Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Once, the world had colour. Now, it only has three that matter: Shades of blue, shades of black, shades of red…

What happened to all the colours?

Mum loved colour. The family home was filled with every shade and colour you could think of. Nothing ever quite matching, nothing ever quite right. A field of brilliant, bright hues and different tones, splattered across a canvas of vibrant, beautiful, blissful family life. She’d been an artist, paint forever flecked across freckled hands and rolled up old shirts, honey blonde hair escaping in tendrils from a messy bun at the top of her head, sloppily leaning one way or another. She was beautiful. And kind. And lovely. And funny. And honest…And now, she was not just an entire ocean away, but an entirely different world.

It sometimes felt like all the colour was taken with her.

Dad had loved colour, too. He wasn’t an artist, but he’d adored history. He was your stereotypical polite Englishmen, the type who’d sooner offer an apology then snap, sooner go dashing off to get the kettle going in an emergency then try and take command. He left that to mum. He was a gentle soul, soft and sweet, and deadly smart, with a cheeky wit and ready, easy smile. He used to wear funny bright socks, ones with cartoon pigs scattered across a field of blue cotton or green cactus smoking cigarettes. One Christmas, they bought him a pair of socks with little LED lights stitched into the fabric, making them flash, on and off. God, he was so proud of those stupid socks, wore them under his tweed trousers and all, proudly showing them off to anyone he’d catch looking quizzically at his glowing trouser legs.

At first, the thoughts and memories of them had kept her alive. Kept her going. At night, she’d close her eyes, and she’d see them, smell the oil paint and jasmine of her mother, smell the tweed and tea of her father, and it kept her going. But eventually, even those memories began to become tainted, flashes of red clouding her vision, even in her own dreams. The blue and black would come later, far more haunting and suffocating, but in the beginning, it was red that grieved her most. The red of the dress they were forced to all wear, their uniform of sin and evidence of their so called ‘Wickdness’ of their past.

In the past, she’d loved red. Her favourite blouse had been red silk, she’d bought it with her first big case that she’d won, and worn it with so much pride. Now, the thought of wearing red made her want to retch, even as she pulled the thin cotton fabric across her frame, draping herself in the deep crimson hue. It was all she could see when she bowed her head, eyes cast down, the white of her wings shielding her face from view. Out of sight, out of mind…They were never out of sight, though. The red ensured that they were always visible, always to be seen and noted, even when the Wives detested them. Blame your husbands, she wanted to scream when she’d see that flash of familiar disgust and resentment in cold, arrogant eyes, they wanted us visible. Wanted us to always be in view. It was the last thing any of them wanted, in a society were being nothing more than a viable womb and a sinner made you valuable but scorned, the colour red had come to mean nothing but fear and survival to her now. To all her fellow sisters in red.

She’d been partial to blue Before, too. She used to grow forget-me-nots in a little planter on her balcony. Her son’s bedroom had been blue and green; she’d spent two whole months going back and forth about the right shade of blue. Her mum had helped her the entire time, patient and doting, but that was then and now…now blue had come to mean sharp fingernails biting into sensitive, delicate skin around her wrists and the fluttering edge of a dark blue cloak in the edge of her downcast eyes, while a sharp, cold voice droned petty gossip about so called friends and neighbours during cool walks. How she had come to hate walking, how she had come to hate the colour blue and the fingerprint bruises that would marry her pale wrists.

Black, however, black was the shade she had come to feel true terror and revulsion towards. It was hard to imagine that there was once a time when she had thought a man in a black suit was handsome, how she’d picked out Danial’s suits and would insist he should wear the black one with the red tie, because he was so handsome in that one…God, now it made her want to flinch away, squeeze her eyes tightly shut and vomit. Black was for the Commanders, the Husbands and so called ‘Godly’ men of the world, the only truly pure and ‘Good’ one’s.

They were evil.

Sometimes, she wondered which was worse, the Wives draped in their blue and with their sharp fingernails digging into the flesh of the girl’s they held down, or was it their husbands? The one’s who shoved their legs apart against their will and raped them, all in the sick, twisted endeavour of getting a baby. The one and only innocent thing left, and even that had been tainted.

She had been lucky, though many would say otherwise. Two posting’s, two couples, two Commander’s and their Wives, and she had managed to avoid bearing the horror of having her baby snatched from her arms, still bloody with afterbirth and the cord clipped, all so that the mistress could cradle the newborn to her bony chest and act as if it had been she who had endured the agonising labours to bring that life into this vile world. She had almost been one of them, her first posting had resulted in a pregnancy. She’d miscarried at nine weeks and while she was recovering, the Commander and his Wife had decided to take another Handmaid. She was a failure to them, to much of a risk with one miscarriage under her belt. She hadn’t exactly been sorry to leave them; the Commander had reeked of sandalwood and the Wife powdered roses.

Her second posting had been almost comical.

The Commander was ninety-two and could barely climb the stairs, gnarled, arthritic hands trembling as they’d grasped at her knees and nudged them apart, while his Wife had preened and squeezed at her wrists, leaving halfmoon indents and bruises there for the week to come. The Commander hadn’t been able to do anything, but it didn’t stop them from trying every fucking month. And with each failed month of the old man even managing to penetrate, let alone get it up, the Wife had grown harsher and colder. She was in her eighties herself, though, what could she possibly think she’d do with a baby? Surely, she didn’t think she’d live long enough to raise one? It was expected, however, that every Commander and his Wife try to produce as many children as they could, as many as ‘God’ supposedly would grant them.

Still, the Commander’s lack of ability meant that she avoided being raped or fearing for any child she might have to be snatched from her arms. It made even the sour faced, hateful Wife tolerable, made those fingernails digging into her flesh a small price to pay, in the long run. She’d almost been sad to leave that posting, once it had been deemed ‘Fruitless’ and Aunt Lydia had arrived to collect her, lips pursed with disappointment and eyes settled upon her ducked head, gaze burning into her. The Mistress had sent her away with less then pleasant words to Aunt Lydia, claiming that it had been her fault that the Commander hadn’t been able to impregnate her, conveniently leaving out the fact that the old man couldn’t even undo his own belt without help.

She’d expected the worst from Aunt Lydia after that, felt the ice-cold trickle of dread and resignation of the pain she knew was about to follow, once she was removed from the perfect and pristine Commander’s home. Aunt Lydia had a foul temper, she’d witnessed it more times than she wished to count or think on, felt the brutal, harsh slap of the back of her hand herself before, felt the agonising, spasming jab of the cattle prod that she seemed always at the ready to use before, too. Pain was almost an old friend at this point, violence a familiar and cruel mistress, while she had grown to expect the worst from everyone that crossed her path. Still, she’d kept her feelings from sight, head bowed and wings shielding her face, as if that might protect her, and followed dutifully on the brown booted heels of Aunt Lydia down the brick front steps of the Commander’s home, hands clasped neatly down her front, neck bent. Once she’d been ushered into the back of the van, she still didn’t dare glance up, waiting for the inevitable slap or shock. Aunt Lydia wouldn’t go for her stomach region, though. No, what if she damaged something?

“Ofgerald, look at me”.

She did as instructed, bracing herself as best she could without any visible movement or expression, lifting her head to look across to Aunt Lydia. She didn’t trust the kindly, almost vaguely maternal look she saw in the older woman’s face. Aunt Lydia peered back at her, plain features softened and vaguely reassuring, but still, she didn’t trust it, ready for the strike or lash. She’d seen Aunt Lydia smile and gently pat a girl on the cheek, only to whirl around in the next moment and backhand another for a minor comment.

“Mrs Arnald is most disappointed with you,” Aunt Lydia said grimly, while the sound of the road noise filtered through the van’s cabin, their bodies gently rocking with the motion. Her expression remained soft, even her gaze still looked kindly, “Most disappointed, indeed”.

“Yes, Aunt Lydia,” her voice was even and soft. She’d been told that as a Brit, she had a way of sounding polite even when she was merely trying to be pleasant. She’d tried to use it to her advantage, “Please forgive me,” she lowered her eyes, downcast them with all of the virtue and meekness that she could try and express, though she sincerely doubted if it would spare her, “I did not mean to fail Commander and Mrs Arnald. It is my fault, Aunt Lydia”.

God, how she almost chocked on the words, a part of herself that was still her, the one from Before, screaming in rage and fury inside her own head. How was anything that happened to her her fault? It wasn’t her fault the old man couldn’t rape her, for God’s sake, and to hell was she actually going to feel bad about that, either. As for that old bat of a wife, she was just a foul, cruel creature without a soul. She deserved to never get what she wanted, which was apparently a baby, for whatever sick, bizarre reason at her age, and as for Aunt Lydia? She could take whatever fake words she spewed and chock on them, for all of a damn that she’d care. She remembered when Emily had stabbed her in the back and tossed her down a staircase, she felt rather as if it was perhaps time for another fall to take place. Perhaps out of the back of a moving van?

Jesus, what had this place done her? Once, she’d devoted herself to sending killers to prison to rot for life, and here she was, plotting murder herself. Not the first time, of course, not in this place.

“Blame is of little use, my dear,” Aunt Lydia shook her head, tutting very slightly in disapproval. She smiled, then, and reached out to lift her head up, a finger beneath her chin. She forced herself to meet her small blue eyes, forced herself not to flinch at the cold digit touching the delicate, sensitive skin of the underside of her chin, waiting for that digit to turn into a fist curled around her throat or a shove of her head into the wall of the van behind her. It didn’t come, “Mrs Arnald was greatly disappointed, as she is right to feel, but by all other accounts you behaved in a purely respectful and modest demeanour during your time in her household. Commander Arnald spoke well of you, in fact”.

“I…” she briefly paused, gathering her thoughts, which still whirled with terror of the expected violence…violence that hadn’t come yet. She licked her lips, dry and chapped, and peered warily back at Aunt Lydia, a slight crease of confusion forming between her brows, “That was very kindly of the Commander”.

“It is not uncommon for Wives to struggle with the presence of a Handmaid in their household,” she told her, and retracted her finger, settling it back in her lap. She smiled gently, “I have worked with countless Wives and Handmaids, my dear, and more often than not there is…friction, shall we say, that can develop”.

She swallowed thickly, still not daring to hope, “Yes, Aunt Lydia”.

Aunt Lydia eyed her closely and she forced herself not to flinch, again, expecting the sharp slap to come now, the shouting…but Aunt Lydia merely observed her silently, eyes roaming over her features, something…searching in her gaze, as if she was a puzzle she had only just discovered. It made her instantly nervous and confused. Sometimes, she wanted to believe that Aunt Lydia did truly care about the Handmaids and their wellbeing, sometimes she even thought she’d see flashes of a woman who was displeased by the violence and abuse, but Aunt Lydia was also a cause of much of that abuse and terror that they felt. Her silence allowed that violence to continue. There was no way of really forgiving that, no matter how kindly Lydia might be, at times.

“You will be moved to your new posting in a few weeks, Ofgerald,” Aunt Lydia informed her, and she tried not to flinch at the news, feeling bile rising in her throat, burning. She swallowed it down and dropped her gaze to her lap, trying to conceal the fear that news brought. She nodded, instead, and Aunt Lydia continued, “You will return for a spell to the Red Centre, we must make quite certain that you are not expecting. You will humble yourself with acts of labour in that time, and ready yourself”.

“Of course, Aunt Lydia,” she forced out, voice sounding only a little chocked, only a little forced, knuckles whitening with how hard she gripped her hands together in her lap, “I shall prey every day to the Lord that he grants me the ultimate gift for my new Commander and his Wife”.

Kill me now.

She didn’t expect Lydia to speak, the pause lasted for so long that it seemed that the conversation was at an end. Apparently, it wasn’t.

“Your new Commander is a widow,” Aunt Lydia said softly. Her head snapped up abruptly, despite her efforts to control herself, finding the other woman peering at her closely still. Assessing, she almost felt, searching, but for what, she had no idea.

“I…” she tried not to frown, terrified it might trigger something in the curiously nice Lydia she was getting today, but a slight line did curve between her brows, eyes briefly darting down, “I was not aware, Aunt Lydia, that widowed Commander’s took on Handmaids”.

She risked glancing back up to the older woman, then, half afraid she was going to be punished for what Lydia surely had to consider to be backtalk or disrespect, hell, even questioning was enough most of the time. Aunt Lydia eyed her a moment, before she sniffed and squinted her eyes slightly, glancing away from her.

“It is a little unusual,” she agreed, her tone oddly guarded and almost wary, and she stared at her from beneath her lashes with bemusement, until Lydia looked sharply back to her, so fast she flinched, back of her head thudding mildly painfully off the metal van wall behind her. She barely even noticed, gaze fixed on Lydia, who glared at her stiffly, “But that’s none of your concern, Oferald. You will comport yourself with your new Commander as you have any other, and I shall keep a close eye on you. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Aunt Lydia,” she said immediately, almost robotically now, a flicker of unease swirling through her gut. Keep a close on you, basically that translated to mean that the Aunts would be hanging around all the time, making sure she was…what? Not seducing the widowed Commander? Not getting any ideas above her station or something stupid like that, as if she’d ever, ever allow herself to develop anything but disgust, at best, for any Commander she had to attend.

She’d felt pity for old Gerald Arnald, but mostly it had still been disgust and repulsion. She’d only pitted the bloke because of his bitch of a wife, but she had no doubt that if he had been a little more physically capable, he’d have raped her. It was kind of him to speak up on her behalf, she supposed, though, he was perhaps saving face, afraid she might tell Aunt Lydia about his inability. Honestly, she didn’t care enough to tell anyone, in fact, she hoped it helped the next poor girl that ended up in that house and gave her some respite, like it had for her. This new Commander, a widow…well, she hedged her bets and imagined he must be fairly old, then, much older than her, anyway, so perhaps he would be like Arnald. That, however, wasn’t necessarily a good thing for her, she needed to prove fruitful, or else she was basically dead. Aunt Lydia needn’t worry, though. There was no fucking way she was ever gonna fall for a Commander, Wife or not.

Chapter Text

Before

“We should get married”.

God, how her life might have been different if she’d responded differently to those words, rather than scoffing and rolling her eyes, perhaps if she had smiled and lurched at Danial with a hug, perhaps she might have been spared. She tried not to think about it to much, in the beginning, those thoughts had swum through her mind and tormented her, all the mistakes and little things she might have done differently. Years on, she could think back on those memories and simply grieve for what might have been, what might have changed things, but there was no changing it now.

She was trapped.

“Why?” she’d asked with a small smile tugging on her lips, head leaned back against the headrest of their couch, glass of orange juice dangling casually from her left hand in a wine glass, stomach already starting to swell slightly, even at just twelve weeks pregnant. At the time, she hadn’t known it, but in the following week she’d be forced to fess up to everyone that she was expecting, petite frame so not for the win for concealing pregnancy, apparently.

“Isn’t that what people do? You know, get hitched and all that when they’re expecting?”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” she’d scoffed, nodding in mock agreement. She’d take a sip from her glass, pretending to consider it seriously, “And while I’m at it, guess I’d better also go off and quite work, right? Pick up some of those puffy poodle skirts and a frilly apron, too, yeah?”

Danial had shot her a flat, if rather fond, exasperated look and playfully flung his tea towel he’d had draped over his shoulder at her. She’d laughed as it sailed easily over her head, hitting their barely used kitchen table behind her. He’d flashed her a bright, wide smile and winked playfully, partly turned away from the kitchen sink, soap suds and all covering his hands, sleeves of his work shirt rolled up.

“I mean it, we should think about it, right? I mean, don’t you want to marry me?”

She’d smiled at him softly and briefly paused to admire how the light had illuminated his face, thick dark blonde strands glinting in the warm lighting of their modern apartment, light gently glinting off the lenses of his square framed glasses, still dressed from work, even while tidying up the kitchen. He was such a handsome man, tall and lean, and with a strong jaw line. He was going to make an amazing father.

“I’m just…” she’d shrugged slightly, and lifted her glass back up to her lips, still smiling at him gently, “Not the marrying type, Dan. Doesn’t it all seem kinda old fashioned, anyways?”

………………………………….………..After……………………………………………….

Her own reflection was like looking at a stranger sometimes. Dull, almond shaped blue eyes gazing listlessly back at her from the mirrored surface, rimmed with long, dark lashes and with fine, blonde brows neatly arched above them. Her face was thinner than it was Before, a little more narrowed, a little more drawn, features set into a near permanent blank expression. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d smile, likely it had been during one of the few shopping trips she’d experienced were she’d gotten the chance to rebel, just a tiny bit. Sharing names, discussing snippets of gossip between canned beans and corn in whispers. That had all come to end, though, when June had fled to Canda. Now, they just shopped and kept their heads down, sticking to their walking partner, and while it was kind of nice not to need to worry about some drama being stirred up because June had gone and done something, or provoked someone, it made for a rather boring time, indeed.

She missed smiling, everyone used to say she looked like her mum when she smiled. She tried to smile, just to try and remember what it looked like, and her cheeks almost spasmed in pain. She’d forgotten she even had dimples or how her nose would crinkle. She couldn’t hold it long, cheeks already aching as her expression smoothed back out to one of blackness. She tried not to dwell on it, tried not to think about how freely and easily smiling used to be to her, dragging in a long, slow breathe and centring herself, reaching up to carefully tuck a strand of honey blonde hair back up into her white cap, before any of the Aunts should notice. They’d cane the back of her leg for being messy, for looking ‘Dishevelled’.

She’d been back at the Red Centre for almost three weeks now, a necessary precaution to ensure that she wasn’t, in fact, with child, but her time was coming up. Any day now, she’d be shipped off to her new Commander, and she doubted her luck would hold for a second time and grant her another geriatric, defective one. Truth be told, though, she also really couldn’t afford for that. Two postings, two failures, this was her last chance, or it was off to the Colonies. Lydia had already alluded to that, less then helpfully:

“It is imperative, my dear girl, that this one is successful, do you understand me?”

“Yes, Aunt Lydia,” she’d said, voice level and soft, “I understand”.

“You have so much potential! So much potential!”

She’d bitten her tongue to keep her scoff from bubbling freely from her lips, almost tasting her own blood with the effort to hold it all in. She clenched her red, woollen gloved hands a little tighter in her lap, eyes downcast, just slightly so, demure and respectful, and always humbled in the presence of Aunt Lydia. She’d felt the sting of the cattle prod three times before, back in the beginning, she’d learnt how to keep herself largely protected from Lydia and her wicked temper.

“I pray that God will deem me worthy of such a magnificent blessing, Aunt Lydia”.

It had taken her a while to wrap her head around the whole pious, demure act. She hadn’t been as bad as some of the girls, she’d managed to keep her tongue in her own mouth long enough not to end up losing an eye for disrespect, unlike poor Janine, but it was a struggle. God, was it hard. She’d never been a church girl before all this; her mother was to free spirited for religion and her dad was happy to go along with her mother’s views and ideas. Her sister had a friend who had been Catholic, she’d tagged along to a Christmas mass one year, and, truth be told, deeply regretted that choice. Danial was raised a Christian, but he wasn’t the practicing type when they’d met. It had all been something of a very massive culture shock, then, to find herself in this new, religious fanatical world.

And the fact that she had no clue about religious scripture, had only further proven to the Aunts how wicked and sinful she was.

Her own reflection peered back at her, flat and carefully closed off, even from herself, and she sighed to herself. So many choices might have led her to a different place then this one. If she had married, she might have been spared, if she hadn’t had a child out of wedlock, perhaps she would have been safe, if she had left what was once America and fled for England when things had started going downhill, might she have been shielded? She could console herself with the fact that Hugo got out, her baby boy wasn’t given over to another family to raise with these bizarre, twisted ideals of how the world worked, at least. He’d be with Dan, hopefully with her parents in England right now, safe and whole, together. That thought got her through her days. The thought of one day seeing her baby boy again, allowed her to live, just a little while longer, in this torment.

She tore her gaze away from the mirror, seeing her eyes grow glassy, feeling her throat tighten and breath hitch. Stop it, it’s just thoughts, just memories, don’t cry, don’t cry…She hastily turned on the ice-cold water and let it run down the drain of the basin she stood over, hastily leaning down and cupping her hands beneath the stream. It was so cold it hurt her already damaged flesh, having spent weeks cleaning and scrubbing seemingly every God damn surface of the Red Centre, as a ‘Humbling’ before her next post. She splashed the water over her face, squeezing her eyes closed as a small, involuntarily gasp escaped her lips. But it was strangely nice, freeing in one of the few ways that a Handmaid could feel free here. And it helped her to composure herself, so that once she had turned off the tap and wiped her face dry, she was no longer threatening to tear-up.

Again, she straightened her cap and then ran a hand down the crimson cotton dress draped over her slim form, attempting to avoid accidently upsetting any Aunt who might cross her path. Satisfied, she left the bathroom and walked back into the open doorway that opened to the massive dormitory, beds in three rows stretching all the way ahead of her. She stopped short and stared, breathe catching in her throat.

A simple red suitcase sat on her neatly made bed, her stiff, starched white wings sitting alongside it, all styled so nicely and perfectly, it was impossible for her to fail to see it. She took it in, knees feeling briefly weakened, before resignation and grim acceptance took over. She’d danced this dance twice before now, she could do it just once more…that was, of course, if she proved lacking at the end of this posting. She slowly walked over to her bed, sitting in the third row, halfway down the room that had once been a basketball court, before all of this madness. She reached out and dragged a finger along the glossy red top of her modest suitcase, already knowing what would be packet inside, even though she hadn’t done it. Three red dresses, two white and plain knee length nighties, seven sets of basic nickers, bra, and cami, with brown knee-high socks. A red woollen scarf and fingerless gloves. Three white caps. The black variation of their sick uniform for mourning would also be neatly tucked in there, separate in its own little box.

Her finger left a streak along the glossy surface that would fade soon enough, her gaze fixed heavily upon what little worldly possession she now held. What she was allowed to hold. Before, she’d had her own three-bedroom apartment filled with nick knacks, books, candles and artwork from her mum. She used to have an entire one side of a walk-in-robe filled with her clothing, enough that it would have been impossible to ever truly wear all of them, truth be told. Half she probably would never wear. Now, all that she had sat neatly into one bare basic suitcase and even that wasn’t truly hers, as she was sure the Aunts would be swift to tell her, should she be stupid enough to voice her own thoughts. God, she missed clothing that wasn’t a red dress. She missed perfume, books, music, art, fuck, did she miss art.

“You”.

She startled slightly, head jerking up sharply, her gasp kept from spilling from her lips only due to all these years of staying silent. Aunt Margret stood in the entrance of the room, dark eyes glaring at her as if she was a piece of trash, features cool.

“Grab your things,” Aunt Margret commanded her, voice echoing through the room, “Aunt Lydia is waiting for you. It’s time to leave for your posting”.

She swallowed and nodded, forced her neck to jerkily jut up and down, even though she felt every muscle in her body freeze. She felt like vomiting. She felt like screaming. She felt like sobbing.

“Yes, Aunt Margret,” she said instead, dutifully, “Right away, ma’am”.

……………………………….Before……………………………………

“Dan thinks we should get married,” the words spilt from her painted lips before she could stop herself, a slight sigh lacing her tone.

Kathy had taken a sip from her white and brown cardboard coffee cup, gloomy midmorning sunlight falling over them. They used to sit and take their morning break on the office rooftop garden, back when women were still allowed in the office, before the soldiers had stormed in with their uniforms and big guns, and their usually fearless boss had announced with a furiously white face and coiled hands at his side that a new ‘Law’ had been passed. All females were no longer allowed to take on employment, or else those found still harbouring them as employees would face a severe penalty. At the time, she had been foolish enough to assume that meant being fired, too…she hadn’t imagined it was more likely death or the death of their spouse.

She’d watched from the corner of her eye as Kathy had considered her words carefully, the mark of a truly good lawyer the ability to carefully think and consider all variations of a statement before delivering a response. She watched as Kathy’s long, cameral neck had bobbed with her swallow, a warm dark blue scarf wrapped about her neck, partially tucked into the collar of her grey trench coat.

“You’re not into it?” Kathy had said with a dark, slim brow arched over towards her, coffee cup lowered to sit absently on top of her crossed knee, “Marriage, kids, white picket fence and the people mover…”

“I’m not anti-marriage,” she’d cut across her, frowning warily. She’d plucked anxiously at the lip of her coffee lid, tempted just to chuck the thing out. She used to be a black, triple shot type of girl with enough sweetness to revival a marshmallow, but pregnancy had meant that she’d been forced to cut down on the caffeine, instead of the triple shot, she stuck to just the one it came with already, instead of having four to five cups a day, she was trying to stick to two. It was hell, “I just…I dunno,” she’d licked her lips and brought her cup up to her lips, shrugging slightly, “Didn’t really picture all that happening this soon”.

“Dan’s not pressuring you, is he?”

“Of course not, he knows he’d so lose that fight if he ever tried to force it. But…I dunno, guess I don’t really want him to think it’s because of him, you know? Me not wanting to get married. I love him”.

Kathy had peered at her, gaze steady and level, no judgment, no gossipy curiosity, hell, there wasn’t even any concern, just…interest. Sincere interest. Dark brown eyes rimmed with liner, full lips painted with a berry-coloured gloss, natural black curls falling gently about her face. They’d known each other since day one of Harvard Law, wept together with the stress and terror of finals, celebrated and gotten blind drunk at the end of a hellish, seemingly tormenting semester after another, until they’d graduated in the spring of the previous year, fresh and wide eyed twenty-four-year-olds. They’d scored the same internship at the same firm in central Boston, and from there is had seemed like their path was largely set.

They’d lived in a fairytale. Now, it was a nightmare.

“So, don’t marry him,” Kathy had said, and taken another sip from her cup.

“That simple, eh?”

“It’s your life, honey. And this is the twenty first century, screw all that conformity bullshit, kids don’t need a marriage to have a happy home. Look at my folks, hated each other and they were married. Hell, I’m probably right there with you about marriage, who needs it?”

She’d sighed and looked slightly warily out across the rooftop garden, wind tugging at her chin length hair, ruining the cute curls she’d carefully risked burning fingers for that morning.

“Dan’s mum’s kind of religious, you know,” she’d muttered warily, knowing Kathy would hear her anyway, “She’ll throw a fit when she finds out”.

“She already hates you for trying to be the badass lawyer boss girl, fuck what she thinks”.

She’d chocked on a surprised laugh and looked sharply around at Kathy, who’d smirked back at her, mock toasting her with her cup. She’d grinned right back and leaned slightly sideways, bopping her shoulder into Kathy’s, hoping she knew how dearly she truly did love her.

She didn’t even think she ever got the chance to tell her how much she did love her.

………………………….………..After………………………………………

Her hands were sweaty as she tried to focus on merely counting each thud of her own heartbeat in her ears, tried to keep her gaze down on her knees, skirts of her dress and crimson woollen cloak draped about her form. The pins holding her cap over her neatly styled hair dug painfully into her scalp, but she had missed her chance to try and adjust it before leaving the Red Centre, a regret she was dearly having presently. She felt slightly nauseated, and she suspected it had nothing to do with the swaying motion of the van. They’d been driving for a while, too, the few glances she’d dared take at the red, gauzy curtained window over Aunt Lydia’s shoulder had made her realise that she was much further out of the heart of Gilead then she had been before. It wasn’t to far, still walking distance from the Market, but far enough out that the properties seemed to sit on larger parcels of land, seemed just that little bit older and more isolated, even though they still sat in the suburbs.

Before, she’d loved architecture, almost gone into that field, too. When she’d first come over to the States to study law, she’d spent the few precious weekends she might have had to try and just walk around, take in the different old styles of houses and buildings that Boston had, so different from the suburbs of London. When she and Dan had been looking for their place together, she’d desperately wanted to move into an old Queen Anne style blue weatherboard house. It had been shockingly rundown, and Dan had made cracks about how they’d probably die trying to use the gas stove, but she’d adored the old school details and arched doorways and built-in bookshelves. The rent had ultimately been too high for what they’d get, and it would have been a forty-minute drive to work, so she’d reluctantly agreed to go for the modern apartment in the heart of Boston. The rent had been more then the house, but Dan had convinced her that it was still the smarter choice.

In another life, she was positive she’d looked at some of these same houses she saw through the windows and daydreamed about one day living in one herself. It was a sick irony, she supposed with a dark flicker of humour, that she seemed to be likely heading towards the type of house she would have once been almost ready to sell her soul to live in. She supposed she was selling her soul, in a manner of speaking, only she wasn’t getting anything out of it, just pain and terror and misery.

“Commander Joseph Lawrence is a brilliant man,” Aunt Lydia told her as they seemed to near their destination. She sat up a little straighter, lifted her chin a little high to peer careful up at Lydia, aiming to appear dutifully interested, not sickened, by whatever little titbits she might learn about her new Commander. Lydia had an oddly particular look about her, though, expression oddly guarded and almost wary, brows slightly curved, “A true visionary. He helped to build Gilead”.

A sick sense of despair rolled over her at that news. So, her new Commander was one of the head one’s, a sicko who had started this whole hellhole off to begin with. Was this supposed to be a punishment for her miscarriage? Or was it because Mrs Arnald had said such awful things about her? The Aunts had decided to send her off to the worst of the worst Commander, perhaps in their twisted manner of punishing her?

“It…” her tongue felt like stone in her mouth, “It is a true…blessing and honour to be given this opportunity, Aunt Lydia,” she was amazed she could even get the words out without vomiting, “I will not disappoint Commander Lawrence”.

Aunt Lydia peered at her closely, that strange searching look back again, as if she was trying to figure out something. Trying to see something in her. She didn’t really care enough to think to much on it, she was just trying not to vomit all over Aunt Lydia’s boots or start hyperventilating.

“Commander Lawrence is something of an eccentric, dear,” the older woman said, unwavering gaze pinned on her intently, “As brilliant minds often are, of course,” she smiled, but it was stiff and dropped away quickly, “He is quite particular”.

She licked her lips nervously, “In…what way, Aunt Lydia?”

A dark brow quirked very slightly, “So, you have not met Commander Lawrence before?” she asked, oddly, and regarded her with a curiously surprised, but almost suspicious glint in her eyes.

She blinked slowly, blankly, briefly rather thrown by that strange response. Was she…supposed to have? She bit back her words before she could speak them, already terrified of that suspicious glint in Aunt Lydia’s eyes, as it was. She suddenly felt as if she was under a microscope, though why or what crime she might have committed, she had no idea. Handmaids talked and would sometimes even share bits of gossip about their Commanders, if given the chance, but she’d been so set apart from her fellow sisters since being with the Arnald’s. Half the time, Mrs Arnald had insisted on going with her to the Market, beady eyes fixed on her with mistrust, the rest of the time she’d been given a time limit to get there, shop, and back again, chatter hadn’t been at the top of her priority list, because God forbid she returned five minutes later then she was supposed to and Mrs Arnald noticed. No excuse, but for a pregnant Handmaid going mad and getting shot up was enough to satisfy Mrs Arnald.

“No, Aunt Lydia,” she said honestly, not even having to pretend to be clueless and innocent, brow creasing slightly. She’d never even heard of a Lawrence before, though Joseph wasn’t that uncommon. It wasn’t the same one that Emily had been posted to, was it? Hadn’t she been ‘Ofjoseph’ when she’d stabbed Lydia in the back, that time? And June…she thought she might have been ‘Ofjoseph,’ too, when she’d skipped town. It seemed curious that two Handmaid’s, two rather troublesome and arguably notorious ones, at that, would share a Commander before both managing to flee Gilead for Canda, as the rumours said. 

That was a dangerous thought to have, though, most assuredly while looking directly in the face of Aunt Lydia. Nor would it likely do her any good. Commanders were all the same, all of them, not one of them was decent or kind, they were apathetic towards their Handmaids, at best, and creepily infatuated, at worse. She wondered, then, if Aunt Lydia was looking at her so oddly because she was supposed to be an unwitting spy, supposed to keep tabs on this Lawrence and report back anything odd about him, and Lydia was trying to figure out if she had the guts for it, she supposed. Or perhaps she was trying to see if there was a flicker of that rebellion in her, the same fire and fury that had possessed Emily and June to do what they had done and then flee.

That was stupid, though. All Handmaid’s carried that same fury and fire, it burned hot and brilliant in each one of them, even the most pious surely had to feel it’s bitter sting, if not at first, at least after having their newborn snatched from their arms, it surely had to come? It was the type of hatred that feasted, bubbled right beneath the surface, until it eventually erupted, scorching everyone and everything in its path. She felt it burning through her blood, even right now, she feared for what she might just do if she did manage to fall pregnant and birth a baby, she fully expected to probably pull some sort of crazy stunt, too, and get herself shot up, like poor Ofmathew had that day at the Market. She wasn’t lucky enough to be the sort to escape, not like Emily and June.

The van pulled to a stop, then, and Lydia blinked and straightened, glancing around them, as if startled to find that they had arrived. Likewise, she also peered around them, though for slightly different reasons, dread pooling sickeningly in her stomach and she felt a slight tremble start in her hands, forcing her to clench them together in her lap, before Lydia noticed and offered some horribly unhelpful platitude about God and duty, or whatever. She ducked her head and breathed in, once, twice, and then forced herself to release her death grip on her own hands, reaching down with her left hand for the handle of her suitcase.

Lydia allowed her a moment to take in her new home, sweet home from the large front gates, her gaze sweeping across the towering, red bricked house that sat fairly far back from the street, giving it a degree of grandeur and privacy, she noted absently, more so than the Arnald’s marble tomb had possessed. This house, though, was beautiful, it even had stained glassed windows and bushes growing wild along the sides of the house, so far from picture perfect that she was used to in Gilead. There was even cracks in the basic front path that carried up to the front steps. It was like a breath of fresh air.

And her nightmare, for what it represented.

She trailed dutifully on Aunt Lydia’s heels, head bowed and wings shielding her face, but she couldn’t help taking little curious glances up at the house, admiring it from a closer angle as they climbed the brick front steps, uneven and cracked in places, from time. There was history here, be it good or bad, yet to be seen, but she allowed it to steady her as Aunt Lydia tickled the little bell to signal their arrival. She hastily dropped her eyes back to the tips of her polished brown boots, skirts still gently fluttering about her legs, tugged at by the soft breeze in the air.

Would her new Martha be friendly? The last one had been, she’d been an ex-elementary school teacher Before all of this had happened. She used to sneak her the occasional hot chocolate when the Mistress went up to bed for an early night. Her first Martha, though, had been silent and cross tempered, and she’d taken care to stay out of her sight, as much as she could. A kindly Martha could make a big difference to a Handmaid…

“Really, now,” Aunt Lydia tutted disapprovingly, and she tried to hold back her flinch, half-expecting to get kicked in the leg or something, but the older woman seemed to have her ire set more on the rather lovely, stained glass front door then her presently, “I did send word ahead of our arrival.  Surely someone must be home to take us?” she pulled at the bell again, causing it to tinkle a little more insistently.

If no one was home, did that mean she could go back to the Red Centre? She’d be happy to scrub another bathroom with a toothbrush.

“…would someone get the door?” a loud, irritable voice rang out suddenly. A very clearly male voice, muffled as it might have been through the door, “Bella! The door! That’s what that irritating ringing noise means, ya know?”

There was a pause, and she struggled not to glance up, as much as she wanted to, as much as she felt oddly amused, vague as that might be beneath the dread. She’d never heard someone in Gilead shout like that before, irritated and aggravated, for certain, but it wasn’t…frightening. It didn’t make her feel as if she ought to run and hide, but rather it almost seemed like a familiar, old friend. It hit her, then, why. It sounded just like her mum yelling downstairs when they were kids and someone would call the old landline phone, how she’d yell for one of them to ‘Answer that silly thing and tell them we’re not buying what they’re trying to sell,’ usually because mum would be busy in her studio finishing off her latest project.

“Bella! Bella…Oh, fine, fine! Guess I’ll get the door, then, yes? What’s the point of having you lot around…!”

The door sprung open and the voice was cut off abruptly. Still, she didn’t dare risk glancing up, as tempted as she was. Eyes remained fixed on her boots, neck bowed and wings shielding her face from view. She hated wearing the damn wings most of all, she might have had a chance to see from beneath her lashes, but the edge of her wings prevented her from seeing anything. It was like wearing a bloody horse blinder, only fitted to humans, all to keep them weaker. Keep them from being able to protect themselves from any sneak attack. The thick starched material and concave of the wings even dulled their hearing, just slightly, just enough, if one was light enough on their feet.

“Blessed be the fruit, Commander Lawrence,” Aunt Lydia greeted brightly, and seemed to politely ignore the fact they’d overhead the bloke throwing a little fit about having to get his own bloody door.

For God’s sake, he was one of those spoilt Commander’s, wasn’t he? The precious type. The type who’d fuss over meals, sending them back for petty nonsense, and probably expect zero chatter between his household outside what was strictly necessary, even in the domain of the kitchen, a place he’d probably get lost even trying to find. She’d heard of those types before. She already wanted to slap him on behalf of his poor Martha, never mind the rest of his foul crimes.

“Yes…right,” the Commander said a little distractedly, almost casually drawling…his voice wasn’t what she expected. It was deep and even, very obviously American, or what was once American, but raspy. Pleasant. He seemed to draw in a breath, she heard the long, steady intake of air, “You’re…early”.

“I sent our time of arrival, Commander. We’re right on time”.

“I seem to have missed that message…” he said with that same drawling tone, somehow making it sound borderline sarcastic, borderline insulting, before he seemed to shift slightly, from what little she could see of the shadow he cast over them, and sniffed loudly, dismissively, “Well, never mind. You’ve brought the girl. That’s that. Safe travels back to the Red Centre, Lydia…”

He…he so didn’t just…just send Aunt Lydia off, like she was some sort of furniture delivery person that had just dropped off a couch or something. And the tone, God, it was so, so…mocking. That was it, each and every word that rolled off his tongue seemed to be laced with underlining mocking and derision, and the use of Lydia’s name without her title or anything…damn. Just, damn.  He might as well have just told Lydia, ‘Thanks for dropping by, I’ve got it from here, hun. See ya!’ If she wasn’t so disgusted and horrified by the prospect of this man now being her Commander, and therefore her future rapist, she might have secretly smirked and cheered, in another life, she probably would have offered to buy him a drink, even.

“I…” Lydia, likewise, seemed to flounder as to how to proceed with the very obvious dismissal, and from a Commander, no less. Her voice even took on a slightly higher pitch, “Commander Lawrence, that is not how we do things, as you well know. I have much still that needs to be discussed with Ofjoseph, and I’d like to see…”

“Not my first dance here, Lydia,” he cut across her, and there was no mistaking the mocking now, not now she was listening so intently for it, “Ofjoseph will be fine, I’m sure…isn’t that right, Ofjoseph?”

She almost jolted at being suddenly spoken to like that, Commander’s were not supposed to speak to Handmaid’s, not typically, anyway, not outside of a greeting. She could count on one hand how many times her past two Commander’s had spoken to her directly. She kept her head bowed, though she felt all eyes suddenly on her, Aunt Lydia’s in particular felt like a large, heavy weight on the side of her face, thankfully shielded from view by her wings.

“Yes, sir,” she said softly, respectfully.

“Ah!” she almost jumped at his sharp exclamation, dripping with sarcasm, “She’s even capable of speech! This is a blessed day. Now, Lydia…” his tone grew a touch firmer, losing some of the mocking and sarcasm, “I’m sure you have plenty of work to be getting on with, girls to be teaching…” he said the word ‘Teaching’ with almost a scoff, as if he knew what Aunt Lydia was really like to the girls in her charge…, “Don’t want to be holding you up now, do we?”

“Commander Lawrence, I really must insist…”

“As do I, Lydia,” his tone, now, was most assuredly lacking any sarcasm. He sounded vaguely annoyed now, far, far more like a Commander, “As do I”.

And Aunt Lydia had no where to go with it.

“I…yes,” she almost seemed to deflate, her tone full of uncharacteristic wariness and displeasure, unlike anything she’d heard from the older woman before. It was almost fascinating, she half wished she’d had a recorder. A small huff of a sigh broke their air, “Yes, I…suppose all is settled and in order…”

“I believe so,” Commander Lawrence agreed, oddly pleasantly now, as if it had been Lydia’s idea to leave, not him basically forcing her to go, “Under His Eye”.

“May the Lord Open, Commander,” Lydia replied promptly, though she still sounded rather wary, plainly deeply unhappy with this turn of events. She turned, then, and she knew she was looking at her now, “Ofjoseph, look at me”.

She did as she was instructed, and slowly lifted her head, meeting Aunt Lydia’s small blue eyes. She still couldn’t get a look at the Commander, her wings blocked her peripheral vison, so she settled on gazing directly ahead of herself into those eyes that she’d witness flash in fury and rage, right before slapping you. She didn’t fear a slap from Aunt Lydia right now, though. There was something oddly comforting hearing Aunt Lydia being taken down a peg or two…even if it had to come from her future rapist.

“May God bless you, sweet girl,” Aunt Lydia smiled at her, warm and inviting, and so very maternal, not at all like the furious harpy that she turned into if triggered. She reached out and grasped her shoulder, and she tried hard not to flinch away, keeping her gaze firmly planted on the older woman’s eyes, expression carefully blank. She leaned slightly closer, then, peering right into her wings, “Remember, you have so much potential, so much potential. I’ll be praying for you”.

“As I shall keep my preys focused on my duty, Aunt Lydia,” she responded, voice soft and humbled, even while inwardly she wanted to slap Lydia. She was a person; she had a hell of a lot more potential then just being a fucking broodmare. She kept her voice sweet, though, “I can only hope that God will deem my finally worthy…”

“Amen,” Commander Lawrence seemed to intone from her left. Was everything he said meant with sarcasm, or was he just incapable of any other emotion?

Aunt Lydia seemed to note it, regardless, her eyes flickering sharply off to the side, lips briefly pursing in displeasure. But, again, he was a Commander and apparently a very high ranking one, he could probably misquote some Bible verse and Lydia would let it slide. Men could do that here, now, get away with just about anything and everything. Oh, the privilege of possessing a Y chromosome. It was so gross.

“I need to be off now…” she shot another sharp, pointed glance towards the left, almost accusingly, “…apparently,” she forced a thin smile, one that seemed painful, and turned back to her charge, “Blessed be the fruit, Ofjoseph”.

“May the Lord open”.

And then Aunt Lydia was squeezing her shoulder in a supposedly comforting, or perhaps even vaguely consoling gesture, and turning to walk back down the stairs. A light gust gently whipped at her skirts, but she kept her head bent, eyes lowered to the ground, even as a loud, rather exasperated sigh rang out and the distant noise of the van’s back door creaking open sounded, followed soon after by the slamming of doors. It wasn’t until, she assumed, the van had started up and began pulling away, that Commander Lawrence seemed satisfied enough that Aunt Lydia was truly gone, that he seemed to shift. She heard the slight squeak of leather shoes.

“Alright,” he sighed, “Come on in”.

She moved to step forward, head still bent low, and gaze fixed on the ground. She was vaguely unsettled to find that he had only moved aside to give her entry to his home, apparently holding the door open for her, catching sight of the brown leather shoes he wore, his trousers seemingly a dark woollen grey, not the crisp black Commander’s normally wore. She skirted uneasily away from him through the door, and made sure to place herself a good six feet away from him, gaze fixed firmly on the black and white tiles of his entrance. She squeezed the handle of her suitcase at her side.

“Well…” Lawrence huffed, and she heard the door close. She was officially trapped now, “Thank God that’s done with, eh?” he seemed to turn around to face her, she saw the edge of his toes enter her line of sight. His shoes were nice, polished and clean, but not new, they had some light scratches on them. He seemed to take another deep inhale, “I couldn’t stomach another introduction with Lydia looming in the background like a vulture. That must have been a nice ride over here, huh?”

She had to speak, she realised with a sinking sense of despair, why did he make her have to speak? She couldn’t ignore such a direct question, not from a Commander, no matter how trivial. Still, she longed to escape and gather herself, and her scalp was really arching from the damn pins digging into it right now. She was getting a headache.

“It was most pleasant, Commander Lawrence,” she lied, and hoped he’d stop trying to…well, whatever the hell this was, right now, and just let her fade into the background until it came to do her sick duty. She’d heard of Commander’s who liked to pretend like Handmaid’s were their mistress or something, like it wasn’t rape, just ‘cos they chattered nicely a few times before. Was this what that was all about? He was trying to make it seem better by being nice?

He scoffed, and seemed to shift, as if he’d stuck his hands in his trouser pockets, “That’s a lie,” he said in a slightly clipped tone, and she instantly felt every muscle in her body tense in terror, felt a cold sweat break out on the back of her neck. Still, she kept her head lowered, even as he slowly, almost casually, strolled three steps closer to her. His hands were inside his pockets of his trousers, he also seemed to be wearing a matching dark grey vest, no blazer, though, just a white shirt, from the edge of his cuffs that she could see, “You know…” he drawled lightly, but she sensed a layer of seriousness beneath the levity, “I hate liars. And it’s no use trying to lie to me. I can tell”.

She swallowed, her throat felt like sand, “I apologise, sir”.

He stepped another step closer, brown shoe smoothly gliding across black and white tiles. There was a step between them, now. He could easily reach out and smack her. She kept her eyes down, though she desperately wanted to look up, keep him visible. With her head bowed, she’d now lost sight of what he was doing with his hands, she could only see his trousers from the knee down now, but when you’re a Handmaid you get a good gist of other people’s heights and builds. He wasn’t as tall as her first Commander, who had been over six feet, but he was still easily seven inches taller than her, she guessed, and broad shouldered, much wider than her petite frame. He’d easily overpower her without even needing to try that hard, and judging by his gait, voice, and smoothness of his movements, he wasn’t anywhere near as geriatric as she might have hoped (And feared). He was older than her, evident from his voice, which had the maturity that came only from age in men, but not so old he couldn’t give a hell of a good fight. Probably.

“That’s it, is it? Not gonna try and excuse it?”

She briefly closed her eyes, heart hammering and a sick sense of fear bubbling up inside her, “You don’t like liars, sir,” she forced out, tone slightly chocked, but she pushed on. If she was going to get slapped, what she had to say next probably wouldn’t spare her, regardless, “I assume that you wouldn’t appreciate me attempting to excuse my behaviour, but would prefer that I simply accept responsibility for the first offence, rather than cause a second or third by offering fake excuses”.

There was a pause, she waited for the slap, the punch to the gut, the punishment…

“Huh,” he murmured, sounding oddly curious and surprised, “An accountable Handmaid…isn’t that different?” he didn’t seem to linger on the thought longer, nor allow her to puzzle over his words, before he said in a light tone. It was almost teasing, “You know, you can look at me and speak, I know most of my…” he seemed to huff out a small, sarcastic breath, “…brother’s get off on the whole meek, subservient thing, but it gets boring quickly. No one wants to chat with a starched bonnet”.

She licked her lips, still not fully daring to trust her luck…but Commander Lawrence had, thus far, behaved better then any other Commander she’d met before. She couldn’t get a read off him, but he didn’t seem…violent. Yet. Perhaps that came during the Ceremony, but right now he seemed…pleasant. She decided, for the sake of hopefully keeping it pleasant, to play along, as he wished. So, she slowly lifted her head, eyes shifting upwards.

She had been right, he was taller than her, a full head taller. He was in his early to mid-sixties, with a head of thick, silvery white hair that was neatly brushed back off his face, and a medium dense beard covering his cheeks and around his mouth, neatly kept, too. He was oddly rather good looking, in that older way that she’d heard girls talk about with their college professors. She’d never really seen it, the appeal of the man over fifty, but Lawrence did have that whole ‘Silver fox’ thing working for him, and even she couldn’t deny that. His cheek bones were high and defined, his face large and rather proud, with deep wrinkles set around his dark brown eyes and between his brows. He wore glasses, slim framed metal ones, with no frames around the oval shaped lenses. No tie, either, but a scarf was tied about his neck, like a slightly oversized cravat.

“Ah,” he nodded, and seemed to appraise her right back. It didn’t feel creepy, not like some of the looks she’d gotten from Commanders, but it wasn’t necessarily…innocent, either. His dark brown eyes roamed across her features carefully, something like pleasant satisfaction creeping into his gaze, before he blinked and it was gone. His gaze lingered, though, as if it was cataloguing every freckle or tiny escaped strand of hair, and then he was sniffing and his gaze was flickering away from her, “Right, then. You know, I don’t even know why I’m bothering to ask after the last two…” his eyes fixed steadily on her, then, sharp and focused, and almost wary, “You’re not gonna be any trouble, are you?”

It was such a strange question, she almost smiled. Almost even laughed in disbelief. She caught herself, in time, but her bemusement surely had to show, because he merely arched a silvery brow back at her, clearly expectant and awaiting her answer. She schooled her features carefully.

“No, sir. No trouble”.

………..…………Before……………………..

She still remembered the terror of going into childbirth. Didn’t matter how much preparation or books, or classes she’d done, the second she’d felt the first cramp that lasted just a little longer than the false ones had, hurt just that little too much and to deeply, she’d known she was in for it. She remembered her mum saying about how she’d begged to be shot in the head in the throws of her first delivery, the pain had been that bad, and the gas hadn’t done a single ounce of relief. 

Once she’d finally gone into labour, after being already two weeks overdue, she could understand why someone would prefer the bullet. She was lucky, though, back then, she had modern medicine and a team of female doctors and nurses, and a midwife that she trusted explicitly to keep her and the baby safe. The epidural had been a given from the start, she’d demanded it the very second Danial had helped her through the doors of the maternity wing, and within the hour blessed relief had washed over her. No way was she gonna try and be one of those drug-free mothers.

“You know,” Danial had said over the thudding, whooshing sound of the baby’s heartbeat, issuing from one of the machines she’d been hooked up to. He looked tired, but excited, terrified, but oddly calm, sitting on the edge of her hospital bed, absently toying with a stupid stress ball he’d probably found while snooping around. He flashed her a cheeky grin, “Not to late to still get hitched, make this whole thing right and proper…”

She’d shot him a flat stare, “I’m literally seven centimetres dilated, and you think now’s still a good time to get married?” she’d scoffed slightly incredulously.

“I mean...gotta be better than when you’ve got the kid half out of you…”

“I swear to God, if I had use of my legs right now, I’d so kick you. Don’t even go there”.

His smile had been like sunshine, and he’d shrugged one shoulder in response, not even attempting to conceal his smirk as he tossed the damn stress ball in the air and caught it again. It jolted the bed a little and she’d tried to glare at him disapprovingly, but she couldn’t help the little smile. Perhaps it was just the hormones and all the good, happy feels of becoming a new mum, but she’d loved him more in that moment then she’d perhaps ever loved him before.

“Does it…” she’d frowned, slowly, then, eyeing him carefully, “I mean…you’re still okay about us not getting married, right? You know it’s not you…”

He’d immediately sobered and shaken his head, a brief flash of alarm crossing his features as he’d scooted a little bit closer to her, reaching for her hand. He was gentle as he laced his fingers with hers, mindful of the cannula sticking out of the back of it. He looked squarely in her eyes, his the colour of the sea on a summer’s day.

“Hey, stop it,” he’d told her swiftly, and leaned up to press a quick kiss to her cheek. When he pulled back to look at her again, he’d looked so tender and soft, “It doesn’t matter to me, okay? Doesn’t make a difference. It’s 2014, who cares? We’re probably way happier than ninety percent of married couples, anyway, not to mention all that money on one day?”

“Your mum cares,” she’d said pointedly, and a little bitterly.

Danial briefly closed his eyes, grimacing very slightly, “That’s her issue,” he’d said, firmly, and opened his eyes to look at her directly. He’d reached out with his other hand and placed it over her stomach, just above the soft belt they’d wrapped around her massive belly to monitor the baby’s heartbeat. His hand had been warm, she remembered, “She’s the one missing out on her grandkid for stupid prejudice and God. That’s not your fault, or mine. She’s made her choice”.

She’s smiled softly and nodded, eyes welling up slightly. She’d wondered, back then, how she could be so lucky to be so loved, so adored, that Danial would willingly give up his own mother for her. In that moment, she’d seen her entire future mapped out, almost in perfect detail, or what she saw to be her future, and four hours later, on January the 6^th, 2014, baby Hugo James Ford was brought screaming into the world, adding another piece to that future she’d envisioned for herself.

And eight months later, Congress fell.

Chapter Text

Her new bedroom was bigger then the last two. It also smelt of dust, she could see the little floating specks dancing through the sunbeams that slipped through the drawn edge of the gauzy curtains, twirling and spiralling, her eyes briefly tracking the movements. Was it weird to envy a speck of dust? The rest of the room was simple and not so different to the other bedrooms she’d been given during her other two postings, though she was still a little taken aback to find her room on the main upper floor of the house, on the main landing, no less, not tucked away in a cramped room in the attic with low ceilings and a single, small window with shutters largely blocking out any natural sunlight.

The floor was thick, dark stained wooden beams that creaked slightly beneath her feet, a large, oval shaped rug sat beneath the bed and around the sides of the single, wooden frame, another little luxury she was surprised to note. She remembered her last posting, how during the winter months her toes had felt like they were going to freeze clean off with the chilly mornings when she’d force herself from her bed. An old armchair sat tucked into the corner of the room near the bed, a floor lamp above it, though why they’d bothered, she had no idea. Not like she was allowed to read. Another small wooden chair sat on the other side of an ornate, oval window that looked out over the back garden, while a large wardrobe sat opposite the bed, far larger than she’d ever need for her merger possessions. A wooden desk and matching chair sat on the wall next to the door, again, another rather pointless piece. The connecting bathroom was neat and clean, no shower, only a tub, but she was used to that now.

God, what she would do for a hot shower.

“His Highness takes dinner at six,” Bella, one of two of the household’s Martha’s, informed her. She was a woman in her early forties, once likely vibrant red hair turned a strawberry blonde colouring with age, eyes bright green. She was pretty, though, rounded, full face, even despite the thick, jagged scar that ran along her right cheek bone, puckered and still a touch pink, so it wasn’t a very old wound. She watched her taking in her new space, posture oddly relaxed, “Breakfast at seven thirty. Lunch is one o’clock, sharp. He’s fussy about mealtimes”.

She wasn’t surprised to hear that, she’d guessed her new Commander was the fussy type, though it was perhaps the only accurate judgment she’d made about him. She was still reeling slightly from the chat downstairs, how he’d merely given her a slightly lingering, though almost amused look after she’d assured him that she wasn’t going to cause any havoc, before he’d snorted very slightly, as if to say ‘Yeah, we’ll see about that,’ and then randomly yelled for poor Bella, just about causing her to leap out of her skin. Bella had hurriedly came running, so she had no idea where the Martha had been when the doorbell had been ringing, but Lawrence hadn’t seemed bothered. She’d expected him to punish the Martha for her negligence of duty, even demand to know what the hell she’d been doing, but he’d merely cast her a quick glance and instructed her to give his new Handmaid a tour, before leaving them to it.

“Understood,” she nodded, gently placing her suitcase on the floor by the end of the bed. She turned around, wings still blocking most of her vision, to focus her full attention on the Martha. She’d learnt early on, it was important to try and be on the good side of the house’s Martha’s. They knew things about the family and their habits, things that could help get on the good side or just simply avoid getting in the way. If the Martha was nice enough, they’d even let you help out in the kitchen a little, and for a Handmaid who had nothing to do ninety percent of the time, that could be a treat.

“He’s not that difficult, though,” Bella continued, shrugging slightly. There was something oddly informal about Bella, a flippancy that she hadn’t seen before in a Martha, “Just, you know, don’t go poking around or wondering into his office, and you’ll be fine. He’s very private”.

“You’ve worked for him for long?” she asked curiously, peering at her. Again, she was puzzled by Bella, most Martha’s were very formal and reserved, kept to themselves, type. Bella was oddly chatty and helpful; she’d immediately began telling her about how the Lawrence house ran without her even needing to ask. That was a slight red flag, though, what happened when it didn’t go the Commander’s way?

A strange look crossed Bella’s face, then, causing her scar to pull harshly on her cheek. Her eyes flickered away, too, lips twisting slightly into a little grimace, and she shifted on the spot. Almost anxiously, she reached up to tuck hair uneasily back beneath the edge of her light grey headscarf, even though there wasn’t a hair out of place.

“Few months,” she said, her tone a slightly forced, airy one, eyes flickering slightly warily back up to catch her own light blue gaze, “You don’t know the story?”

“What story?”

“What happened when the last Ofjoseph went rogue?”

June, she was talking about June, had to be. She eyed her carefully, licking her lips slightly carefully. Again, dangerous territory this was, say to much and she could get hauled out of the house by the Eyes who assume she knows more then she should, not say anything and she’d look suspicious, too. Everyone knew what June had done, at least, she knew what the formal, Gilead approved version of the story was, that June had stolen a whole bunch of kids with the help of a number of traitorous Martha’s across the District, that she’d gone and helped those kids escape on a plane for Canda, and then she’d fled with a couple of other rogue Handmaid’s that she’d corrupted with her wickedness. They’d been all caught and rounded up…the ones still alive and not smooshed by a train, and June and Janine had managed to get away, somehow. June had ended up in Canda, somehow, but Janine had been dragged right back.

Of course, she knew a little bit more than most. She’d had the chance to speak to Janine at the Red Centre, just briefly, mind, before she’d been sent here. Janine was being put back through rigorous training again, under Aunt Lydia’s iron fist. Janine had told her that June had been working with the resistance, Mayday, that she’d gotten those kids out and then almost died herself. They’d ended up on some farm somewhere, how June had managed to almost get them all out and to safety…only to give them all up when they’d threatened her daughter. She hadn’t gotten any more details than that, but the thing that had puzzled her most was how had June gotten the plane? How had she known about it? How had she managed all of that right under the nose of her Commander?

Lawrence was sharp and quick, he’d called her right out for lying, no way he couldn’t have known June was plotting such a massive scale rebellion right under his nose…surely? Like, just how had he not noticed? Commanders were, of course, generally very busy and separate from even their own wives and household, far to above all of the ‘Women’s work’ stuff. But even the most aphetic and disinterested Commander would surely have to know that his Handmaid was plotting massive rebellion beneath his own roof. And she didn’t get aphetic from Lawrence, she didn’t know what the hell he was, but he wasn’t that.

“June Osborne, yes?” she asked carefully, wanting it clarified, needing it clarified, before she went and said something she shouldn’t. Might be Emily she was talking about, the time she’d stabbed Lydia in the back

Bella nodded, eyes fixed on her, “Yeah, her,” she said quietly, “When she got all those kids out, you know what they did to this house?” her lips pulled tightly, not waiting for her to respond, “They arrested everyone, Commander Lawrence, too. He managed to get out, though, he’s to important to die. His Martha’s? Not so much”.

That wasn’t surprising. Women were replaceable now, even more so if you didn’t possess a working womb. She took a small breath through her lips, regarding Bella grimly.

“I’m sorry,” she said, though she knew it was likely foolish.

Bella shrugged and glanced away from her, “They were nice,” she said lightly, after a brief moment, her expression growing stony as she looked sharply back to her, a vaguely, almost warning flash in her eyes, “Nice gets you killed ‘round here, and I’m not dying for it,” she narrowed her eyes very slightly on her, pulling herself up to her full height, easily three inches above her head, jaw briefly ticking, “You wanna cause trouble, like the last one, don’t do it under this roof. Keep your head down, do your job, leave it at that. Got it?”

She might have been taken aback in another life at the abrupt change in Bella, the suddenly cold, deadly serious tone in her voice, the warning glint in those green eyes. But she got it, totally, this place made you have to put survival first, protect yourself, always, and always remember that anyone around you can and will stab you in the back at any time. June had done a real number on this house if this was the second person warning her off making any mischief.

“Got it,” she said firmly, nodding as she held her gaze directly, “I’m just here to…to do what I’ve gotta do…” even if it repulsed her, even if she could feel her very flesh itching at the prospect, until she almost wanted to tear at it. She swallowed it down, “I don’t wanna cause any trouble for anyone. I swear”.

…………………………Before……………………………

“I’m in trouble”.

Eliza didn’t even bother to glance up from her sticker clad laptop, pink earphone hanging from one ear. She was still in her school uniform, too, hair pulled back in a cute, if slightly leaning bun right on top of her head, light brown hair taking on a slightly honeyed tone in the dying sunlight streaming in through the bedroom window behind her head. Hair colour aside, there was no mistaking them being sisters. Same facial structure, same eyes, even the same build, but Eliza had a fine sprinkle of freckles across her nose and a slightly wider face, more like dad’s.

“You’re so dramatic,” she’d scoffed, gaze still glued to her screen, one knee curled beneath her on the bed, “Most people would be thrilled to have your issues, you know?”

She wasn’t even sure, sometimes, why she bothered to get sympathy from her baby sister by two years, but that was just what sisters did. Love and hate each other, scream and hug one another to death, no matter what, it was a bond that was inseparable. At least, it had been once upon a time.

“I know,” she’d sighed heavily, and moved to flop herself down on the end of the bed, squeezing her eyes shut tightly, head falling back against the pink wallpapered wall behind her. At seventeen, almost eighteen, she’d felt so overwhelmed and confused by what to do, “I just…” she briefly puffed out her cheeks, blowing out an audible breath, “It’s a lot. Like, this is insane”.

“You’re telling me,” Eliza had shot her a look, finally, at that, blue eyes shining with amusement and teasing, “Who’d ever think my big sister who took three goes getting her supervised license got accepted into Harvard Law and fucking Oxford. They do realise you’re actually a genius idiot, right?”

“I don’t even know why I bother talking to you sometimes. I’m not that bad”.

“Three tries! I got mine first try!”

“I only hit the gutter a couple of times the second time, I still reckon the instructor had it out for me…”

“Whatever,” she’d cut her off, scoffing slightly as she turned her eyes back to the screen, absently reaching up to adjust her earbud more securely in her ear. Silence fell over the room, comfortable and easy, the muffled sound of the TV playing a game show drifting up from downstairs reaching them, along with their mother’s painting music from down the hall. It was homey, “Still can’t believe you got into fucking Oxford and Harvard,” Eliza muttered after a brief pause, voice incredulous, eyes not lifting, “You even applying was, like, just a joke…”

“Dad said he thought I might have a shot,” she’d replied softly, though she had been rather shocked herself. She’d applied to several schools, but those had been her two big ones, the ones she’d only dreamed of maybe getting a shot at, and she’d somehow gotten into both of them, and five of the other seven that she’d tried for. She stared at her sock covered feet hanging off the edge of the bed, almost blankly.

“Yeah, but…you?”

She’d rolled her eyes and huffed slightly, mock annoyed, turning to throw Eliza a pointed glare and playfully whacked at her bare foot that lay just shy of touching her bare thigh. Eliza had pink nail polish on, and her feet were frigging freezing, like ice blocks.

“Shut up. You just wait ‘till I’m a big, rich lawyer, you’re so going to regret making cracks like that when you need me to get you out of prison”.

“What do you mean by when I need you to get me out?” Eliza had blinked innocently back at her, pouting slightly.

“Eliza, out of the two of us, you’d so be the one to get chucked in a cell, no doubt about that. It’s just time”.

“Bitch”.

She smirked and preened slightly, reaching up to flip her shoulder length hair back, “Yeah, but I’m gonna be a rich bitch with a law degree, so watch yourself,” she’d mock narrowed her eyes threateningly back at Eliza.

Eliza raised an eyebrow back at her and scoffed darkly, her expression full of doubt about that happening, though she didn’t have any quick, witty come back to add, either. And she knew it. She scowled slightly and went back to playing around on her laptop, and she’d let her, enjoying the moment of peace.

“You’re gonna pick Oxford, right?” Eliza’s voice had been soft, almost hesitant, when she’d asked. She was still staring at her screen, but it was plainly just so she didn’t have to look at her, a very slight flush of pink coating her cheeks. She frowned slightly and shrugged, almost as if she was trying to act like she was just being casual, “I mean…” her frown deepened, almost looking worried, “Oxford’s only an hour and forty minutes away by car. It’s the obvious choice”.

“I…don’t know”.

…………………….After…………………..

The Lawrence house was nothing like anything she’d seen in Gilead before. Gilead had always reminded her of a perverted version of the wooden dollhouse she’d had as a kid. Even the Wives and Commanders looked the same, acted the same, dressed in the same black suits and teal dresses and heels. She was almost positive, looking back, that the couple that had come with the dollhouse had been dressed in a similar set of clothing, before Eliza had gone at them with scissors, while the perfect boy and girl dolls had looked like the fairytale, picture perfect image of what Gilead liked to preach about. Only maybe add another half-a-dozen more kid dolls to the mix.

And a Martha doll, because God forbid these people ever make their own bed or something.

In comparison, this house was almost opposite to what she was used to. The Arnald’s home had been filled with white marble and carpets that she wasn’t allowed to step foot on for any reason. This house was all dark wooden floors with large rugs and dark, busy wallpapers, each room seemingly a different, but yet similar theme to the next. The kitchen, however, was bright and warm, inviting, even, with cream walls and tiled flooring, white stone bench tops and medium dark cupboards. It was large and airy, windows looking right out into the back garden. There was even a small breakfast nook with a window bench seat running around the rounded alcove. That was where she’d take her meals, and she was rather pleased by the prospect. Her last posting she’d been forced to eat all of her meals up in her cramped room, so to avoid distracting their Martha.

The kitchen also provided her with a chance to just observe her new Commander from a safe distance, having a rather clean view of the dining room table that he took his meals in from the kitchen. She had just finished up with her own dinner when Lawrence had made his appearance, his Martha’s already all set up and ready to immediately start placing plates before him as he sat down, table all nicely set up. He even had a crystal glass with red wine waiting for him.

Lawrence took his seat at the head of the table without pause or glance at those serving him, without uttering a word to either of them as he immediately reached for the wine and took a sip. Bella and the other Martha, Millie, stood by and waited, ready to get him whatever he asked for or needed before he even needed to say a word, but neither of them looked afraid. Neither woman flinched when he reached for his knife and fork, neither of them jerked when he clanged the saltshaker off the edge of his plate by accident.

They weren’t nervous of him; she realised with curiosity.

Respectful, certainly, for his position and their own stations in his house, but afraid? No. Had they not been struck by him before? She remembered the Martha from her last posting who’d twitch whenever the mistress entered the kitchen unexpectedly, how the Martha from her first posting had been struck during one of her first mornings in that house for the butter not being soft enough for the Commander to spread on his toast on the chilly January morning. Martha’s might not be raped, or supposedly not, but they were still as poorly treated and abused as Handmaid’s were, but they also didn’t have the hope of getting some freedom from the abuse by getting pregnant. They just had to deal and grit their teeth. Was it any wonder so many of those Martha’s had helped June get those kids out?

It hadn’t just been about the kids. They had their own rage against their abuses, too.

She couldn’t deny that she wasn’t a little confused by what the hell was up with her new Commander, watching him with a small crease between her brows, observing every twitch and shift, almost every intake of breath, just trying to figure him out. The Commanders were usually easy, they wanted largely one thing, and always needed to feel that they were in control and the boss. But Lawrence? She couldn’t decide yet what he wanted, what made him tick, aside from likely the obvious when it came to her. But anyone else would have punished Bella for not being there to open the door for Lydia, but yet he hadn’t battered an eye about it, and Bella hadn’t seemed concerned about it, either. That sort of transgression wasn’t something that the Arnald’s would have overlooked from their Martha.

Millie slipped back into the kitchen, then, pulling her back to reality with a slight blink. Millie gave her a small smile. She was a plump lady, probably closer to Lawrence’s age then Bella, with grey streaked dark hair and a bright, warm, full face. She was carrying Lawrence’s dirty dinner plate.

“Did you have enough to eat, dear?” she asked her, oddly almost motherly as she passed her, heading for the sink, “There’s a bit more bread left, or perhaps some fresh fruit…”

Dear God, even when she’d been pregnant, before she’d lost the baby, no one had been that interested in making sure she’d had enough to eat, it was just about making sure it was extra pregnancy friendly. They liked to keep them trim, liked to keep them on a dull, bland diet of largely fruits and vegetables and protein, with minimal salt and sugar, all low-fat dairy products, too. It had taken her months to get used to the food, she missed a cheeseburger so badly sometimes she even dreamed of them, or pancakes or ice cream, and she hadn’t even liked ice cream that much. She suspected the diet wasn’t even that much to do with babies, she imagined it was to keep them attractive to the Commanders, too, keep them slim. Before, she’d had some gentle curves, a little gift from post-baby Hugo, but she’d well and truly lost those now. Now, she was as skinny as she was when she was seventeen, if not maybe even a little more, and it only felt like another aspect of her body that had been stolen from her.

“I’m okay, thank you,” she said out of reflex, giving Millie a small, slightly strained smile. She watched her with the plate, “Can I help at all? I can wash up, if…”

“That’s our job, dear,” she shook her head, sparing her another gentle smile. She placed the dirty plate in the farm style sink, glancing back over her shoulder to her, “Don’t you worry about it, alright? Besides, it’s your first night, isn’t it? You’ve had a big day”.

“I would like to try and help, though,” she insisted lightly, gently as she could, giving the older woman a slightly hopeful smile, “Washing dishes isn’t particularly taxing”.

Millie considered her for a brief moment, before her hazel eyes softened and she absently brushed her hands down the front of her apron, moving closer to her. She slowly, and rather intentionally, reached out and placed a warm hand on her upper arm, her hold light and not holding. It was almost motherly in a way, and done with such care as to obviously not make her nervous, she was briefly thrown. Did she really look that frightened? Was it so obvious?

“Perhaps tomorrow,” she said with a soft smile, peering into her face. They were around the same height, “It would be nice to have the extra help around”.

She smiled back at her, closed lipped and more of a grimace then anything, but it was the closest she’d come to smiling in a long time. She decided that she was going to very much enjoy Millie and Bella, they might be her bright light in this whole affair. It was important to keep close to the woman around you who were kind and warm. They didn’t have to be your best friend or even have your back, but just their general support was enough in this place to make it bearable.

There was a clink of china and she glanced back through the dinner room door, only to tense, even her half-smile seemingly freezing on her face, finding herself meeting the dark eyes of Commander Lawrence. He was peering back at her with a brow quirked, chin slightly dipped downwards towards his chest, glass of wine held aloft in his hand. He had desert sitting in front of him, some sort of fruit tart that hadn’t been on her menu, though he hadn’t seemed to have touched it. Bella was glancing between her and the Commander, holding a decanter of what seemed to be wine against her chest. And then, Lawrence went and lifted his glass up and almost seemed to toast it, just slightly, in her direction, before taking a sip and turning away at the same time, seemingly dismissing her.

She stared slightly in bewilderment…was that…approval? She had no clue, and judging by the slightly lost look on Bella’s face, she wasn’t any better off understanding it, throwing Lawrence a glance as he began digging into his tart with little care for the rest of them being about. Millie, however, shot her a quick, light smile and moved to return to the dining room.

“He’s a softie, secretly,” she whispered to her, in a curiously knowing sort of way, and slipped past her before she could try and figure out how the hell she was supposed to respond to that.

The guy who’d helped create this place, who was going to be her rapist in a week’s time…a softie? This was seriously a Dystopian reality, wasn’t it?

……..………..Before……………….

She’d hoped that by printing out a picture of Harvard and Oxford’s welcome website page, she might be able to help figure out what school to pick. Her deadline to figure it out was nearing, now, and she’d already narrowed it down to those two schools. The others had all been great, but there was no comparison between Harvard or Oxford Law. She stuck the two pages, laid out on A4 paper on the wall above her desk with some double-sided tape, the painting of a butterfly blooming into flight that her mum had made for her sitting on her bed for safe keeping for the moment. She had her laptop playing some random classic rock songs on her desk, currently Every Breath You Take by The Police.

Her neck was already starting to cramp from staring, her mind whirling with the ups and downs of her choice. Oxford was close to home, for a start, it was also listed as one of the top law schools in the world, internationally known and respected. But then there was Harvard, an entire ocean away, sure, but wasn’t that also a fantastic adventure? A chance to do something a little different and a little her own? Harvard Law was the best law school in the world. But…it was still so far away, and she’d only ever been away from home for a week, at the most, during a school camping trip.

She’d been miserable.

“Honey?” a soft knock had rapped against her partly open door, and she looked around to see her dad peering in, regarding her with a slightly worried frown. He’d disregarded his blazer for his house cardigan, a dark green one, because he was, of course, the type of man who wore one of those, his form of casual. Glasses sat perched on the bridge of his nose, light brown hair brushed neatly and parted to one side. He had a wide face that made him look friendly, light hazel eyes and high cheekbones. Not a particular tall man, either, but he seemed to keep fit enough with his work as a museum curator at the British Museum. He eyed her slightly, “You’re very quiet,” he’d said slightly pointedly, “It makes your mother suspicious”.

“She sent you up, huh?”

He’d given her a small, easy smile, “Charlie got a detention today and Eliza threw a fit wanting to go see some girl friend this weekend, even though Gran’s coming for a visit,” he huffed out a slightly amused breath, not quite a laugh, but close, eyes twinkling behind his glasses as he gave her a look, “Your mother seems to be expecting you to cause the next drama, hence…” he made a waving gesture down and about himself, doing a funny little turn on the spot, which had made her smile, before he’d stopped as he’d met her gaze again. He smiled widely back at her, “Me. I’m the drama prevention taskforce. Hello”.

“Really?” she’d smirked, and arched a brow, “I thought you were Dad”.

He’d blinked briefly, before a delighted grin crossed his lips, though he tried to stifle it…badly, “That’s my material you’re stealing!” he’d mock huffed, pointing an accusing finger at her, “You can’t go stealing my bad dad jokes, you’re not allowed!”

“You’re the one who decided to have all us kids, can’t blame us for giving you hell. Just what we’re here for”.

“Knew I should have read the fine print…” he shook his head, sending her a playful glare as he moved into the room, moving to plant himself on the edge of the bed beside her, careful to avoid crushing the painting behind him, too. He glanced at the posters she’d hung up, his eyebrows arching slightly, smile slipping a tiny bit, “Ah,” he nodded, understanding flashing across his features as he cast her a sideways look, “The Great Debate continues, I see. The trials and tribulations of academic brilliance, honey”.

“It’s your fault,” she’d sighed, “‘Put in for Harved, what can it hurt?’ You said, and now here I am”.

“There’s worse things to have to try and figure out at your age, love. Whatever choice you take, it’ll still be an excellent, worldclass school and you’ll have your entire career set up for you. You’ll walk into just about any internship you want with a degree from either school”.

“So…” she’d licked her lips, glancing sideways at him, meeting his eyes, “I should go with Oxford? I mean, close to home is kinda a big drawer there…”

He peered at her closely, eyes running across her features, “Do you want to go to Oxford?” he’d asked after a long lapse of silence, another song drifting through the air and the muffled sounds of Eliza and mum bickering downstairs filtering through the partly open door. He watched her intently, gaze soft but serious, “Or are you just picking that because it’s close to home?”

“Isn’t that…enough of a reason to pick it?”

“Perhaps,” he’d nodded slowly, thoughtfully, gaze still resting on her, “But I’ll tell you what, honey, I did two semesters of uni in the States, and I loved it. It was freeing and maturing, and I had experiences I never would have had staying here,” he sighed slightly, shrugging lightly, “I also made a lot of amazing international connections with people who I still reach out to today, all because I took a leap”.

She’d licked her lips, frowning slightly, “Were you scared?”

“Terrified,” he admitted, but a small smile spread across his lips, and he wrapped an arm around her back, pulling her close to his side. She felt like a little girl again, tucked up and comforted, “Terrified is good sometimes,” he said softly, “It keeps us focused, pushes us to what we didn’t think was possible, and that’s a good thing, sometimes”.

He’d kissed the top of her head, and it all clicked, in that moment, she knew what path to take. What was best for her. Of course, if she’d known what would happen…would she still have chosen Harvard? But not going to Harvard would have meant never meeting Danial, never having Hugo, never meeting Kathy…never meeting Commander Joseph Lawrence.