this problem's gonna last more than the weekend (MOVIE NIGHT, ONE-SHOT/CLOSED)

There are twenty-seven bones in the human hand and Spencer's fairly certain that at least two in his left are broken. He's been taking careful inventory of the injuries he's been sustaining for the last few hours because, morbid as it may be, doing that is the only thing keeping him from breaking down entirely. He takes small comfort in the fact that blood has stopped trickling from where he'd been hit in the head, though every so often he still gets what feels like a rush of vertigo even though he's been ziptied to this chair for the better part of the evening. His wrists are in his lap and they, along with his ankles, are raw from trying to snake his way out of the binds. He can barely see out of his right eye, it's swollen shut and that's thanks to how he'd dare asked his assailant--Mark, his name is Mark, it's the man Joel had suspected of leaving those letters--whether any of this is really necessary. He could have been a bit less glib about it, he supposes, but he doesn't think there's any room for courtesy here.

He'd expected Joel. The doorbell had rung and Spencer had shouted out that Joel should let himself in as he'd busied himself with pouring them both a glass of whiskey because it had still been early and the movie wasn't going to start for at least another hour. He remembers hearing the footsteps behind him; he remembers being unable to hold back the grin on his face as he'd turned around with a glass in each hand; he remembers that split second between happy excitement and terror as he'd realized that the man staring back at him wasn't Joel but the face from the pictures that Levi had shown him. He'd tried to fight back, he really had, and he'd even gotten a swing in during the struggle after dropping one of the glasses and letting it shatter on the wooden floor. It hadn't been enough, though. He should have dropped both, he thinks. He should have dropped both because Mark had snatched the other one and smashed it against the side of Spencer's head and now they're here.

It's the old lighthouse, he's at least figured that out and if this is about revenge against Joel, Spencer supposes it makes sense. Mark's sister--Joel's ex and Spencer thinks her name had been Amy but pain flares in his head and it doesn't matter anymore--had died in the ocean so where better for Mark to bide his time than right by the coast? Spencer glances down at his hands with his good eye, cringing at the sight of the fingers bent at unnatural angles but if there's a silver lining, at least they're all on just one hand. If he survives this night, which he honestly isn't sure about right now because of how erratic Mark's behavior has been, Spencer won't be entirely useless. The broken fingers had come after a series of questions Spencer had refused to answer--How long do you think it'll take him to notice you're gone? How long will it take anyone to notice? Does he make it good for you?. He knows he's not supposed to antogonize the other man, he's read about this kind of thing, but he just can't bring himself to do anything else.

Now, Mark has pulled up a chair of his own, unsettlingly quiet as he tries to level his eyes with Spencer's, though Spencer looks anywhere but at his face. Spencer knows there are tear streaks on his cheeks, mixed with blood and grime from the floor he'd woken up on, but he's desperately trying to mentally remove himself from all of this. It's not working, not yet, and he can't stop himself from flinching when Mark stands over him, roughly pulling Spencer's hair back to force his gaze. Both of them are trembling, one out of rage and the other fear, but in spite of that, Mark manages to pull a sinister grin.

"Did he tell you how she really died? Did he tell you it was his fault?"

Spencer doesn't answer. He doesn't bother to hold back his scream, either, at the sickening crack of a third finger.