Work Text:
when everything inside me
looks like everything i hate
you are the hope i have for change
you are the only chance i’ll take
The black van had shown up unexpectedly.
Nick hadn’t noticed it at first. He’d barely looked up from his paperback when he glanced at his watch, assuming the men that patrolled the perimeter were changing guard a little ahead of schedule. But then bits of the conversation from the driveway started filtering in through the thin windows.
Questions. Handmaid. See what she knows. Go get her.
Those words get his attention. He peeks through the curtains and his blood runs cold at the sight of Aunt Lydia, cattle prod strapped to her hip, conversing with a bearded investigator in a long black coat.
He knew this would be coming, the interviews are standard procedure. But what surprises him and makes his stomach turn is the immediacy. He’d only warned her to be careful with her walking partner a few days ago, the best he could do, given the circumstances. The less she knew about anything, the better.
But they’d only just taken the Martha from the other household into custody a day ago. They should have been plenty busy with her.
So why are they already here? What do they know that he doesn’t? They shouldn’t be here yet, and the thought chills him to his core. He’d tried to help soften the blow from this, to show her whatever kindness he could, and it could have all been for nothing.
Maybe there’s something he doesn’t know.
On the driveway, Lydia looks up at the house and scowls and the smallest amount of hope stirs in Nick’s heart. They weren’t expecting her to be away.
Maybe it’s not too late. Maybe he can spare her some of the horror of this place after all.
He tosses his book aside and quickly makes his way down to the driveway, skidding to a stop at the foot of his stairs as two sets of eyes land on him. He tries to steady his breathing as his eyes dart from Aunt Lydia to the investigator. A rookie, from the looks of him, slightly nervous but still holding himself with an unearned confidence, and Nick doesn’t recognize him.
He clears his throat and tries to calm his thudding heart. “Can I help you with something?”
“We’re looking for the Handmaid,” the investigator begins, tucking his notepad into his pocket as he gives Nick a once over, trying to size him up. “Your Martha told us she was out.”
Nick nods his head once, widening his stance as he speaks. “She’s called on the Putnam’s with Mrs. Waterford.”
The investigator remains silent for a long moment, trying to get a read on Nick’s expressionless face, his mouth drawn in a tight line. “We can wait.” He pauses for a moment and then smirks. “Official business.”
Nick feels his hand curl into a fist at his side as he glances over at Aunt Lydia, wishing he could make her disappear, before looking back at the investigator, his beady eyes meeting Nick’s, waiting for a challenge. Nick motions towards the back of the van. “A word?”
The investigator excuses himself from Aunt Lydia and he and Nick move out of Lydia’s earshot. He crosses his arms, waiting for Nick to begin and Nick swallows hard. He knows he’s being stupid, that he’s playing with fire, especially dealing with a rookie, eager to prove himself. If he says one thing that could potentially be construed the wrong way, he’ll be on the wall before the end of the week. But as he starts to speak, he realizes he’s not scared about whatever pain this could bring him. If he can prevent someone else from suffering in this place, especially her, it might be worth the risk.
“Look,” Nick begins, his voice low, ” I, uh…. I’ve spoken to this Handmaid about the issue with Commander Deeds’ Handmaid.”
The investigator’s head perks up, hungry for intel, and Nick’s heart sinks. He’s too eager, desperate to prove himself worthy. He starts to reach for his notepad, but Nick shakes his head as his hope sinks like a lead balloon.
“She didn’t know anything about the relationship with the Martha.”
And if this were any other seasoned investigator, the discussion would have ended here. They’d have taken him at his word and left, happy to end their work day early, knowing these interviews were all for show anyway. It was always their word against the accused, and their word would always win, no matter what anyone admitted. Just like every other thing here, the interviews only exist to keep everyone terrified and in line.
But they had to send the new guy. The guy who wants to feel powerful by intimidating others. The guy who still finds purpose in this bullshit and believes in the cause.
“Well, Guardian, I appreciate the intel,” the investigator says, crossing his arms over his chest. “But as you should know, for these types of crimes, we’ve learned the best information comes from interviews.”
Nick stares daggers at him, which only serves to embolden the rookie. He smirks, firmly planting his feet in place, and Nick knows there’s no stopping the train. It’s coming head on, no matter how desperately he wants to prevent it. There’s nothing more he can do.
“So we’ll wait here for her to return.”
“Have you seen the Putnam’s baby? She’s really cute.”
He hadn’t. There’s no place in this world for men in his role to be around babies. But he can’t answer her, afraid the dam will break. He doesn’t look up to meet her gaze in the rearview, he can’t.
“I love fat babies.”
He’d never been one for small talk, but right now it’s nearly unbearable, knowing what he’s driving her back home to. He focuses on anything he can outside the window to try and center himself. The stripes on the road zipping past. Trees. A pair of Marthas out for a walk. It doesn’t help.
“You know Ofglen’s gone? Hmm?”
Nick adjusts his grip on the steering wheel and holds his breath while a war rages inside his head. Does he tell her the truth or remain quiet? Try to prepare her for what’s about to happen? Luckily, he doesn’t have time to debate too long, because she presses on.
“You said she was dangerous. What’d you mean?”
He takes a deep breath. And then finally, with the direct question, he can’t ignore her any longer.
“You need to remember a few things.” Nick begins, looking up and meeting her steely gaze in the rearview mirror.
“You can’t change anything about this, it’s gonna end the same no matter what you do. So there’s no point in trying to be tough or brave.” The words spill out of him so fast he almost surprises himself as he reaches the intersection that will take them back home. As he rolls to a stop, he pauses for longer than he normally would. If he turns left, they go home. If he turns right, they could disappear. He could tell her to hide in the back and they could —
He clenches his jaw, shutting down that line of thought. If what he was doing earlier was risky, that would be suicide. It’d get them both killed. He can’t risk it.
“Brave isn’t part of any of this.” He flips on the turn signal and turns left.
“Everybody breaks.” He looks back in the rearview again, all the earlier bravado and defiance drained out of her eyes, and he feels himself start to split at the seams.
“Everybody.”
No exceptions.
The rest of the ride is filled with tense silence. It’s not until they're about to turn in the driveway when she breaks the silence.
“Nick,” she’s barely able to mask the terror in her voice, and he knows she sees the black van in the driveway. Lydia and that fucking rookie still standing outside, waiting for her. “What is this?”
It’s a trap. I drove you right into a fucking trap.
“Tell them everything.” It’s all he can offer. The best advice he can give. The only way he can still help.
“ Nick. ”
The way she says his name like he betrayed her nearly breaks him again. He can’t bring himself to look in the backseat. He grips the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turn white.
“Whatever they want to know, just tell them.” He reiterates his point as he throws the car into park. He places his hand on the door handle needing to make a quick escape as the investigator meets his gaze, and Nick wants nothing more than to punch the smarmy look off his face.
“I couldn’t stop them,” he admits, drumming his fingers on the door handle. It’s not much, but he needs her to know he tried. That someone is trying to look out for her. “I’m sorry.”
He slams the door closed behind him, leaving her in the car as he makes a beeline for the refuge of the garage.
He can’t bring himself to watch as they lead her into the house.
As soon as he’s safe behind the garage door, he pulls his cigarettes out of his pocket and brings one to his lips with shaking hands, hoping the nicotine will calm his raging nerves. His eyes close as he inhales and while the rush is unspeakably good, it does nothing to quiet his racing mind.
He doesn’t know much about her. He doesn’t even know her name. But he knows she’s strong willed and not afraid to speak her mind, and all he can do is imagine the worst. He takes another long drag as he taps his thumb on a wooden workbench, hoping she takes his advice and this can be over soon. He smokes his cigarette right down to the filter before he finally gets up the courage to stick his head out of the garage.
The van is still there. Of course it is. He flicks the butt of his cigarette towards Serena’s garden and he’s about to light up another when he stops short, his eyes focusing on the yellow and red flowers, swaying in the late afternoon breeze.
He couldn’t stop what’s happening, but he knows who can.
Serena.
With shaking hands, he pulls the car keys out of his pocket and jumps back in the car. The drive normally takes just under twenty minutes, but he’s there in just under half the time, running nearly every stop sign along the route.
It doesn’t take much to convince Serena to head back with him, and once he’s got her in the car, the drive back is just as fast. But this time he doesn’t retreat into the garage. He follows Serena into the house, both of them following the sound of voices to the sitting room. He hovers in the doorway as Serena charges into the room, and he tries to process too much information at once.
Red on the floor, Lydia with her cattle prod in hand, Serena shouting that she’s pregnant , the investigator snapping his notebook closed, muttering pleasantries, and then brushing past him without making eye contact.
It’s too much. He doesn’t know where to start. But at least it’s over.
He’s still in the doorway, rooted in place, when Serena ushers her past him, and for the briefest of moments her eyes meet his over the hand she holds in place on her cheek. What she’s trying to say he doesn’t know.
The bile rises in his throat as he watches Serena lead her up the stairs to her room, somehow even more unsettled than before.
Later that night, he sits in the kitchen with Rita, picking at his dinner. He’s barely managed three bites of his food. Normally, the three of them eat together, after the Waterfords have been served their dinner. It was almost always his favorite part of the day, and something he actually looked forward to.
But tonight, Rita had taken her plate to her room. And he can’t get the image of her being led away with her hand covering her face out of his mind. Whatever injury she’d sustained, he’s managed to convince himself it’s his fault, that he should have tried harder to prevent it.
He can’t get her out of his mind, she’s stuck there in all of his thoughts, like a song he can’t get out head.
“What’d they do to her?” He asks suddenly, looking up from his plate at Rita. He knows he’s overstepping a boundary, but he doesn’t care anymore. He needs to know. The unknown is torture.
Rita pauses mid bite, putting her fork back down on her plate, her eyes tired but forgiving.
“She hit her with the end of the prod.”
He swallows hard, fighting back the urge to vomit.
“She’s got a pretty nasty bruise, but she’s strong.”
Nick nods once, his jaw clenched tight before he looks back down at his plate, dragging his fork around aimlessly through his mashed potatoes, turned completely inward, lost somewhere dark in his mind. It’s not until Rita clears her throat next to him that he looks up from his plate and realizes she’s cleaned up her side of the table and is waiting impatiently on him.
“Are you going to eat that or keep playing with it?” She asks, one hand on her hip.
He shakes his head. “I’ll clean up.”
Rita sighs, not in the mood to argue. “Fine. But make sure you dry your plate. I don’t want to hear anything about water spots tomorrow.” She looks at Nick like she wants to say something else but loses her will before she does, instead simply turning and retreating into the dark house.
Nick stands from the table, dumping the nearly full plate of his food in the trash before heading to the sink. He washes his plate slowly, mechanically, and then grabs the rag to dry it. His eyebrows knit together as he looks at the cloth in his hand, running his fingers over the well worn fabric. It’s just like the kind his mom used to keep in the kitchen, white linen with delicate blue stripes on the end. She used them for everything. Cleaning and cooking were given, but she’d also wet them whenever he had a fever, the cool fabric a relief against his hot skin.
She’d even use them when...
An idea ignites in his mind, and he makes quick work of drying his dish and putting it away, before he loses his courage.
He lays the cloth flat on the kitchen island and dumps two handfuls of ice into the middle of it from the freezer. Somewhere inside him, he knows what he’s doing is stupid. He knows he shouldn’t press his luck. He should care more about his own well being and survival. He should keep his head down and go back to his room.
But he doesn’t care about the consequences. For at least the third time just today, he’s acting in spite of his best interests, fighting his own instincts.
He twists the cloth closed around the ice, his mind made up. He couldn’t help her earlier, but he can now. And he will.
He takes the stairs two at a time, afraid if he moves any slower, his mind will catch up with his heart, and he’ll lose all his confidence.
But like a magnet, the further he gets down the narrow hallway, the stronger the pull becomes. The force too much to overcome until he’s at the threshold of her door, unable to leave now even if he wanted, stuck in her orbit. He’s so close he can practically feel her presence though the door as he steps up to it, intoxicating him, he’s drunk now on adrenaline.
His heart races as he brings one shaky hand up to knock. There’s no going back now.
“Can I come in?”
Seconds feel like hours as he waits for her answer, and when he hears her affirmative reply, the rush is better than any high he’d ever had before. He swallows hard has he twists the knob to let himself in, two truths washing over him as he steps into her room.
He’ll gladly let this kill him, and he’ll die happy when it does.