "Is tha' what you want? A- Someone to submit?"
"Yes?" Spencer said, moving up towards her hips. "No. I don't know. Maybe?" he stroked her damp hair away from her head. "It doesn't have to be an unequal relationship just because one's the dominant and the other is submissive. In fact, it's usually the other way around. The sub's supposed to control the boundaries, to let the Dom take care of them. It's just - something I came across in my.. work."
He sighed deeply.
"I thought it might help Brandon. We fight. We've always fought. I just thought maybe since he didn't want sex, or he does? I don't know, we don't talk about it, Abby. I skipped the negotiations out of anger and punished him anyway. I lied to him up there, saying you were mine. And we're nothing like that, are we?"
"No, we're no'," Abby agreed, sounding sad. "You wan' him to be, though. He loves ya. Or near as."
"Near as isn't enough," Spencer said. He curled up, laying a hand on Abby's wound. "I should change your bandages. Those stitches will have to be in for a bit." He rubbed her stomach. "You wouldn't want that, would you? Being mine?" He swallowed, then turned for the first aid box. "Never mind, don't answer that. You're injured and in pain, and I'm a complete and utter berk."
Abby gifted him with a small smile. "Yeah, ain't consent if I'm half drugged when I give it. I'm not good at things, Spencer. Ain't really available. You should stay with the one that needs you."
"He doesn't need me. He's just drunk," Spencer said, lifting up Abby's shirt to remove the wrappings. "You've got a knife wound in your side. I didn't even count how many stitches, but it's not a few." He carefully peeled back the stick on bandage, then hissed.
"Job. Di'n' have a choice," Abby breathed, wincing. "Went south, and I go' held up. Go' out, but-" She motioned to her side. "Things 'appen."
"Job," Spencer said. "Not a tattoo. You're still-" He sighed in disappointment. "Abby."
"I'm tryin', Spencer. But they- they 'ave an 'old on me, a bit. Sometimes you can't say no," Abby whispered. "You ain't go' a choice."
"You've got a choice," Spencer said, rinsing her wound as best he could. He reapplied all the dressings with a frown. "What have they got on you?"
"Loads of things. An' they killed my sister. Could kill me," Abby told him, watching him work. "You want to jump into this sort of life, both feet hittin' the water. The rest of us are drownin' tryin' to get out."
"They didn't kill your sister," Spencer countered. "Vance did." He set about rewrapping the ace bandage.
She gasped, eyes wide. "But Thad said-"
"Pretty bloke? He's wrong. Vance did it. Your sister must've been the one to let things slip to the McCannady's. Sold the information. I'm not trying to jump into this life, Abby. Finch and I, we were born into it. Trained to fight on either side of it. Even as we were growing, they were grooming us both to fight against one another. Accidentally, of course, but what can you do when your mum is who she is and your dad is who he is. Person most likely to kill you right now? My sister. But she can't hit the broadside of a barn when she's upset. And trust me, losing her job with you? Upset her."
"This- I can't talk abou' this righ' now. Not work. Not while I'm feeling like shit," Abby spit out the last word, grimacing. "She might've been a crap sister, but she didn' deserve to die."
"No one deserves to die," Spencer said, soothing down her side. "Some people, the people I catch, deserve to suffer, but death is too permanent. Everyone can change, even behind bars." He stroked her again. "Come here," he softly commanded, holding open his arms.
Abby obeyed him, gingerly shifting so he could hold her. "You're really into that sor' of thin', then? Doms and subs? Collars?"
"And after care and spoiling and praise kinks, yeah," Spencer said. "It's not all cock cages and whips. Went to a club once, they could smell the newness on me, and identifying as a Dom without a sub got me a lot of glares. Haven't gone back. I've been in a few chat rooms, advice and stuff. My father said never do anything without research. As if I'd go about it any other way," he blustered. "I don't need it though, if that's what you're asking. I don't need a sub. Some people in the culture think they do."
"And your boyfriend, he's into it, too?" Abby asked, letting him hold her. She patted his chest, just over his heart.
"He's not my boyfriend, Abs. Not anymore than you're mine either," he sighed. "I don't know. Like I said. We kind of.. bypassed talking about the whole rules, safeword and all that when I struck him. He's unruly, pig-headed, but the way he went under with my crop." Spencer inhaled sharply. "He didn't hate it. Hated me, maybe. But didn't hate the subspace. A different kind of high."
"Man, when I tell you to get confidence, you certainly do give it your best shot, don't you?" Abby teased.
Spencer nuzzled the side of her head, breathing into her ear. "I never do anything halfway." he murmured. "You gave me that confidence. You did that."
"Nah, you had it. You jus' had to find it," Abby sighed, wishing she weren't so stitched up so she could hold him properly. "Fight for it, a bit, maybe. But you had it the whole time."
"Maybe Dad didn't put the crap pain killers in there," Spencer teased. "Go back to sleep, Abby." He kissed her cheek again. "You're safe with me."
Spencer's eyes flashed open at the noise. He wasn't sure when he had fallen asleep, but he hadn't one hundred percent trusted that Abby hadn't lured trouble back to the flat and had one his parent's nicked guns off to the side.
Abby's color was still off as Spencer slid out from under her. He stroked her face and headed out into the flat, gun at the ready. Brandon was halfway up to his room.
"Brandon Murphy," Spencer hissed. "Git your arse down here."
"You're not my boss," Brandon said casually, hurrying up into his room.
Spencer was hot on his tail. "Are you drunk?" he said, disbelieving.
"No," Brandon lied, shucking his shirt. "Have I been drinking? Yeah. Went out with the other cocks, I mean, cooks."
Spencer saw red. He shoved Brandon at the older boy's bed, bursting the butt of the pistol across Brandon's cheek and aiming the gun at his forehead.
"Are you out of your goddamn mind?" he seethed.
"No, but clearly you are," Brandon said, raising his hands like a criminal. "What's your goddamn problem?"
"You leave a bleeding girl in my bed," Spencer said, showing his still bloodstained free hand. He'd been in too much of a hurry to use gloves. "You go out and get drunk. And fucked God knows who. I'm debating whether it's kinder to shoot you or call your Mum."
"Yeah, yeah, go ahead and do either. Do both, she'd probably bake you a cake," Brandon snarled, reaching up to twist the gun out of Spencer's hands. "Don't play with toys you can't handle."
Spencer ducked under Brandon's hands, twisting his body and arms until he had Brandon in a choke hold. "Dad taught me to never rely on anything I can't hold onto," he said, his cousin's trachea in the crook of his elbow. He tightened his grip. "Drop it."
Brandon choked out a growl but he did as he was commanded. "Fuck. You."
Spencer leaned in to hiss into his cousin's ear. "She's mine," he said. "Do you understand that? Mine, with a capital M. My protection, my responsibility, mine."
"Congrats," Brandon gasped, twisting in his cousin-brother's gasp. "Didn't know you could own a person still. Plan on marrying her? She keeps fuckin' you over, draggin' you down. You're better than that cunt, Mr. High and Mighty lecturer!"
Spencer pushed Brandon towards the floor.
"Only one bringing me down is you and your addiction," Spencer said from his knees on the bed. He pulled up his tee shirt sleeve to show off the crop tattoo. "People like me, we live a different kind of life, Brandon. She's mine. Think about what I've done for her." He got up, scooping up the gun, unchambering the magazine as he walked past his cousin. "Think about what I could do for you. Punishment's comin', cuz. If you needed something, all you had to do was ask."
"I'll be out in the mornin'. Fuck you, fuck your bitch and fuck your punishments," Brandon said, rubbing at the reddish marks on his throat.
"No. No you won't. It's here or rehab, so unless you're going to dry out, you'll be here in the morning. And you'll make breakfast. For me, and Abby," Spencer said. "Try me, Brandon. Fuckin' try me."
Brandon narrowed his eyes at Spencer. "Take care, baby cuz. I just might."
Spencer headed back down the stairs before he did something they'd both regret. If Brandon wanted a war, he'd give it to him. Anything, but the booze.
"Abby," he said softly, heading back into his room.
The groggy girl opened her eyes to look at him. "Heard you figh'in'. You alrigh'?"
"Yeah, Brandon came home," Spencer said, setting the gun parts inside the table drawer. "Um, if you heard anything specific, please - ignore anything you heard. I might have made some statements that. weren't exactly true in the strictest sense."
"What'd ya say?" Abby asked, looking for any way to keep herself distracted from the throbbing in her side.
Spencer looked embarrassed. "That uh, you were mine," he said, fidgeting as he sat at her feet. "Not just in a 'you're my girlfriend' sort of way, but um, well- God, I feel like I'm coming out." He laughed, running his hands through his hair. He needed a new cut.
"Spencer," Abby groaned, closing her eyes. "Can't be your girlfriend. Moriarty's son. Romeo and Juliet."
"Well they both die in the end," Spencer laughed pathetically. "No, I was telling him - fuck. I'm trying to negotiate with Brandon for him to.. to.. submit to me. Instead of drinking." He ran his hand up her leg in a comforting way. "I might have alluded to the fact that you already were.. my.. um.."
"I don't fink there's enough pills in the worl' for me to handle this conversation righ' now," Abby said, her own words slurring a little. Still, she reached out for him to move closer. "Is tha' what you want? A- Someone to submit?"
"Yes?" Spencer said, moving up towards her hips. "No. I don't know. Maybe?" he stroked her damp hair away from her head. "It doesn't have to be an unequal relationship just because one's the dominant and the other is submissive. In fact, it's usually the other way around. The sub's supposed to control the boundaries, to let the Dom take care of them. It's just - something I came across in my.. work."
He sighed deeply.
"I thought it might help Brandon. We fight. We've always fought. I just thought maybe since he didn't want sex, or he does? I don't know, we don't talk about it, Abby. I skipped the negotiations out of anger and punished him anyway. I lied to him up there, saying you were mine. And we're nothing like that, are we?"
"No, we're no'," Abby agreed, sounding sad. "You wan' him to be, though. He loves ya. Or near as."
"Near as isn't enough," Spencer said. He curled up, laying a hand on Abby's wound. "I should change your bandages. Those stitches will have to be in for a bit." He rubbed her stomach. "You wouldn't want that, would you? Being mine?" He swallowed, then turned for the first aid box. "Never mind, don't answer that. You're injured and in pain, and I'm a complete and utter berk."
Abby gifted him with a small smile. "Yeah, ain't consent if I'm half drugged when I give it. I'm not good at things, Spencer. Ain't really available. You should stay with the one that needs you."
"He doesn't need me. He's just drunk," Spencer said, lifting up Abby's shirt to remove the wrappings. "You've got a knife wound in your side. I didn't even count how many stitches, but it's not a few." He carefully peeled back the stick on bandage, then hissed.
"Job. Di'n' have a choice," Abby breathed, wincing. "Went south, and I go' held up. Go' out, but-" She motioned to her side. "Things 'appen."
"Job," Spencer said. "Not a tattoo. You're still-" He sighed in disappointment. "Abby."
"I'm tryin', Spencer. But they- they 'ave an 'old on me, a bit. Sometimes you can't say no," Abby whispered. "You ain't go' a choice."
"You've got a choice," Spencer said, rinsing her wound as best he could. He reapplied all the dressings with a frown. "What have they got on you?"
"Loads of things. An' they killed my sister. Could kill me," Abby told him, watching him work. "You want to jump into this sort of life, both feet hittin' the water. The rest of us are drownin' tryin' to get out."
"They didn't kill your sister," Spencer countered. "Vance did." He set about rewrapping the ace bandage.
She gasped, eyes wide. "But Thad said-"
"Pretty bloke? He's wrong. Vance did it. Your sister must've been the one to let things slip to the McCannady's. Sold the information. I'm not trying to jump into this life, Abby. Finch and I, we were born into it. Trained to fight on either side of it. Even as we were growing, they were grooming us both to fight against one another. Accidentally, of course, but what can you do when your mum is who she is and your dad is who he is. Person most likely to kill you right now? My sister. But she can't hit the broadside of a barn when she's upset. And trust me, losing her job with you? Upset her."
"This- I can't talk abou' this righ' now. Not work. Not while I'm feeling like shit," Abby spit out the last word, grimacing. "She might've been a crap sister, but she didn' deserve to die."
"No one deserves to die," Spencer said, soothing down her side. "Some people, the people I catch, deserve to suffer, but death is too permanent. Everyone can change, even behind bars." He stroked her again. "Come here," he softly commanded, holding open his arms.
Abby obeyed him, gingerly shifting so he could hold her. "You're really into that sor' of thin', then? Doms and subs? Collars?"
"And after care and spoiling and praise kinks, yeah," Spencer said. "It's not all cock cages and whips. Went to a club once, they could smell the newness on me, and identifying as a Dom without a sub got me a lot of glares. Haven't gone back. I've been in a few chat rooms, advice and stuff. My father said never do anything without research. As if I'd go about it any other way," he blustered. "I don't need it though, if that's what you're asking. I don't need a sub. Some people in the culture think they do."
"And your boyfriend, he's into it, too?" Abby asked, letting him hold her. She patted his chest, just over his heart.
"He's not my boyfriend, Abs. Not anymore than you're mine either," he sighed. "I don't know. Like I said. We kind of.. bypassed talking about the whole rules, safeword and all that when I struck him. He's unruly, pig-headed, but the way he went under with my crop." Spencer inhaled sharply. "He didn't hate it. Hated me, maybe. But didn't hate the subspace. A different kind of high."
"Man, when I tell you to get confidence, you certainly do give it your best shot, don't you?" Abby teased.
Spencer nuzzled the side of her head, breathing into her ear. "I never do anything halfway." he murmured. "You gave me that confidence. You did that."
"Nah, you had it. You jus' had to find it," Abby sighed, wishing she weren't so stitched up so she could hold him properly. "Fight for it, a bit, maybe. But you had it the whole time."
"Maybe Dad didn't put the crap pain killers in there," Spencer teased. "Go back to sleep, Abby." He kissed her cheek again. "You're safe with me."
***
"Mum, I need money," Finch said, after she'd texted Vance to come pick her up. "I mean, like a lot of money."
Mary looked up from her position on the couch with a frown. "You've got two jobs, don't you have money?"
Jack came in with three mugs of tea. "Hold on, Mary. Hear her out," he said. "I asked you that once before. Look what I did with it!"
Mary quirked an eyebrow at him. "Yes, my darling, you made a very lovely bar that our daughter now works at. I don't think Finch is planning quite the same thing."
"I don't want to tell her what I'm going to do. I just want to do it," Finch said, fidgeting her fingers together. She bit her lip. "I want her to trust me with it."
"Well, you're one of my children, and I'm a pathological liar, so that's never going to happen," Mary told her daughter frankly. "I love you to pieces, though."
Jack raised his eyebrow. He nodded his head in the direction of the kitchen.
"What? As though one of them is going to disagree with me," Mary scoffed. "And before you get upset, King of Spoiling the Children, I didn't tell her no. I just said I didn't trust her. Entirely different things."
"Love you, darling, but I wasn't motioning to you," Jack sniffed. "I wanted a moment with our daughter too before she disappears back to London, leaving me stranded in this hellmouth."
"I'll go distract the masses while you entertain the baby. Don't know why she wants my approval, she's had the keys to her trust fund since she was twenty-one," Mary sniffed, pushing herself up to limp into the kitchen.
"I did?" Finch squeaked. "Why didn't anyone tell me?"
"Would you have worked as hard if I'd handed it to you? Besides, I'd hoped you'd be more clever and figure it out," Mary called over her shoulder. "Just too sweet."
"All you kids are," Jack said. "What are you doing with it?"
"Getting back at my boss for firing me. And hopefully giving Bran a reason to sober up," Finch said, determined to keep her secrets. "Don't you want me to surprise you?"
"Will I have to bail you out of jail, and are you keeping your little brother in mind with this grand scheme?" Jack said, scribbling out information for Finch's trust fund.
"Spencer should have nothing to complain about. As he's sleeping with my ex-boss who is one of the McCannady gang, you should probably be asking him about jail time instead of me," Finch tattled, sipping at the mug he'd handed her.
"That's precisely what I mean, Finch," Jack said. "Your brother is fond of her. I don't want you to make an enemy of him."
"It's nothing. Maybe just a little friendly competition. But she had no right-"
Jack flicked over the piece of paper.
"I don't want the details, Finch. Remember which father you're talking to," he said. "Don't get yourself killed. I raised you better than that."
"Thanks, Jack," Finch said, grinning at him, and giving him a tight hug. "I miss you."
"I miss you too, little duck," he said into her hair. "I hate this fucking place, if I didn't love your mother so much-"
Mary watched from the doorway, sulking. "I think I heard a car pull up outside."
"Oh, that'll be Vance. I should go," Finch said, giving Jack and then Mary each a peck on the cheek. "Love you, Mum. Take care of Jack and Papa, and all the others."
"I will, dearest. Go, don't want to make the boy wait," Mary said, shooing her daughter out the door. She turned to look at Jack. "Hate it that badly, do you? We could always kick the wretches out of our apartment and move home."
"Don't tempt me. If I didn't think you'd be swanning off with Holmes in less than two weeks, I'd be packing my bags now," Jack sulked right back at her. "Besides, I know you're far from bored. That brat gave you your phone back. You're lucky I'm not ratting you out."
"Shhh, I should shoot you for helping him take it away from me," Mary said, holding out her hands so he would come to her. "I'm sick of being the victim. I was sick of it when I left, and I'm sick of it now. No one tells me I'm finished until I'm ready."
"I know, love," Jack said, pulling her to him. He kissed her heatedly. "She's young. How much trouble can she get into with us watching? You think I've sat here telling old war stories with the soldiers? Think again, darling." He kissed her jaw. "You'll always be my Maryarty," he purred.
"That's good. And you'll always be mine, my own stalker Jack. You've watched over my whole life," Mary sighed dreamily. She leaned her head on his chest. "I love you."
"I love you too," Jack whispered, letting her words wash over him. Mary's words of love were rare enough, directed at him? Rarer still. He was neither Dad, nor Papa, nor Father. He was Jack. Just Jack.
Jack came in with three mugs of tea. "Hold on, Mary. Hear her out," he said. "I asked you that once before. Look what I did with it!"
Mary quirked an eyebrow at him. "Yes, my darling, you made a very lovely bar that our daughter now works at. I don't think Finch is planning quite the same thing."
"I don't want to tell her what I'm going to do. I just want to do it," Finch said, fidgeting her fingers together. She bit her lip. "I want her to trust me with it."
"Well, you're one of my children, and I'm a pathological liar, so that's never going to happen," Mary told her daughter frankly. "I love you to pieces, though."
Jack raised his eyebrow. He nodded his head in the direction of the kitchen.
"What? As though one of them is going to disagree with me," Mary scoffed. "And before you get upset, King of Spoiling the Children, I didn't tell her no. I just said I didn't trust her. Entirely different things."
"Love you, darling, but I wasn't motioning to you," Jack sniffed. "I wanted a moment with our daughter too before she disappears back to London, leaving me stranded in this hellmouth."
"I'll go distract the masses while you entertain the baby. Don't know why she wants my approval, she's had the keys to her trust fund since she was twenty-one," Mary sniffed, pushing herself up to limp into the kitchen.
"I did?" Finch squeaked. "Why didn't anyone tell me?"
"Would you have worked as hard if I'd handed it to you? Besides, I'd hoped you'd be more clever and figure it out," Mary called over her shoulder. "Just too sweet."
"All you kids are," Jack said. "What are you doing with it?"
"Getting back at my boss for firing me. And hopefully giving Bran a reason to sober up," Finch said, determined to keep her secrets. "Don't you want me to surprise you?"
"Will I have to bail you out of jail, and are you keeping your little brother in mind with this grand scheme?" Jack said, scribbling out information for Finch's trust fund.
"Spencer should have nothing to complain about. As he's sleeping with my ex-boss who is one of the McCannady gang, you should probably be asking him about jail time instead of me," Finch tattled, sipping at the mug he'd handed her.
"That's precisely what I mean, Finch," Jack said. "Your brother is fond of her. I don't want you to make an enemy of him."
"It's nothing. Maybe just a little friendly competition. But she had no right-"
Jack flicked over the piece of paper.
"I don't want the details, Finch. Remember which father you're talking to," he said. "Don't get yourself killed. I raised you better than that."
"Thanks, Jack," Finch said, grinning at him, and giving him a tight hug. "I miss you."
"I miss you too, little duck," he said into her hair. "I hate this fucking place, if I didn't love your mother so much-"
Mary watched from the doorway, sulking. "I think I heard a car pull up outside."
"Oh, that'll be Vance. I should go," Finch said, giving Jack and then Mary each a peck on the cheek. "Love you, Mum. Take care of Jack and Papa, and all the others."
"I will, dearest. Go, don't want to make the boy wait," Mary said, shooing her daughter out the door. She turned to look at Jack. "Hate it that badly, do you? We could always kick the wretches out of our apartment and move home."
"Don't tempt me. If I didn't think you'd be swanning off with Holmes in less than two weeks, I'd be packing my bags now," Jack sulked right back at her. "Besides, I know you're far from bored. That brat gave you your phone back. You're lucky I'm not ratting you out."
"Shhh, I should shoot you for helping him take it away from me," Mary said, holding out her hands so he would come to her. "I'm sick of being the victim. I was sick of it when I left, and I'm sick of it now. No one tells me I'm finished until I'm ready."
"I know, love," Jack said, pulling her to him. He kissed her heatedly. "She's young. How much trouble can she get into with us watching? You think I've sat here telling old war stories with the soldiers? Think again, darling." He kissed her jaw. "You'll always be my Maryarty," he purred.
"That's good. And you'll always be mine, my own stalker Jack. You've watched over my whole life," Mary sighed dreamily. She leaned her head on his chest. "I love you."
"I love you too," Jack whispered, letting her words wash over him. Mary's words of love were rare enough, directed at him? Rarer still. He was neither Dad, nor Papa, nor Father. He was Jack. Just Jack.
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