Chapter Text
Gil wakes up face down on cold, hard concrete, with his wrists handcuffed behind him, ankles roped together. His muscles scream at him from the strain of the position, and as he groans he realizes there’s tape over his mouth, wrapped tight around his head. Something is around his neck, too, just tight enough to be felt, but he's not sure what.
He takes a minute, trying to remember what happened before this. A long case finally closed, a serial killer finally behind bars. Drinks to celebrate with his team, being forced up on stage to drunkenly sing karaoke while they laughed, while Malcolm filmed—
Malcolm.
Where is Malcolm?
He rolls over onto his back despite the pain, desperate, and realizes he can't see a thing. He can't tell where he is, or if anyone is there with him.
Despite himself, he lets out a whimper of frustration, of fear. He writhes, straining against the cuffs he knows he can't break out of, and then, as he curls his body into itself, his bare feet hit something soft.
He turns, feeling with his toes, and then pokes at it harder.
It groans, and Gil breathes a sigh of relief. Malcolm. Still alive.
He can't do anything but nudge him, head still groggy and body still weak in a way that only the lingering effects of a drugging can produce. He prods at Malcolm but Malcolm doesn't make another sound until what feels like an eternity later, moaning and then starting to move around.
He lets out a noise to let Malcolm know he's there. Malcolm whines out something muffled and Gil recognizes with a sinking heart that Malcolm's gagged too, as if before it hadn't quite been certain that they were royally fucked.
Slowly, Malcolm rolls himself over, panting from the effort, and then inches his way forward, curling and uncurling his body until he can push against Gil's chest, getting as close as he can.
He's shivering, and Gil wants to tell him it's okay, that he'll protect him and they'll get out of this just fine, but then he's almost grateful the tape prevents it, because it would be a lie. He has no idea where they are, or what's happened, or what will happen. He can only hope the others know they're missing by now and will find them in time to prevent lasting damage or worse.
They remain alone. It's maddeningly silent, save for the occasional movement to try and soothe aching muscles, the grunt of pain and discomfort and fear.
Memories start to come back. Dani and JT had called it a night, but Malcolm had insisted on one more song, getting up on stage to sing and sway his hips that had Gil forgetting anyone else was in the bar at all. He'd winked at Gil, slipped his tongue out between pretty pink lips and known exactly what he was doing, what reaction it would garner.
They'd kissed, afterwards, their very first. Drunk and unthinking, desperate and perfect, Malcolm had lunged up to meet their lips in the parking lot as they went to hail a taxi and Gil hadn't pulled away, instead pushing Malcolm against the side of his car and closing his eyes against the knowledge that he'd likely regret this in the morning. Pent-up lust and alcohol never mixed well, and he's wanted Malcolm for far too long, and the building tension between him and Malcolm since his return from the FBI, for years, had finally culminated here and now.
"Come home with me," Malcolm said, looking up at him through his long, dark lashes. “Please.”
Gil can’t remember ever giving a response. That’s where it goes completely blank.
He doesn’t understand. They hadn’t been working a case. There had been no ongoing danger, nothing he knew that he needed to keep an eye out for. They were just...taken, from the side of a bar they’d been to a hundred times, that Dani and JT had departed from just twenty minutes before.
Gil doesn't like to be scared, hates even more to show it, yet there's nothing he can do to stop himself from lapsing into a fit of breathlessness. Almost immediately he hears Malcolm's breathing speed up as well, and he has to take deep, purposeful breaths to calm them both down again, reminding himself that Malcolm is, as always, looking to him for guidance, and Gil had already let him down once. He can’t do it again.
The lights turn on somewhere close, outside the room they're in, making it just bright enough to see. There's the sound of metal on metal, of a padlock clicking open, and a roll-up storage container door opens to blind them both with hallway fluorescents.
"Grab the big one," someone says, and it's the only thing Gil hears before suddenly there are hands on him, and Malcolm is crying out as they're both dragged up. Malcolm's thrown over one man's shoulder, and Gil's carried between two others.
He just doesn't understand. The world is too bright right now, dizzying, and it tilts and rolls as he's pulled along, down a long corridor and then another. Gil can recognize it vaguely as a storage facility, but that doesn't help much. It just leaves him with the knowledge that they could be anywhere in the state, anywhere in the world.
Finally, they're unceremoniously dropped to the floor. Gil's already foggy head smacks against it, and he moans.
"Good morning, boys."
The voice is terrifyingly pleasant. Malcolm squirms against his side. Gil has to really blink hard before his vision clears out enough to see the man standing before them.
He's dressed in a brown suit, leaning against a gold-plated cane as he smiles down at them. With one hand he gestures, and one of the men who brought them here takes a box cutter out of his pocket and slices away the tape around Gil's mouth. It nicks his scalp, and Gil gasps for air, wincing as the tape is ripped out of his hair and watching as they do the same to Malcolm.
"K-kid?"
"Gil—" Malcolm says, "I—"
"Silence," the suited man says.
"Whatever you want—" Malcolm starts, and the man reaches into his pocket. Gil flinches, scooting closer, in front of Malcolm to shield Malcolm from whatever it is, but the man simply takes out what looks like a remote.
And then he points it at them and presses down.
A pain rips down Gil's body, from his neck down to his toes, and he shrieks. He hears Malcolm let out a cry of his own pain, feels his legs jerk as they hit his own.
It's over in just a second. Gil's energy is completely drained, and he slumps down, eyes fluttering as he struggles to keep awake. He tilts his head, looking back to Malcolm as the boy pants and recovers, and finally notices the metal collar around his neck. It must be what's around his own, and what caused the shock that had nearly knocked him clean out.
"I said, be silent," the man says. "It'd do you both well to learn to listen."
"Wha's…?" Malcolm mumbles, dazed, and the man disregards him.
"Sit them up."
The men behind them force them up, setting them beside one another again Malcolm sags against Gil's shoulder, then straightens up a little more.
"Okay?" Gil whispers, and Malcolm nods.
"You both must be confused," the suited man says. "That's to be expected. But you're here so I can explain. Listen carefully, hmm?"
He steps forward. He looks at Gil, smiles, and then grasps a handful of Malcolm's hair and yanks his head back.
"You are mine now," he says. "Simple as that."
"Don't you—" Gil growls, cutting off with a curse as he's smacked across the back of the head.
The man points the remote at only Gil this time, but Gil can't tell if Malcolm is hurting too or if his cry is a reaction to Gil's. When the pain stops he's bent over himself, held up only by hands behind him, spit dripping from his mouth onto the floor, Malcolm desperately calling his name.
"I don't like to repeat myself," the man says, "so don't make me. There will be no fighting anyone here, no heroic attempts to escape. If there are, you will regret them. If you're good to me, to my men, we can absolutely be good to you. Behave and receive privileges. Do not, and you will receive punishments. Really, like I said, it's very simple."
"Y-yours," Malcolm says quietly. "Wh—what do you mean?"
Shit, the kid is still, always, trying to profile. Gil wishes he hadn't said a thing, because in response the man crouches down, bracing himself with a hand halfway down his cane, and grabs Malcolm through his pants with crushing force.
"Mine," he says as Malcolm cries out.
"Get your fucking hands off him!" Gil shouts, and the man laughs as Malcolm reels back, hitting the floor, trying to scramble away.
"You—you—" Malcolm's words won't come, and he whimpers as the man steps closer. "Don't touch me!"
In response, the man grabs him round the throat, lifts him up, and squeezes, until Malcolm can’t breathe, can’t make a sound. Gil jerks against the hands that come to hold him still but they keep him in place, pushing him forward and wrenching his bound arms out straight behind him until he can't hold back a cry.
“You don’t get to decide who touches you anymore, boy,” the man says. “Neither of you. That ended the moment you arrived here. You are not your own. Your bodies belong to me.”
Malcolm’s mouth opens and closes, his eyes bulging wide in terror. He struggles, and the man shakes him.
“Ah ah. You'll breathe when I grant you breath. Relax your body and accept that, or I’ll hold you here until your heart stops.”
Gil whimpers. Malcolm shudders, gaze landing on him over the man’s shoulder, and then he obediently goes limp.
“Good boy,” the man says, and keeps him there for just a little longer, until Malcolm's face is flushed red from the pressure, before dropping him. He collapses, coughing and gasping, at the man’s feet.
“This is where you belong, now,” the man says, digging the end of his cane between Malcolm's shoulder blades. “Bowing to me. You will treat me with the utmost respect. You will refer to me as Master, as all my pets do. You will ask for nothing, and you will take what I give you. You will eat, drink, and piss only when you're given permission. You will speak only when you’re spoken to, and you will do as you’re ordered. If you dare to disobey me or my men, there will be consequences, and I assure you, they won’t be nearly as kind."
He slams his cane down once, and Malcolm wails.
“Mal—" Gil tries, and the man turns to backhand him across the face. The hands behind Gil release him, and the man grabs his hair and, though Gil tries to resist, forces his head down until his cheek is pressed against the floor.
“Speak when you’re spoken to,” the man says again, just as calmly, “or you’ll be disciplined.”
Gil sneers. “You’re making a mistake. I'm Lieutenant Arroyo with the NYPD! When they find you—"
"Do you think I'm a joke? That I haven't been doing this long enough to know that they won't?" The man laughs, callously, and then releases him. Gil raises up, sits back, and then is bashed across the face with the man’s cane.
It tilts his vision, fills his mouth with blood, and sends him sprawling onto the floor. It comes down onto his chest, and then, when he flips over to protect himself, beats against his back until he finally lets out a scream.
It stops as suddenly as it began. He hears Malcolm let out a sob in the distance.
The man bends down beside him, cups his chin, and angles it up, swiping blood away with his thumb.
“I like you,” he says. “You have fire in your eyes. I’ll take pride in just how quickly I can put it out."
Gil doesn't have the strength to do anything but stare up at him, and it only makes the man's grin wider.
"I know who you were, Gil Arroyo. I know everything about you. Widowed three years ago, recovering alcoholic, the man who put the notorious Surgeon away for life. And Malcolm Bright, formerly Malcolm Whitly, the son of the Surgeon himself, who likes to stick his pretty little face where it just doesn’t belong. And apparently his tongue...is that right?”
Gil squeezes his eyes shut. Malcolm whines softly, and mumbles under his breath something Gil can't understand.
"Lieutenant is only who you used to be. Now? Now this body is mine, and it will be used for pleasure."
"No," Gil says.
"You don't have a choice in the matter," the man replies. "Neither of you.”
"Gil," Malcolm whispers. The terror in his voice aches Gil to the bone.
The man turns Gil’s head to face Malcolm, and says, “You love that boy?”
Gil breathes through gritted teeth and doesn’t respond. The man smiles down at him.
"That's good. That's very good. That’s going to make this easier, and far more fun. I never take two, but my, the donation we received to do so was simply too generous to deny.”
"Donation?” Malcolm chokes, voice shaky. "You were contracted to take us?”
"You're a talkative little boy," the man hums. "We'll find another use for that mouth very quick."
Malcolm doesn't stop. He's scared, and he babbles when he's scared. “Who by? Who—oh my God—Gil, it had to be—”
The man sets off Malcolm’s collar again, and Malcolm thrashes against the floor and then goes limp, wheezing.
“You’re not here to think,” the man says. “You’re here to do as you’re told until I decide you are no longer of use, and then you will be dead."
Malcolm looks up at him, over to Gil, and then down again. He chokes out something incoherent, and then shakes his head and goes quiet.
"That's right," the man says. "Make peace with it. It'll be easier for you once you do."
Malcolm doesn't say anything. His hand trembles behind him, and he squeezes his eyes shut. Gil wants to pull him close and promise him everything will be okay, but he's scared to death now that it won't be okay at all.
He knows exactly the name Malcolm was going to say. Nicholas Endicott, the man in relation to Malcolm’s mother, who’d pinned Malcolm down and assaulted him in his own home as a warning to keep quiet about what they knew, what they were going to find out should they keep digging.
That’s what this is. A way to ensure they don't.
“You will see our doctor," the man goes on, a bit louder, and Gil hadn’t realized he was gasping for air as if he’d been running. "Both of you. You will be inspected daily for infections, your urine tested, your blood drawn every two weeks. I run a clean facility. You'll shower every day, and of course, after intercourse."
Malcolm is trying so hard to keep himself together, but at that he sobs. The man looks proud.
"I know," he coos. "It's such a change. But you'll get used to it, just as the rest of my pets have. You'll adapt, you'll obey, you'll learn. And soon you won't remember you had any other life but this."
"No," Malcolm hisses, pulling on his cuffs. "No, they'll find you. They'll find us!"
"But they won't," the man says. "I promise you. I was paid to make certain of it. Had you found us yet? Shut us down? No. You chose a different mission. One that backfired substantially, and one which you will never complete. The only thing left for you two to do is swallow the truth...and perhaps a few other things. Shall we start training that naughty mouth of yours now?"
He grasps Malcolm's hair and yanks him forward, until his lips are pressed against the seam of the man's pants.
"No! Stop! Don't you dare!" Gil shouts, and the man laughs. Malcolm doesn't make a sound, just breathes ragged through his nose, but another sharp yank on his hair has him gasping in pain, and Gil echoes it in surprise. Malcolm’s eyes dart over to him, and then he snarls, fighting even as the grip on him tightens.
“You fuel each other’s unruliness,” he says. He rubs Malcolm's face against himself, and Malcolm grunts, uselessly tugging to get free. “Perhaps a bit of separation to adjust would do you well. What do you think?"
“Please,” Gil whispers, before he can stop himself. “Please, don’t—don’t hurt him, please."
"Using your good boy manners is a start," the man says, "but I am going to need you to address me properly."
Gil squeezes his eyes shut. He hesitates for only a moment, prepared to do anything for Malcolm's sake, but it's a moment too long. The man shoves Malcolm down, stands back up, looks at the others, and orders, "Take the boy to my office. I'd like to see him in better lighting."
"Gladly," one says, picking Malcolm up to throw him over his shoulder again, and Malcolm shrieks, eyes blown wide in terror.
"Gil! No! Let go! Stop—no! Gil!"
"Please don't!" Gil fights to push himself up, and the man hits him with the cane again. This time it cracks across his temple, and Gil crumples. His ears ring, his head pounds, and his eyes start to close even as he wills himself with everything he has to keep them open.
"He's not yours anymore," the man says, fading just as fast as everything else. "He's mine. Just like you. And I'm going to take good care of you both, don't you worry. Dead boys don't make money, you know."
He chuckles. "Not for long, anyway."
Hands tuck under his arms to drag him in the opposite direction as Malcolm, and the man barks out another order Gil can't hear, and then the headache overtakes him, his head lolls to his chest, and he doesn't remember anything else.