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.

Chapter Text

Her new walking partner was one of the new girls. One of the girls who have basically only known this world, because back when all this kicked off, she must have been barely ten years old. Five years later, she was a fifteen-year-old Handmaid, and wasn’t that just vile? Still just a baby herself, expected to produce as many babies for other people as possible…unless she died trying, like so many girls did die. She hadn’t been able to stop herself from coming to an abrupt stop upon seeing that youthful, smooth face peering back at her from the inside of starched wings, mousey brown hair neatly tucked beneath the white cap, scarlet cloak draped about the thin frame. The girl, Ofroger, was still growing, for fuck’s sake, and she was expected to have babies!

Her stomach had rolled with nausea, but she’d somehow kept herself from gagging and bringing up her bland breakfast as she gave the girl a thin, pleasant quirk of her lips, nodding her head very lightly as she pushed the Lawrence front gate open, stepping out onto the street. There wasn’t quite as many Guardians roaming this neighbourhood, oddly enough, even stranger when she knew that her Commander was one of the top guys, but there was still a few. She automatically clocked their positions with wary, attentive eyes. She wasn’t any fonder of the Guardian’s and their trigger-happy manner then she was of the Wives or Commanders. She’d seen enough Guardian’s clock a Handmaid across the face with their gun for merely lingering slightly to long on the street before.

She’d also been shoved and threatened to be hit, simply for accidently tripping on a gutter and almost knocking into one Guardian who happened to be patrolling there at the time. She supposed, it wasn’t that shocking, though. Most of the Guardians were very young men who had also only really known this world, been raised to view women as largely below them and the Commanders as little Gods, while Handmaids were even lesser than women for the sin they’d done to earn their scarlet robes.

What had her young walking partner done to deserve such a fate? She pondered it as they walked silently and in-step down the footpath, considered how a child could possibly have sinned? She supposed, though, bitter resentment curling deep within her gut, neck just slightly bent, just in case any Wife ought to cross their path and the need to duck her head be necessary, that just being a woman with a functional womb was enough to be a Handmaid. A Handmaid could be any woman of reproductive age, if the powers that be decided it. The powers that be…like her new bloody Commander.

“The Lord has blessed us with fine weather today,” Ofroger’s voice was soft and girlish, but oddly flattened. It sounded wrong for a fifteen-year-old girl to sound just that detached.

Ah, yes, the weather. Hello, old friend. The safe territory.

“Yes,” she agreed with a slightly forced, airy tone, “We are most blessed by His grace”.

It’s a long walk to and from the Market that morning, but not unpleasant. More…sad, very, very sad.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

He’s not home. She doesn’t even know what to make of her new Commander yet, but she’s still relieved to hear that news when she gets back from the Market with her cloth shopping bag laden with goods, which she places on the preparing counter for Millie. Millie smiles at her warmly and tells her to sit down, relax a little, she’d get her lunch on for her. So, she does as she’s told, like they’re supposed to as the pious ex-sinner’s that they are, and thanks Millie when the plate of cooked chicken breast, asparagus, and green beans are placed before her. No skin on the chicken, nor any dressing for the chicken or gravy, but Millie does give her a slightly secretive wink and pull a little jar of garlic powder out of her apron pocket.

“Just a little,” Millie said to her in a hushed tone, gently sprinkling some of the powder over the dish, just enough to make it actually taste like something. It was sad how excited that made her, to be honest. Millie gave her a rather sympathetic look, slipping the little jar back in her apron, “You let me know if you want any more to eat, dear”.

“You’re a very kind soul, Millie,” she told her with a small tight lipped little smile up at the older woman, feeling rather touched by the minor gesture. The thoughtfulness. It reminded her almost of her gran, she used to fuss over their meals and let her own dinner go cold trying to make sure they were all eating well and happily. The thought made a pang of misery and homesickness briefly tug at her heart, and she hastily took a sip from her lukewarm water before she could chock-up.

She didn’t even know if her gran was still alive anymore. She’d had a weak heart, too…

“There’s not a whole lot of kindness left in this world anymore,” she said quietly, bright face dimming and a small, rather disheartened frown briefly creasing her face. She eyed her closely, “It’s important to keep a hold on what kindness we can give, when we can give it, in times like these”.

Millie left her to her meal with those words ringing in her ears, and she felt a great rush of admiration towards the Martha, who went back to busily organising what she’d brought back from the Market. It was easy, though, wasn’t it? Saying how you should hold on to kindness when you’re not the one being raped or having your baby snatched from your arms, just to be raised by the very people who raped you. As a mother, that was nightmare worthy, how did one stay kind in a world like that? She supposed, by doing small acts, against the rules. Like garlic powder. Not all rebellion had to be rescuing children or blowing up buildings.

She ate her meal with a slightly odd mood, thoughtful and sad, her thoughts lingering on her painfully young walking partner and what sin she could possibly be assumed of, thoughts swirling over where her family might be right now, if they were okay, happy, if they even thought about her anymore or if they assumed her dead. She even found herself thinking on Commander Lawrence, wondering what his role was in this sick world, just what his bizarre behaviour was all about. Once she’d finished eating, she even grabbed an extra slice of bread, just to try and appease Millie a little, try and show her that she was trying hard to relax and fit in. It earns her a bright, wide smile from the Martha and she left the kitchen with a lightness to her that is almost alien to her now.

The bread does taste nice, she could give Gilead that, if little else. Still warm from being freshly baked, the scrapping of butter she’d almost cheekily spread over it with Millie’s knowing, encouraging nod melting into the centre, the crust crisp and just the right amount of flakiness. She eats it as she decides to take the absence of the Commander to roam a little. Handmaids were creatures of solitude and shadow, her daily walk was over and therefore the rest of the responsibilities for the day also done with, but she can’t help thinking that now’s a good chance to get a look around without worrying about being accused of snooping or running into the Commander.

She moves slowly from room to room, absently eating her bread, until nothing but crumbs and a greasy film of melted butter coat her fingers. But she can’t help being rather fascinated, once again, by the Lawrence house. Who had decorated it, she wonders, was it Mrs Lawrence? She assumed that the death must have been recent, since she knew that Commander’s were expected to be married, it was almost a societal rule of Gilead that they must be, rather like they were expected to take a Handmaid. Though, even that was starting to change, she knew of at least two Commanders who hadn’t taken a Handmaid due to their Wive’s being able to conceive naturally. Of course, anyone who actually thought the whole Handmaid system was about babies was just stupid.

It was power and control, absolute, that drove that sick obsession. A baby was just the carrot used to dangle in front of the Wife to make it seem like something pure.

She almost scoffed to herself, gaze roaming over the lovely parlour room. She imagined this was once Mrs Lawrence’s domain, it was rather more feminine, a little less busy, too. Still wall papered, but simpler in design, a deep peacock blue colouring and with a light-coloured Persian rug covering the floor. The furniture was fitting for the house, but in lighter tones, too, while a white marble fireplace stood at the end of room. She found her gaze fixed on that. It was likely, if the Wife was still alive, that she’d be expected to kneel before that fireplace and await Mrs Lawrence to grant entry to her husband, who would then read that stupid verse that somehow was supposed to make rape okay, and then…then…

She stopped her thoughts forcibly, breath catching in her throat and chocking her, mouth dry. She closed her eyes, gathering herself, hands clenching tightly until fingernails dug into her own flesh. Don’t think, don’t think, it wasn’t you, you weren’t there, you were…somewhere else, somewhere beautiful and far, far away…She opened her eyes and felt her chest easing, just slightly, felt her muscles relax, just a little, enough that she was safe enough to not fear she’d spiral.  She inched deeper into the room, taking it in, trying to see a glimpse into Mrs Lawrance. Her mum had told her once that the wife could tell you a lot about the man. She wasn’t sure if she believed that anymore, not here in Gilead, but she did want to try and understand Commander Lawrence.

‘Know thy enemy and know yourself; in a hundred battles, you will never be defeated. When you are ignorant of the enemy but know yourself, your chances of winning or losing are equal. If ignorant both of your enemy and of yourself, you are sure to be defeated in every battle’.

Once, she wouldn’t have even known the full quote, but she’d heard Mrs Arnald muttering it enough times when she didn’t think she was around. Mrs Arnald was a right bundle of laughs, truly.

The front door opened, then. She heard it and then the noise of shoes slapping down against tiling. She threw the door behind her a fretful look, but it was to late for her to make a dash for the stairs, even a dash for another room, the parlour opening right on to the entrance hall. She just managed to quickly bring her hands together down her front and bend her neck, eyes downcast, pious and submissive, before those footsteps came level with the door. She doubted they’d notice her, even in red, it was surprising how often a Handmaid could be overlooked.

Her luck wasn’t on her side today.

“Ah!” she recognised Lawrence’s voice immediately, and almost flinched, “There you are. Just who I wanted to see”.

Oh, God, why? What could he possibly need her for? The Ceremony wasn’t for days off, he didn’t need her for anything. Literally, nothing else.

“Blessed be the fruit, Commander,” she replied dutifully, voice steady, despite her unease, eyes fixed on the toes of her boots. She probably should have removed them before coming into the parlour, now that she thought about it…

“May the Lord open,” another male voice responded, softer then Lawrance’s tone, when there was a tiny stretch of silence.

Who was that? And why the hell had Lawrence dragged another man around, seemingly with the intention of needing her for something. A horrifying thought occurred to her, she’d heard stories of Commanders swapping Handmaids when it wasn’t their fertile period, how they’d joke about it. Sharing their property, like they were borrowing a fucking book. Was that Lawrence’s thing, then? He got off on watching his ‘Property’ get passed around…

“Again, with the submissive thing, eh?” Lawrence puffed out a small breath, she heard the air leave his lips, “Enough of that. We don’t have time…” her brow creased, just slightly, confused…what was that supposed to mean? “Look at me”.

She wished he didn’t have the power to decide what she could or couldn’t do, because she really rather not look at either man right now. She just wanted to hide in her room…his room, technically, she supposed. Everything in this damn house was his, including her. She tried to keep the bitter thoughts from her face, tried to maintain an expression of blankness as she did lift her head, eyes sliding upwards. She didn’t recognise the new man beside Lawrence, who eyed her carefully, his eyes even darker brown then Lawrence’s, face full and rounded, skin smooth. He was a few decades younger than Lawrence, hair dark and cut short, draped in the Commander black suit. He regarded her with an expression she struggled to read, but it seemed vaguely suspicious, vaguely wary.

Lawrence, in comparison, looked perfectly relaxed, hands stuffed casually into his pockets of his black trousers, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, glinting slightly as the natural sunlight filtered through the window just to their right, washing over them. He watched her steadily, chin very slightly dipped downwards, gaze lowered to look down at her with their height difference. He didn’t seem to have any clue how inappropriate this was. Or he simply didn’t give a damn, so above all that…but she knew he wasn’t that powerful. He’d been arrested before, held for a time, from the sounds of it. He’d only been spared for his important knowledge, whatever that was supposed to be.

“This is Commander Blain,” Lawrence jutted his chin almost casually towards the other man, his eyes, though, not sliding away from her. He arched a brow, then, and gave her an almost scrutinising look, tongue briefly poking at his cheek, as if he was considering his words, “We’ve got some questions we, eh…thought you might be able to explain”.

“I…” she blinked, and didn’t bother concealing her confusion. What the hell was she supposed to know? What questions? She’d done literally nothing. She supposed that was why she didn’t panic to much, she knew she was innocent; besides, she was used to being accused of things she hadn’t done, she wasn’t that worried. Still, she frowned slightly, briefly forgetting that she was supposed to be submissive and modest, blue eyes darting warily between them, “Forgive me, sir, but I’m afraid I truly don’t follow. What questions?”

Something sparked in those dark eyes of Lawrence’s, something almost pleased and satisfied, and his beard twitched, just slightly. Beside him, Blain didn’t even blink, still regarding her stonily.

“You’re gonna love this,” he told her knowingly, waggling his brows at her, almost teasingly, “Got a real treat for ya,” his lips lifted.

Her lips parted very slightly…Oh, God. What fresh hell was this going to be?

“Lawrence,” Blain cut in, then, eyes narrowed very slightly, still pinned on her. She resisted the urge to duck her head, shy away.

“Trust me,” Lawrence threw the other man a very quick, fleeting, almost cocky look, eyes sliding back to her almost instantly, “She’s good”.

Ice cold dread filled her veins, making her just about vomit all over their hand made shoes. She took a small breath and prayed that her terror and dread hadn’t shown on her features, knowing now just what was coming for her. She was disappointed she’d allowed herself to hope, even for a tiny millisecond, that Lawrence might be vaguely better then the other Commander’s, not as violent, anyway, he’d seemed willing to overlook a lot of things most wouldn’t have, and that had given her vague hope that he had a flicker of…something. Now, she knew better.

“Come on. Follow”.

She didn’t have a choice, she immediately moved to dutifully follow as Lawrence turned on his heel and began leading the way, back out into the entrance foyer. She didn’t look at Blain as she stepped past him, ducking her head automatically and squeezing her hands together down her front so tightly, she knew she’d have marks in her own flesh. Her heart thundered painfully hard in her chest, and she immediately tried readying herself mentally, tried finding that little dark spot in her own head that she’d go when she had to do the Ceremonies. It was easier to do that when it was the proper time, though, she’d have a day to console herself, ready herself, now she had mere moments, and she was struggling.

She barely noticed the rooms they passed through, her world became like a tunnel, all she could see, or process was what was in front of her eyes, all she could really seem to focus on was her heartbeat screaming in her ears, the cold sweat dampening the nape of her neck. She jumped when she heard a door being snapped gently shut behind her, head snapping around instinctively. She was in a room she hadn’t seen before, one she assumed was Commander Lawrence’s office, since the man had moved to settle himself comfortably behind a wooden desk, neatly laden with papers and a few files, a large desk lamp unlit and hovering above the centre of the desk. The walls were dark, almost a greenish blue colouring that might have been blue in one light, green in another. A large, leather padded armchair sat facing the desk, and she flinched when Blain suddenly stepped around her, not glancing at her, moving for the chair.

She licked her lips and tasted salt from her sweat and slowly dragged her eyes over to Lawrence. She tried not to look at Blain as he shoved the armchair across the floor, just a little closer to the desk, the chair moving easily, if a little noisily, across the floor. An armchair, really? An odd choice…

“Take a load off,” Lawrence nodded to the chair, meeting her eyes from over the desk. He was leaning almost carelessly back in his old, wooden swivel chair, fingers laced together before his stomach, knee crossed as he lightly swung the chair, just a little, back and forth on the spot.

She robotically moved to sit down, feeling ill as she tentatively sat on the edge. The leather was buttery soft, and it probably would have been a very comfortable chair, if she wasn’t so filled with mortifying dread. Blain moved around to stand a little off to the side, but still behind the desk, peering at her closely. She found that odd, she’d expected him to lung at her the moment she sat down, but…he hadn’t. She forced herself to drag her eyes back over to Lawrence, finding his gaze already on her.

“Right, then,” he said with an oddly cheery tone, eyebrows arching, “How well do you know Canadian law?”

That was…not what she expected.

“You…” she stopped, voice slightly shaky and a little raspy, throat still dry, but she was starting to wonder…wonder if she hadn’t been rather mistaken. Somehow, maybe, for once, when a Commander said they wanted to chat…it really was just a chat. She blinked at Lawrence, who’s brow creased very slightly, brows pulling together, as if it was him who was confused. She cleared her throat, trying to steady herself, and was only vaguely rewarded by a little less shaking, “You want legal advice? From…me?”

He gave her a slightly bemused look, “Why else would I be asking you in here?”

She just…stared, for a solid five seconds, blankly at him. He stared at her in return, before a look of realisation seemed to slowly dawn and his eyebrows shot up abruptly, his little playful spinning stopped and he slowly shifted in his chair, eyes darting off to the side at Blain, before he coughed awkwardly. He unlaced his hands to place them against the armrests of his chair, bracing himself as he moved to sit up straighter, planting both feet on the floor and rolling his chair back beneath his desk. He looked back at her with a vaguely sheepish look. Vaguely.

“Oh,” he breathed, and his lips briefly twisted, pursing, almost grimacing, “You thought…”

“I’m a Handmaid, sir,” she said, quietly, feeling oddly pitying. It had become very plain to her now that she’d been very, very wrong, and she couldn’t help feeling a little guilty. She didn’t know why, perhaps it was the genuine look of displeasure on his face that spurred it, but something told her that Lawrence was unsettled by the thought of her coming to that conclusion about his intentions. She had no idea why he was so bothered, but…she would accept it.

“Right, yes…right…”

“We just have some questions, Miss,” Blain spoke up, then, appearing utterly unaffected by all of this misunderstanding. He almost reminded her of a cop, the way he spoke, very direct and even tone, and the use of ‘Miss’ didn’t fail to catch her attention. He regarded her with expressionless eyes, “That’s all”.

She frowned slightly, eyes flickering from him to Lawrence, who gave her a tight-lipped little smile and shrugged, as if this was all perfectly normal, leaning back against his chair. She wasn’t sure what this game was supposed to be. She didn’t particular enjoy it, though.

“I fear I will be of little help to your, sirs,” she said politely, respectfully, modestly. She all but ducked her head, “God has called me to a greater purpose in life, I…”

“You don’t believe that,” Lawrence cut her off, voice so certain and pointed, she paused with her lips slightly parted in slight surprise. He eyed her intently, dark eyes swimming with knowing and an eyebrow cocked, as if daring her to try and convince him she did mean it.

Unfortunately, she’d never been good at resisting a challenge. It was why she loved law so much.

She returned his look with a pleasantly surprised, if even confused one, “Is that not what faith is, sir?” she knew she shouldn’t, knew she would have lost her tongue if Aunt Lydia was here to hear her, but she just couldn’t help herself, not when she’d been terrified mere moments ago that she was about to be raped, and even though he didn’t have to apologise in this stupid, vile world, she still would have appreciated it. She kept her tone light, airy, almost innocent, and she inwardly smirked as she saw a flash of something like intrigue in his eyes. He wasn’t that different from them, “I have faith that my true calling is more then what I thought I was once capable of, faith in the blessings gifted to me, faith that…”

“That faith doesn’t lie in God, Josephine,” she froze at his words, her name drawling from his lips like it was nothing, like it wasn’t the first time in five years since she’d heard it uttered. He scoffed, eyes burning into hers, “We both know that. You were a lawyer, Harvard girl, and all. You’re smart, whip-smart,” his expression grew pointed, eyes narrowing very slightly on her, “Smart enough to know how to adapt and keep yourself alive”.

He…knew her, how…how did he know her? Her name, her school…how? She tried not to let it get to her head, tried not to allow it to throw her so completely that she lost what little composure she had managed to get together, mouth dry and heart pounding again.

“Bit ironic, isn’t it?” Lawrence drawled, then, almost thoughtfully, gaze pinned on her still, “Your real name. Josephene Elizabeth Lawson,” he preannounced each name clearly and very obviously, dragging out the sounds as if he was savouring it, enjoying himself. He even clicked his tongue at the end, against the roof of his mouth, “Definitely won’t forget that”.

“‘Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame, each to his passion, what’s in a name?’” Josephine quoted softly, even though she knew that she would likely lose her tongue for it, for the obvious offence, because at the end of the day…it didn’t matter that he knew her name. It didn’t change her from being a Handmaid, smart of not, educated or not, she was Ofjoseph, here and now, end of story. Hearing it was nice, and she missed it, but she couldn’t think of herself like that anymore, for her sanity. Still, she held his gaze, steadily and true, and proud, and wondered if she hadn’t just reached her expiration date in Gilead, after all, “Helen Hunt Jackson. You’re lucky she’s not alive today”.

She expected the slap, to be grabbed by the throat and thrown, almost wanted it, to be honest because at least that would make sense. At least she would understand that, but Lawrence simply stared at her silently, eyebrows arched high and lips slightly parted, a particularly odd glint in his eyes behind his glasses…before he laughed. It was a nice laugh, warm and bright, and she frowned very slightly and watched as he continued laughing, even throwing a look over to Blain, as if inviting him to join him. Blain merely looked stonily between them, slight curve between his brows, as if he was also a little bewildered by what was happening. Lawrence slapped his hand against his own knee, still chuckling as he swung back around to her.

“You’ve got fire, kid,” he threw her an impressed look, grinning broadly back at her, “Jesus, you’ve got balls. You must have been terrifying in the courtroom, huh? Still…” he sniffed, and his laughter trickled off, rolling his shoulders lightly, “Bet there was plenty of guy’s wanting you to get them off…”

“I switched to the DA’s office when my son was three months old,” she cut across him, not batting an eye at his obviously lurid line of thought, gaze level on his, tone calm, “I made those men cry when I sent them to prison, sir. The pleasure was all mine”.

She was well and truly over whether he was going to kill her or not, she was enjoying herself too much to really care. It was the first time in five years that she’d had the chance to speak, use her brain for something other then remembering to duck her head. And somehow…she was starting to think that Lawrence wasn’t going to hurt her, not now, anyway. Perhaps during the Ceremony he’d get his own back by being extra forceful, whatever. She didn’t have any control over any of that, just what she said right now, and she was going to take the little chance she might have to be her. Josephine.

She watched as her words washed over him, how he paused to briefly consider her words, how his brows darted up sharply, before slowly relaxing, lips twisting very slightly, before a slow smile curved at them, no teeth, chin dipping down just a fraction, gazing at her from above his glasses. She had definitely, unfortunately, caught his attention, if she hadn’t already had it to begin with. She recognised that little flash in his gaze, seen it in the other Commands eyes when they thought their Wive’s weren’t looking. But with a blink it was gone, and he was suddenly sitting straight and clapping his hands together, the sound almost enough to make her jump, throwing a quick glance at Blain’s rigid form. What was he supposed to be, exactly, she wondered? The muscle? A very lifelike stature? A cheerleader for Lawrence?

“See?” Lawrence waved a hand in her general direction, giving Blain a pointed look, “She’s good, didn’t I say she’s good?”

Blain sighed very slightly, “Sir, we have work to do…” he said a little pointedly, exasperation underlining his calm, otherwise emotionless appearance, gaze flickering just a second back in Josephine’s direction.

“Don’t mind Nick,” Lawrence swung back around to her on his chair, giving her a jovial, slightly sarcastic smile, “He’s young, still learning. I’m trying,” Josephine merely gave him a slightly blank look, not knowing what the hell to do or say to that, but Lawrence didn’t seem to be interested in hearing it, anyway, because he dragged in a deep breath, then, and moved to lace his hands together, elbows braced on the top of his desk, peering at her intently above them, “So, Josephine…what do you know about immunity deals? Specifically, Canadian ones”.

She regarded him warily, “Be more specific, please”.

“Fred Waterford, he’s gone and made a cozy little immunity deal with the Canadian government, one where he tells them all our dirty secrets, and he gets to go dancing off into the sunset with his wife and impending baby, scot-free. Specific enough?”

Waterford, of course, she knew that family. Everyone in Gilead knew that name, all that drama with June’s missing daughter that had gone down a while back now, even Mrs Waterford was rather notorious. She’d lost her own finger reading a book in front of the bloody hierarchy of Gilead, including her own husband. She didn’t know a great deal more about them, though, June had been their Handmaid when she’d fallen pregnant, but she’d heard whispered gossip that the baby wasn’t Commander Waterford’s.

“Immunity deals are not one fit for all, sir,” Josephine frowned very slightly, shifting slightly back into her chair, body loosening up. She was growing comfortable, a little warning voice murmured anxiously in her mind, don’t get comfortable around them. Just ‘cos they hadn’t slapped or raped her, yet, didn’t mean it wasn’t coming, but…she’d said more than enough to get thrown at the Wall or just sent to the Colonies, what was the point of caution now? She looked at Lawrence, rather than Blain, since it was plain that he was the leader here, “Without knowing specifically the terms for Commander Waterford, it’ll be difficult”.

“We already know that it’s ironclad,” Blain told her, tone cool and tight, and her eyes flickered over to him, “He’s practically untouchable now, full immunity for all crimes relating to Gilead, so long as he talks”.

“He’s probably already singing like a birdy right now,” Lawrence remarked, tone jovial, but his expression was suddenly rather grim, eyes darkening very slightly, “He’ll be eager to dish the dirt”.

Josephine privately wondered if that was such a bad thing, any information that Waterford could give up to the Americans and Canadians could destroy Gilead, or the very least come close to putting a big dent in this vile society. But she also thought about Waterford getting out, getting to take off into the world without punishment. Sure, his information would be a big blow, but she doubted it would destroy Gilead. It was going to take more then that.

“What do you need me for?” she found herself asking rather tiredly, glancing between them, “You already know the deal he’s made, the Canadian Justice Department would have weighed up the value of the information he can provide, they’ve deemed it good enough to let him free. That’s it”.

“Is it?” Lawrence quirked a brow, peering at her.

She eyed him, “He’ll have to prove he’s actually telling reliable and relevant information,” she said slowly, a little warily, “That will take time to check, if it’s even possible to do that. And if he’s caught out…” she briefly pursed her lips, shrugging, “He’ll lose that immunity real quick. He’ll still be in dentation for a long time…”

“But talking,” Lawrence said pointedly, eyes slightly squinted, “And once’s he’s done, he’ll be free as a bird…”

“Okay…” she frowned very slightly at him, before she sighed and briefly closed her eyes. She reached up and went to tug a had through her hair, only to catch herself before she could muse her stupid cap. Instead, she huffed out a small breath and dropped her hand, opening her eyes to find Lawrence watching her. It was a little unsettling, but she ignored it, “There’s two ways you could go around this, the way I see it. One, check out Waterford’s past, any dirty secrets from Before Gilead, any crimes…” she leaned forward as she spoke, and she wasn’t a Handmaid anymore, not sitting in the heart of the most toxic, masochistic country in the world, looking into the face of the guy who helped make it possible. She was a lawyer, a damn good one, “I would be willing to bet that they didn’t cover any crimes committed before Gilead in that deal. I mean, Al Capone was taken down with tax evasion, whatever works is sometimes just what you’ve gotta grab for, right?”

“Waterford was never a Saint,” Lawrence remarked, tone thoughtful, regarding her closely, “Might be something in that, but it’ll take time, and we don’t have that right now”.

“So, turn the tables on him,” she replied lightly, lips lifting into a small smirk, leaning comfortable back into the armchair now. She even crossed her legs, “Waterford might have agreed to tell them everything, but that’s something they won’t ever be able to trust, and they’ll know that. And the problem with information is that it grows stale, he’s been locked up for months now, how relevant is his information now?” she shrugged, glancing away from Lawrence and Blain, cocking an eyebrow, “That’s another consideration to make. Information is all well and good, but worthless if it’s months out of date or old news. The only real information of relevance he’ll be able to give them will be names, confirmation of whether or not this person is in Gilead, alive or dead, their role, but even that will be limited”.

“You’re suggesting we make a better deal?” Blain looked, for the first time, truly intrigued and interested, and again she wondered at his purpose here.

She was still bewildered by how any of this had even happened, what it meant for her, but if she had learnt anything about surviving, it was to go with the flow. Lawrence wanted advice off her….okay, weird, confusing, on so many levels, but she’d give it up freely and just hope it didn’t get her killed in the future, perhaps it might even help her, if Lawrence was as powerful as she had been told. And…she was starting to suspect that Lawrence might not be what she’d first assumed, still didn’t exactly fill her with much hope, but she didn’t think he was evil. Not fully. Maybe he sat in a grey area of this world, neither for nor against it.

June had been his Handmaid when those kids had escaped. Had he helped? It would make sense, bizarrely, impossibly, how else could June have done it? June was a formidable force, she’d seen how good she was at handling people, playing them to whatever tune she wanted, Ofmathew was a good example of that. she’d witnessed June terrorising that poor girl, had refused to take part in any of it, too, even though it seemed like all the Handmaid’s had jumped on that train. But June was still just a Handmaid, she couldn’t have gotten those kids out or the plane, or hell, even known if the boarder was even open and clear that night to do it…not unless she’d had help. Same with Emily, how had she gotten out and with a baby, no less? She’d been Lawrence’s, then, too. When all the signs pointed in one direction, how could you ignore them?

“I’m suggesting,” she said carefully, looking over to Blain, “If I was you, I would offer something a hell of a lot more valuable than information or names, and ideally time critical, given that they’ll let him keep talking for as long as they can, unless motivated otherwise. Names are circumstantial, but give them cold hard proof…” she turned her gaze back to Lawrence, meeting those dark eyes of his firmly, lips quirking up, just a touch, “You’ll be able to sway them far more in your favour then Commander Waterford’s. I would have taken a deal like that”.

She felt…she felt exhilarated as silence slipped over the room, her words seemingly having left an impact, and for the first time in five years she felt seen and heard, felt…human. Valuable. Fuck, she’d missed this, missed doing something, helping, being something more then just a womb. She’d loved her job, sure, it had been hard and challenging, and she’d had to sacrifice spending time with Hugo to keep her career progressing, but she’d resigned herself to that, back then. Now, it was almost horribly ironic, her baby would be going to school this year, she’d missed out on far more time with her son then she ever had when she was a working mum, even though that had been of the things Aunt Lydia had punished her for. How she’d neglected her son for her work. The hypocrisy was something else in Gilead.

“You’ve given us a lot to consider, Josephine,” Lawrence drawled slowly, after a long moment, features thoughtful and lips slightly pulled at the corner of his mouth, eyes, for once, not settled on her, instead they were focused off to the side of her, seemingly thinking.

She could feel her window closing, now, and the reality of her true position in this world slowly trickled back to her, leaving her almost adrift and breathless, and mournful for what was, but she dealt with it like all Handmaids did: She slipped her mask back on and tucked her true self safely back down, deep inside herself, caged and silenced, once more. She straightened herself and lowered her gaze, down casting her eyes down to the tops of her knees, uncrossing her leg and pressed them together neatly, instead, as she moved to perch herself, once more, on the edge of the armchair. She was Ofjoseph again, Josephine no longer, Handmaid and fallen non-woman of Gilead Republic, and Commander Lawrence and Blain were no longer her allies, if one could even say that to begin with, they were her Lords and Masters, and her their property.

“Is that all, sir?” her voice was respectful and even, while her heart ached painfully in her chest, and she knew that she’d cry tonight. Cry for the girl she once was, all that they’d taken from her. Lawrence had said this was going to be fun, it had been, in the moment, and now she was left feeling almost shattered inside.

Lawrence glanced back at her, she could see it from beneath her lashes, feel his gaze lingering and assessing, picking her apart, likely noting her sudden shift back into meekness. His lips tugged slightly downwards, almost in displeasure, she might have said, before he huffed out a small breath and squinted his eyes slightly on her, again, like he was trying to figure her out, and was annoyed by what he found. It was almost funny how much it seemed to almost bother some Commanders, the Handmaid’s quietness and submission, some did, in fact, dislike it. It frustrated them, because Lawrence was right, no one wanted to talk to a starched bonnet, no one wanted a ghost clad in red roaming their house, not really. It went against basic human nature, she supposed, as social creatures that they were, not to interact, give a little back and forth, and it seemed to truly irritate Lawrence, her insistence on behaving like the Handmaid’s he’d helped segregate.

She wanted to tell him that it was his fault, he’d helped create them, he had no right to be annoyed that she behaved as she was supposed to. As she had forced herself to learn to in order to live and maybe, one day, have a chance to see her Hugo again. What did he expect? That one chat and she’d forget what she was now? That she’d go back to being the confident, clever woman she used to be, who used to live for seeing people get justice, live to see people like him sent to a deep, dark pit for their crimes and was so, so proud of her role in making that happen. She was what she was, now, and so was he, and she hadn’t forgotten that. She’d allowed herself to be briefly swept up, let him gently tug her along with prodding and poking, until she’d poked right back. That was over now.

A loud, exasperated sigh seemed to fill the air, and she half expected him to complain. Still, his frustration was plain in his voice when he said, warily:

“Alright. We’re done here…nicely done, Miss Lawson, very informative”.

She doesn’t react, even though she wants to look up so badly at the use of her name, spoken in that low, drawling tone of his. She does offer a tiny nod, though, just a fraction, a dip of her chin more then anything, eyes firmly kept downcast. She rose smoothly from the armchair, hands clasped neatly down her front, shoulders slightly curved about her. She turned and left the room without allowing herself to faulter back to who she used to be. Ofjoseph, once more.

Chapter Text

She’s a skittish little thing, it’s the first thought that crosses his mind upon getting the first decent look of the girl, standing in his entrance foyer, sun light streaming in through the windows of the parlour doorway, falling over her. Her face was thinner, cheeks a little hollowed, smooth skin paler from lack sun exposure. The red didn’t suit her, he thought with a slight distasteful, unsettled curl in his gut, the same sensation he always felt when he’d see that colour now days. He used to like red; his beloved Eleanor had a red dress when they were first married, her dark hair had looked so beautiful against the scarlet fabric, especially when she’d worn it long and straight down her back, a rarity, smuges of paint staining her hands.

Now, red was a reminder, a slap in the face of his part to play in the suffering. Of the suffering he’d helped bring to Eleanor and how he’d devastated her. Eleanor was gone now, he hoped she’d finally found the peace she had never truly found in life, if there even was anything after death. For her, he hoped with all his heart there was something more, because if anyone could, it would have been her who would have found it, his Eleanor, to kind and pure for this world. For the world he’d made.

He tries not to look at the red on the girl before him, instead he focuses on everything else, everything else aside from the red. She’s young, of course, he’d known she would be, not even thirty yet, and he still can’t help feeling like a dirty old man, but at least it was better than the fourteen-year-old Lydia would have tried sending his way. She’s also very lovely, in a delicate sort of, almost fragile way. It reminds him of Eleanor, not so much in their youth, but more so in the last few years, features delicate and soft, with big blue eyes and soft, honey blonde hair just slightly peeking out from beneath the edge of those stupid white caps the Handmaids all wore. She’s little, too, the baggy cloak doesn’t help with that, the top of her head just reaching his chin, and he finds himself automatically dipping his own chin to try and take her in.

Josephine Elizabeth Lawson. That was her name. How ironic.

He should have known she was a Harvard girl, she’d been so bright and brilliant, witty and confident, so much so that he hadn’t forgotten her name, even though he really should have. For many reasons, not least of all the fact that he was a married man and she was far to lovely, and young. He’d always been a sucker for confidence in women, confidence and intelligence. When he’d first met Eleanor, he’d been immediately captivated by her knowledge of art, her ability to challenge him right back without a bat of an eye, even take him down a peg or two, and God, had he needed that. He’d fallen hard and fast, and he hadn’t once looked back, even as he had watched as that confidence had slowly trickled away, replaced by a woman who was haunted by his actions, his choices, devastated by how her own mind had turned against her. He’d known when they first married that she was unwell, but he’d loved her and devoted himself to protecting her, even against herself. He should have known it was Eleanor who needed to be protected from him.

He wondered, gazing over the young woman before him, if he was just grasping at straws, trying to make up for the mistakes he’d made with Eleanor. He had failed to protect the first two Handmaids posted to his home, they’d been sent to other postings after his home, one of them was now dead, the other had two babies to her name and was up to her fourth posting, likely longing for death now. Then there had been Emily, with her he had tried to keep her safe, but she’d been so angry and damaged, and he’d just barely gotten her out, but he had. He’d saved her. It still wasn’t enough, though. June was so spunky and tough, he’d liked that, until she’d taken what she thought was owed to her. Women like that tended to do that, but she’d gotten those kids out and he’d helped, and that had to mean something…right? Still, it wasn’t enough.

Josephine Lawson, a name he couldn’t forget, and a face he couldn’t leave behind. She’d smiled, he remembered, God, she’d smiled like the sun, and it had filled her whole face, crinkled her nose and made her eyes squint, and now…now she wore a blank mask, cheeks hollowed, dry, pink lips pulled tightly, gaze wary and careful, and apprehensive. She was scared of him, looked up at him like he was a wild beast about to tear her apart, and he supposed that in her mind he was. All men likely were to her now. It stirred a nauseating sensation in his stomach, and he swiftly turned his thoughts away from that path, knowing nothing would come from it.

She didn’t remember him, he noted. He almost felt hurt, he remembered her, couldn’t forget her, apparently. He’d been horrified to see her file amongst the stacks he kept in his basement, why hadn’t she gotten out? She was British, she should have been able to get out…but she was also a young, attractive woman of reproductive age and with a healthy son to prove that. If she had waited to long, perhaps they had just decided to snatch her, and be damned the fact that the British likely would have insisted on having her back. She did have American citizenship, that coupled with everything else, probably made her a good target. Still, his tongue burned with questions, a hollow sensation filled his chest, and he wanted desperately to ask why, why are you here? What happened? You were supposed to be smart, clever, supposed to have known better. Her son and partner, Danial Ford, had managed to get out of the country, but she hadn’t.

Why?

He held back his own questions, instead he’d asked if she was going to be any trouble. He was rewarded by perhaps the first proper, genuine emotion in her face that she’d shown, slipping past that carefully constructed mask that all Handmaid’s were just so damn good at wearing:

“No, sir. No trouble”.

Joseph had almost laughed, not believing that for a second. In his experience, there was no greater trouble on Earth then an intelligent woman with an agenda, and Josephine was worse. She was hiding her true self, surviving. Who knows just what she was capable of? You’d think he would have learnt from the last two clever woman he’d let into his home, but like the last two, he was intrigued. He wanted to see what made Josephine tick, see what made that perfect mask slip and reveal her true self. It was like how he’d poked at June and Emily about what punishments for offences were, if they thought it was a fair punishment…he’d found it secretly hilarious the look of blank confusion and barely concealed horror that they’d given him, clearly terrified of what he was on about, but not about to ask. Would Josephine ask? He was willing to bet she would, no good lawyer would resist that.

He liked that, too. Liked poking and prodding at people, seeing what they did next, seeing if they could surprise him.

Emily and June were a different breed of survival, they were savage and ruthless, and cutthroat ready, but he didn’t get that from Josephine. She was watchful, careful, and that was almost worse than the brunt, violent form of rebellion that Emily and June possessed. It was patient and slow, but festering. It lurked beneath the surface, ready, like a viper, striking when strictly necessary and retreating again, all done with calculation, never impulse. He knew because he recognised it, he was the same. He liked all his ducks in a neat, nice little row and a basket sitting below, before he went and swiped them all down. It’s how he’d survived this long, it was why he’d gone and immediately began plotting the best approach to trying to properly, finally, right his wrongs, in the name of Eleanor and all the suffering he had brought her in those last years.

And Lydia, of all people, had been the one to give him that shot. She didn’t even realise it.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

“…Are you going to terminate me?”  

Joseph slowly sank back against his chair, breathing out a long, exasperated sigh. He brought a finger up to dig into his cheek, lips pursing thoughtfully, gazing up at Lydia. She stared back at him, all wide eyed and anxious, plain features set into a worried little frown, standing opposite him. He almost wanted to feel sorry for the old gal, almost, vaguely, in a distant sort of way. It’s easy not to, though, given all the reports he’d read regarding Lydia’s general attitude, personality, just the pure zealous belief that Gilead was actually good and right, that told him a lot.

And he didn’t like her.  Simple as that, really.

He could give her some credit, she had guts coming and trying to blackmail him a few months back, not many people would have tried pulling that move. He wasn’t shocked, but it had been intriguing, and very helpful. Just when he’d needed to weasel his way back to the table again, and a dash of good old-fashioned blackmail had achieved it. And Lydia was a useful tool for him to use now, having Lydia on his side meant he had a degree of control into the Handmaid’s, something he had only had some relative influence over before this whole fiasco with June. Enough influence to get a pick at which girls got sent his way, handy for someone particular like him, enough of an insight to get unlimited and unquestioned access to files, but aside from that, he hadn’t really had that much control or interest, truth be told. His concerns had been Eleanor and keeping her safe, what was best for her.

Eleanor was gone now, because of his wrongs and sins, and while he hadn’t been able to makeup for it before, hadn’t really tried that hard, now he knew he needed to change things. He’d made this mess, might not have been his intentions, his ideas might have been perverted, but he hadn’t fought that hard when those ideas had been taken and twisted, quite the opposite. He’d buried his head in the sand and let it go, partly because he did still believe in the basic concept, a concept that had worked, he’d argue, and partly because he’d been scared what they’d do to Eleanor if he did try and cause a fuss. But he couldn’t remain apathetic anymore, Eleanor’s death, helping June get those kids out, saving Emily, he’d done that. It wasn’t absolution for his sins, but it was a step towards something different, something better.

Something closer to what he’d originally envisioned. New Bethlehem.

“I don’t want to,” Joseph sighed grimly, and briefly closed his eyes and lifted his hand away from his cheek, spreading his fingers in an almost helpless little gesture, before running his hand through his hair. He glanced away from Lydia’s anxious eyes, licking his lips. He had to make her scared, but grateful to him, to pull this off, and so he brings his gaze back to Lydia, saying heavily, “I don’t. I want you back in form”.

Lydia’s expression shifted, hope and relief flashing through her eyes, “Oh,” she breathed, lips parting.

“The work that I’m doing, that we…” he corrected himself quickly, needing her to feel included, like she was at least partly involved. She was, but she was a tool, a blunt, impulsive one, but a nicely positioned one, nonetheless. Get Aunt Lydia on his side, he had the Handmaid’s under his thumb, the Commander’s he was working on, and the Wives? Lydia could help there, too, but he wasn’t that concerned. Without Serena Waterford around to rustle up hints of rebellion and change, in her name, the Wives would follow their husbands, “…that we are doing is the future of Gilead,” he looked at her firmly, unwavering, and he truly means it when he says, “And that means the world to me”.

He'd fucked it up once. Not again, not this time. Time to do better.

“Everything to me,” he nodded firmly, and there’s no manipulation to his words now, it wasn’t just him trying to play on Lydia, not this time. Not about this.

“Yes,” Lydia closed her eyes, a look of relief and hope filling her features, “Yes,” she nodded in agreement, features softened and so, so hopeful as she looked back to him.

“So…no,” he went on, shaking his head, eyes squinting slightly, regarding her with a careful frown, “No. I’m not terminating you…” he cleared his throat hastily, seeing Lydia starting to relax, and moved to sit up, throwing her a quick, wary glance, “But, uh, today…we have a situation”.

That make’s her tense again, confusion crossing her features as he leaned forward, grabbing one of the files he’d been pursuing carefully, amongst several others that littered his desk. He picked it up and flipped it open, revealing the photo of a young woman in her late twenties, dark auburn hair neatly pulled back off a pretty face, or a once pretty face, now marred by the mutilated eye. Janine Lindo, formally Ofwarren, formally Ofdaniel, then Ofhoward. Now, this gal was a survivor, perhaps even more so than June. Lost an eye for disrespectful behaviour during her first days of the Red Centre, only to go on and prove ‘Fruitful’ for that sleazeball, Putnum. As if that wasn’t punishment enough, she’d been sent to the Colonies, for a short stint, till they’d needed to replenish Handmaids. He’d been the one to sign the papers, back then, bringing her back, along with Emily. He hadn’t thought much about Janine, now she was something of a thorn. Possibly a useful, one, though. Lydia, by several accounts, was lenient towards the girl, more so than others.

“A fugitive Handmaid captured in Chicago,” Joseph tossed the folder towards the front edge of his desk, opened clearly to Janine’s pictures, and watched carefully as Lydia edged closer to take a look.

Her eyes widened sharply, “Ah!” she gasped, disbelief, mouth falling open in shock.

“The trouble she’s caused and the defiance,” he shook his head, his tone growing stony as Lydia looked up at him sharply. He sighed slightly, “It’s such a poor reflection on your training. On Gilead…”

“Yes,” she blinked at him, before frowning and glancing down at the file, “Ah…” she hesitated, and he waited, watching as she finally met his eyes hopefully, “Commander, I…I assure you, this girl was led astray”.

June. It somehow always came back to that angry eyed blonde. She wasn’t even in Gilead, and she was still stirring problems, and he was cleaning them up after her. He didn’t know if he was frustrated or impressed.

He narrowed his eyes on her, pointedly, “This girl was your responsibility, am I right?”

“Yes,” Lydia nodded, looking oddly caught between nervous and relieved, “Yes, she is. Yes”.

Bingo. He glanced away from her, as if thoughtful, considerate, briefly kissing his lips together audibly, before moving to stand. He stuck his hands in his pockets, not looking at Lydia as he rounded the edge of his desk, glancing down at the floor as he came to stand level with her, gazing down at the file from her side of the table.

“It’s, uh…” he cleared his throat, “Fortuitous, I think, to have her in our custody right now. I know you…you enjoy inflicting pain...”

Lydia made a noise of distress, a small gasp deep at the back of her throat, turning abruptly to face him. He didn’t glance sideways to see her expression, but he imagines it pinched with shock and incredulous disbelief, because of course she wouldn’t see it that way. Not to her precious girls that she sent out into the world knowing they’d be raped and violated, but that was fine. They were God’s vessels, right? Atoning for their sins.

 “Why…” she stuttered, floundering briefly, “That isn’t true”.

“I’m not judging,” Joseph replied, and did glance sideways at her, keeping his tone light, if a little pointed. He shrugged carelessly, as if unconcerned, “Everybody needs a hobby, I guess…”

“Oh…that’s not true, I…I object to this…”

He pretended not to hear her, “But it’s counterproductive for you to inflict pain on your students at the Red Centre,” he spoke firmly over the top of her, turning to face her, now, too, expression grim, “Let alone on your colleagues,” he stared at her, hard, and she gazed back at him with a creased brow and sheepish, wide eyed eyes, “Do you understand?”

“I do, yes”.

“You need a better outlet,” he told her, and she frowned at him. He glanced back to the folder, Janine’s picture looking back up at him. He needed Lydia on his side, but he also needed her to feel like she had some control, too, just a taste, enough to keep her happy and pliant, and hopefully busy while he got on with other, more important matters then Lydia going rogue and killing someone in a fit of rage…that would be less easy to ignore or cover up, and he’d gone to to much effort to get her under his thumb to start working on another Aunt. So…Janine was the bone, tossed to the wolf, she seemed resilient enough and Lydia clearly had a soft spot for her, or perhaps he was simply telling himself that to lessen the flicker of guilt in his gut as he said, warily, “So…do with her what you will”.

Lydia blinked up at him, lips parted in a state of disbelief…before she sighed and closed her eyes, nodding a small, relieved little nod, gratefulness flashing across her features. She turned to look back down at the folder, while Joseph turned and casually strolled back around the edge of his desk, hands still in his pockets. It was tempting to just leave it at that and leave, even though it was his office, but being around Lydia tended to make his gut turn. But he wasn’t finished yet.

“One more thing….” he said lightly, almost breezily, as if the thought had just popped his head, as if he hadn’t been carefully considering and weighing it up for ages, now. Truth be told, even before Eleanor’s death, perhaps. He sat back in his seat and slowly crossed one leg over the other, leaning back into his chair as he brought his gaze back up to Lydia. He had her attention again, her expression creased with confusion, “I’ve been…reflecting,” he reached out, absently tapping his fingers on top of one of the other files on his desk, “I think it’s time I take another Handmaid”.

She truly was terrible at hiding her true feelings, Lydia, he almost wanted to laugh at how she freezes and gapes at him, disbelief and confusion filling her features, eyes widening before narrowing, and then blinking. Her thoughts were plain to see, her doubt, her total and complete failure to understand him. Not shocking, Fred Waterford’s stunt with the whole supervised Ceremony had gotten out, everyone knew that doubt had been cast over his commitment to the whole so called ‘Cause’ of Gilead. Sure, he and June had reluctantly convinced them that he was one of them, but not everyone, and as long as there was doubt about his commitment, he’d always find it difficult to progress and influence the other Commanders, and he needed them to believe in him again, trust his wisdom, if he was going to make any difference at all.

A Handmaid in his household would help, and as much as it unsettled him and made a slightly queasy feeling tug in his chest, a fruitful Handmaid with his child would go a long way in showing his commitment and shutting down any rumours or doubt. He…he hated it, but he needed it…for the greater good, for Gilead, for trying to right his wrongs. He knew it was rather counterproductive, perhaps, Eleanor would have been appalled and devastated, and he knew it wasn’t ethical, but nothing about any of this was ethical.

“That is…” Lydia began slowly, warily, still regarding him slightly carefully, “…excellent news, Commander,” she nodded, but her apprehension was plain, her doubt, “Yes…yes, I can think of several girls who would…”

“You really think I’d leave you to pick, Lydia?” Joesph cut her off abruptly, tone perhaps a touch more mocking than he should sound, but it bristled him. It was bad enough that he had to even ask for this, he felt like a dirty old man, for God’s sake, he didn’t need Lydia picking some poor, random, probably fourteen-year-old child for him. He sighed as she stopped and blinked blankly back at him, and he briefly inhaled in through his nose and out through his parted lips, gathering his resolve. He cleared his throat, flickering a glance over Lydia, before dropping it down to the folder his fingers sat splayed across. He moved to flip it open, “This is the one, or forget it”.

Josephine Elizabeth Lawson. Born October 10^th, 1992, making her twenty-nine now, far too young for him, but…he’s wasn’t God, even if he once played like one. English, born and raised in merry old London. Daughter of an artist and historian, eldest sibling out of three. Education was top tier, not that it mattered anymore how educated a woman was in Gilead, but some prospective parents did like to know how smart their future kid might be, some. Health wise, there was no genetic disorders, personal health and immediate family was all considered good. Mother of one healthy son, Hugo James Ford, not currently in Gilead. One miscarriage, nine weeks, for Commander and Mrs Davis, (2019).

Pictures in the folder sit on the very first page, images that he’d have to confess had troubled him more then he would like to admit. The last and only time he’d seen her, fleeting and minor as it had been, she’d been so vibrant, bright and confident, and clever. That was gone from the picture’s taken at the Red Centre, instead the young woman in them seemed blank, emptied. Blue eyes gazed back at the camera with seemingly little thought or meaning. It disturbed him. Someone had once accused him of being incapable of showing much care or interest in others, unless he knew them directly, and he had to admit, he’d always been rather good at detaching himself, even before Gilead. It’s why he’d been able to look at his work from a purely scientific, academic perspective. Perhaps it was from coming from a distant household growing up, a mother unhappy in her marriage and seeking distraction, and a father far more interested in work then family life, and being an only child had only compounded his self-reliance and detachment, until Eleanor had come along. But even he had found it difficult to overlook such a once, vibrant young woman that he’d only met once, in passing no less, looking just so empty.

“I…” Lydia works her mouth for a moment, looking truly thrown and bewildered. Silently, he merely arches a brow at her and picks up the folder, tossing it on top of Janine’s folder, before leaning casually back into his chair, clasping his hands together lightly before himself, regarding her closely over the top of his glasses. Lydia frowned and picked up the file, a little hesitantly, but recognition sparked in her eyes…before her lips twisted, “That won’t be possible, Commander”.

“Why?” he doesn’t demand, he knows why, but he does give her a long, steady stare.

She shifts slightly, sparing him a slightly nervous glance, before sniffing and straightening, “This particular Handmaid is currently posted with Commander and Mrs Arnald,” she told him, rather unnecessarily, and he mockingly forms a little O with his mouth and nods, which only seems to spur her on, making her bristle slightly, “Ofgerald is not due to be reviewed for reposting for another…”

“I know Jerry, Lydia,” Joseph cut her off with a scoff, absently using his foot on the floor to gently turn his chair, back and forth, “He’s a nice fellow, bit pathetic, and old enough to be my father. You really think he’s gonna be producing any little miracles any time soon?” he rolled his eyes when Lydia frowned, lips parting, seemingly ready to argue. He flickered a hand dismissively at her, cutting her off swiftly, “And as for his wife, Lois. She’s a right nasty piece of work, that one. Didn’t the last Handmaid end up almost dying from pneumonia when she was locked in the garden shed on the coldest night of the year? What was her crime, again?”

“I…”

He mockingly slapped a hand against his knee, “She chipped a teacup,” he continued, steamrolling right over whatever excuse Lydia might try and spin, flashing her a sarcastic, tight-lipped smile when a look of angst and displeasure crossed her face. He kept his tone light, jovial, even though he felt anything else, “How long before another unfortunate accident occurs, do ya think?”

Lydia took a breath and pulled herself up to her full height, “It’s not my place to interfere in God’s work, Commander,” she tried to tell him, voice firm and even, though he’d hit a mark, he could see, with his little comment about the girl’s safety, delusional as that concept of what was safe for her girls might be, “Until Ofgerald’s posting is at an end, I see little reason to…”

“Don’t make me reconsider my decision, Lydia,” his voice was low, soft, when he spoke, lines of his face suddenly rigid and carefully guarded, gaze focused intently on her, flashing with threat. He stopped his little spinning, but didn’t lean forward, “Consider this to be part of my price for turning a blind eye for your…negligence”.

He briefly relishes in the look of shock and horror that fills her face, allows the tinge of satisfaction to fill his chest, warming him. He needed Lydia, but he also needed her to remember the power he held, too, and that he was not one of her girls to push around. And on this matter, he wasn’t willing to simply shrug and agree to wait. It had taken a great deal of thought and consideration for him to even decide to go down this path, he liked to think that he was owed a little bit of choice in the matter, and he needed it to be just the right person. Not someone to damaged and violent, like Emily, with a history already, not someone like June with her own domineering need to seek revenge and deluded hang-up of getting her child back, but someone intelligent. Someone sharp enough to know how to keep their head down and fly under the radar, someone with valuable knowledge, like law, and someone who he knew he actually liked.

And she, for some bizarre reason, seemed to have liked him, too.

He couldn’t deny it, either, a lovely face and cute smile was just an added bonus. He was sixty-three, not dead.

“I…” Lydia almost sounded chocked, and he merely maintained his look of challenge, lifting one brow, slowly, expectantly. After a moment she swallowed, visibly, and briefly closed her eyes, jerkily nodding her head, “Very…very well, Commander. I will…begin the arrangements…”

“Today,” he cut in, lightly.

“Yes…today”.