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.