Articulations of Aspen

Log Date 53498Willow5

Male subject released from quarantine. No harmful outburst observed toward female subject. Both subjects stabilizing in enclosure. Further observations to follow.

The boulder grew, stretched overnight. Like a dining room table set for the two of you.

Your meals appear with a quiet clunk-clunk for you both to dine before the glass. Side by side.

The cage disappeared, too. Your new roommate waking up on the soft ground where it once stood. The sign outside your window replaced by an avid crowd, ready to observe your interactions.

Kurt prods at the goo on his plate. An aggravated pinch in his jaw.

“Is everything okay?” you ask, nudging the nuggets of almost potato around your plate.

He sighs and drops his fork, crossing his arms over his chest. “What do you call these?” He nods toward the plate.

You glance down at your own and point to each with your utensil. “Uh, potato rocks, purple fluffy stuff, and,” you pause to scoop some of the blue goo into your mouth, “gross blue gunk,” you say with a grimace. “Most of the time, they stop sending the nasty ones after a time or two.”

“What’s your favorite food?” he asks, tone somber as he stares at the alien food without touching it.

“Oh.” Of all the fascinating and delicious foods you’ve been given—your favorite? You take a moment to think before replying, “those flower things. And I think they know it. They always put them on my plate when they want me—”

“No,”Kurt interrupts. Your lips clamp shut. His tone harsh, gritting in his throat. “What’s your favorite food from home?”

Your lips pop as you think. Wondering whether it’s best to just leave it, or if bonding over your pasts will somehow make this experience easier.

“I, uh, I,” you clear your throat, “this noodle dish my mom invented, as far as I know. She only ever made it on my birthday.” You stop, turning your gaze down to the plate. The alien food. You don’t even know its real name. “It always made me feel at home,” you whisper more to yourself than Kurt.

“I always liked a nice massaman curry.” His fork prods at the blue gunk. His teeth grit, a tic in his jaw. You ignore the moisture that beads on his waterline. His throat clears. “And I miss the sun,” he says, head tilting back on his shoulders. The artificial light shines on his skin.

You stare, drinking in the angles of his form. The sharpness of his jawline. The slope of his throat. The width of his shoulders. And the long lashes that brush his cheeks. All accented by the art that paints his skin—flowers and fauna, real and abstract, hard and soft lines flowing across planes of muscle, reaching up his neck and down to his toes.

But you don’t know how to respond, utensil scraping against your plate.

“I’m sure they give us enough vitamins and nutrients to keep us healthy,” you finally say, tipping your head up to search for the ceiling you can never make out.

“Is that enough?”

Your lips seal, pressing together. He turns his eyes to you, the harsh edge of his stare cutting.

The utensil clinks softly as you set it down. Your fingers pop as they roll and twist together. “We don’t have much of a choice,” you admit in lowered tones. Your eyes flick to the window, the door. “We can’t escape from here.”

“We could—”

“We can’t,” you interrupt quickly. “I saw someone try. It hurt.” You rub the band of light around your arm. Head shaking, look to Kurt. His fierceness broken as he meets your eye. “At least they treat us well here.” You nod, more to convince yourself than him. Blinking a few times, you clear your head. With a steadying breath, you ask, “So, what was your favorite movie?”

He doesn’t respond right away, letting the silence stretch taut and uneasy.

“The Man From Goldenrod,” he finally relents.

You roll the title around in your head. “You mean that spy one?”

He nods and returns to his meal, finally shoveling a spoonful into his mouth with a grunt.

Kurt is content letting you ramble, comparing his favorite movie to one of yours. The space filling with your chatter. He even participates in the conversation, grumbling or responding in his way.

It’s one of the first real conversations you’ve had since your capture. You smile at him, a soft sweet press of your lips. Finding a companion in the person stuck here with you. Learning about his mom, his little sister. The life he has to leave behind.

After your shared meal, the tour of the enclosure is brief. A sweep of the layout, explaining the areas of privacy—the shower and the bed. Even as you wonder why there’s still only one. The sleeping surface the same as ever. The rest of the time, you spend watching him explore the platforms, hammocks, and lofts of rope high above. The thought of joining him up there enough to make your stomach flip with dread.

But you watch his muscles as he reaches. The strain of his inked skin sculpting around them. The furrow of his brow as he concentrates. Something about his features rough and uninviting, but, like this, in this light, he’s also kinda beautiful. You wonder why they took him.

He thumps to his feet behind you, the soil dipping to cushion his impact. His hand scratches through the shorn side of hair. Eyes tipping up as he gestures to the hammock.

“I can sleep up there tonight,” he says with a nod.

You hum in response, rolling the thought over in your head. Your perch is certainly more comfortable—you would know.

Which is how he ends up on it beside you. It took some convincing, sure, but you knew what you were talking about.

“Isn’t this better?” you ask, rolling to your side to face him.

He grumbles and shifts on his back. “I guess.”

You smile and tug the blanket over your body. “And you should be fine. They keep the temperature pretty steady at night.”

He rolls to face you. Shifting back at your close proximity. “And yet you’re still using a blanket.” He tucks it over your shoulder, eyes focused on his task and hands gentle.

You blink in surprise. A flutter in your stomach.

He looks up, his fingers lightly grasping the fabric at your shoulders. A crack in his surly demeanor. His eyelashes flutter as his eyes rove over your face. Something unspoken sparking to life in their grey depths.

Next Part

You have learned to read Andy well through the past weeks: the way he stands at a window, how he crosses the flagstone kitchen after lunch, the angle of his body when he sits at the enormous marble island, elbows planted, hands steepled. Today, there is nothing predatory in his posture—no sharpness, no smirk—but a kind of diffident calculation, as though he’s rehearsing a script only halfway written. Still, you leave him to reveal whatever it is he’s thinking about for when he decides to bring it out and present it to you. He remains contemplative all morning.

You are rinsing your plates after lunch, and you’re considering taking the walk down to the lake, when Andy finally says, “Wait.” The word lands with no urgency or demand, it is simply a marker before what he wants to come next.

When you turn, he is already moving toward the glass-fronted cabinet near the pantry—a section you have seen but never opened, because you’ve lived off simple meals through the early parts of the day—bread, figs, cheeses. And for the rest of your meals, at some point a private chef descends either to cook dinner or drop off dishes for the week, and occasionally Andy will drive you to one of the lakeshore trattorias and order for you in his fluent, unshowy Italian.

Andy returns to your side with an old, battered notebook in hand. He sets the notebook on the counter with both hands, a careful act. You recognize the reverence in his fingers, feel the slight uptick of gravity in the room.

It’s a spiral-bound thing, the kind you’d expect to find in a grandmother’s kitchen drawer—edges dog-eared, pages stained with rings and flour-dust, a dozen tabs made of masking tape and ancient Post-its. The front cover says, in an elaborate, feminine hand: FAMILY RECIPES.

You dry your hands before reaching for the precious tome. You flip through the pages, careful, running your thumb along the edge the way you might with old money or ancient letters. Most of the recipes are written in faded, looping script, others in blocky, penciled all-caps. There are short, cryptic notes in the margins—“add more lemon if not fresh,” “marinate overnight or don’t bother”—and the effect is of something not curated for show, but built up over years of trial and error.

You glance up at Andy, who is watching you with a studied nonchalance, as if he might bolt if you laugh at this offering.

You run your hand down the page, feeling the indentations of the pen, the grit of flour caught in the spiral’s seam. “Did you ever make these? Or is this… was this your mom’s?”

“It was hers. We made most everything in there at some point together.” He shrugs, not quite meeting your eyes. You imagine the blocky script then has to be his additions and annotations. “I thought it might be good to have a few things from home here. For the future.”

The word future lands heavy between you, but not unwelcome. He edges closer, almost bashful, as if worried that presenting this piece of his past is a violation, or an imposition, or worse, a vulnerability. You can hardly believe how tentative this moment is between the two of you, how precious and telling.

“Which do you like?” you ask, voice softer than you intend, but Andy doesn’t seem to mind. He leans in and flips to a page marked with a yellowing Post-it, the ink here a mix of bold and delicate: LEMON CHICKEN. There is a doodle of a chicken in the margin, and a note in a younger hand: “good for impressing guests.”

Andy’s finger rests there, but he doesn’t speak right away. Instead, he moves behind you, arms coming to rest on either side of the notebook, bracketing you in. His chin finds your shoulder. “We could try this one,” he says, after a moment. Another beat, and then, “It’s more complicated than it looks.” His mouth is close to your ear, but the games are absent; this is not a seduction, but something closer to an ask. You realize it is important to him, more than he will admit.

Your turn your head slightly so you can meet each others’ eyes. “For tonight?”

You see the exact second he wants to say, No, not tonight, but he’s set this gambit in motion, and a mafia boss won’t blink. “Tonight’s good if you’re up for it,” he says, as though it isn’t the most loaded suggestion possible.

You are up for it. And it’s the first of what becomes the everyday ritual of cooking something out of the family recipe book for dinner together.

The first day you attempt the lemon chicken, you are both so hyper-focused on the recipe that you forget to set the table, and end up eating off the kitchen island straight out of the pans.

The next night you try the thyme and basil roast pork, and the next after that, a tortellini in brodo that requires two hours of simmering and a phone call to Ugo for advice about the right kind of herbs to gather from the garden.

By the end of the week, you are inviting dinner guests—first just a pair, then a trickle, then somehow, the momentum of the lake and the villa and the rumor of a young American couple in residence brings neighbors out of the woodwork. There’s a widow from the slope above, her British accent perfection and her opinions more so, and the retired engineer with his grandchild, and eventually, a small parade of acquaintances who rotate through with bottles of local wine and offers to swap garden produce. The first time, you’re nervous, certain one or another of them will see through you and Andy, but the rhythm of food and small talk smooths everything while also seeming to stitch the two of you closer together.

If there’s one spot on the estate of this Italian villa that you love more than any other, it is, without question, the terrace that features a fine outdoor dining table intended for small gatherings of friends or family, nestled under a lush, vine-covered pergola looking directly over the lake. Now that it’s coming into late October, the evening temperatures of autumn are crisp enough that everyone is in sweaters, and there are heat lamps, but with the warmth precautions, it’s still pleasant enough to eat outside in the stunning setting. The space is illuminated by a stunning chandelier glass chandelier, augmented with strings of white lights threaded through the vines. It’s been the most enchanting place to host your new friends with your new husband in this new life that feels endlessly surreal.

The dinner table is big enough for twelve, but tonight it’s just eight. There is a bowl of lemons at the center, bright as orbs stolen from a still-life painting, and the smell of the lake is so clean and sharp you can taste it even through the heady wafts of roast chicken and white wine. Andy pours for everyone, moving around the table with a host’s grace that no one at the table would clock as anything but camaraderie, except you who knows that he’s a ruthless mafia boss back home, but even you question who he is now that you’ve seen so many new elements of him that exist here.

Tonight, the table is loud with stories and laughter. The gathering includes the widow, Sarah, with her foxlike charm and acid tongue; the engineer, Paolo, his wife, and their college-aged grandson, who is mortified by everything; and a pair from lower on the hillside, a married couple who bring a kind of Mediterranean tennis-pro energy despite clearly hating sports. There are also two empty seats for “a last-minute add-on,” as Andy puts it, and when they arrive, it’s a surprise: Sarah’s daughter, home from Rome, and her boyfriend, a Spaniard who teaches at the university.

You’ve come to relish hosting the rotating circle strangers-turned-friends you’re quickly building, but you’re still adjusting to the tradition of an Italian dinner party, which is as much about the relentless, cascading waves of conversation, as it is about the food. Here, no one is allowed to be quiet for long.

You’re impressed at the ease with which Andy navigates all pockets of conversation across the table, how deftly he manages the pivots from politics, to soccer, to the village gossip. It seems impossible, but he makes it look like he’s always lived here, always belonged.

You play the part too, trading stories, laughing into the night. When Sarah asks, point-blank and with the confidence of the terminally curious, “So. You two—how did this happen?” she makes a little waggle of her empty glass at your newly minted wedding bands. “You’re newlyweds, and you said it was a quick engagement, but what got you to that altar? How did you and Andy meet? You never told us the whole of that story.”

The table hushes, expectant. You’ve become aware how much you’ve inherited Andy’s ability to evade and deflect, to answer with a truth that is not entirely true.

Andy’s head cocks. He’s winding up for a deadpan lie or a polite deflection, but you’re quicker tonight, emboldened by the wine and the waves of collective cheer.

“Oh, it’s nothing as romantic as it looks.” You set your fork down, lean an elbow on the table, and say, “He extorted me. Threatened to ruin my life if I didn’t say yes.”

There’s a beat of silence, then the neighbors laugh—first a burst from the widow, then the rest, the sound rolling in like the waves lapping up against the property of the villa. “Honestly, I’m trapped. A prisoner of the fearsome Andy Barber.”

The joke lands, the table erupts in laughter, but Andy is not among them. His mouth approximates a smile, sure, but there’s a sudden, unmistakable torque to his jaw that tells you he in no way appreciates your antics. Nobody else catches it, and then Paolo is recounting his own disastrous engagement story for the benefit of his grandson and the young Spaniard, who are, against all odds, enraptured. But you see the way Andy’s hand curls around his wine stem, the white of his thumb gone bloodless, and you feel the new coil of tension slither under the table straight from where he sits at the head of the table to where you sit on the other end.

When you excuse yourself to fetch dessert from the kitchen inside, Andy follows. He is so casual about it—“let me help,” because he always does as you two host these evenings—that no one at the table thinks twice. But when you pass from the spill of terrace light into the dimness of the patio leading up to the villa, you feel the change in pressure, the sharp coiled energy in the silence. You can feel every motion of Andy stalking behind you, every footstep measured, the gravity of his attention drawing up the length of your spine.

You step into the kitchen and turn to face him, but he’s already seized your wrist, pinning you to the cool marble counter with so little force it’s almost nothing, but you both know the implication. His eyes are dark, unblinking.

“Don’t do that again,” Andy says, voice only just above a whisper. “Don’t ever joke about me owning you.”

You stare at him, momentarily stunned by the vehemence, but you hardly miss a beat, and the words, “But you do, don’t you?” tumble out of your mouth.

You say it like a dare, but Andy steps even closer, eliminating the gap until your hip is pressed flat to the lip of the counter. “I would burn down everything you’ve ever loved before I let you make a cheap joke of this,” he says, but his hand is shaking, and he doesn’t even try to hide it. “Don’t do that again.” His grip tightens, a flash of heat, then he releases you. He turns away, breath ragged. You haven’t seen him so intensely worked up in months. You forgot this part of him existed.

You stay where you are, hand braced on the marble, as Andy looms back to his full height. You feel something flare at your core—that traitorous twist of desire when he’s like this, a spike of outrage that he’s resorted to it, the seams of both threading together tight as wire.

You tilt your chin up to meet his gaze, your pulse steadying into a challenge of its own. “It was only meant to be clever banter,” you say, careful to keep your voice low and even, but letting him hear the needle in it. “No one believed it.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Andy’s eyes bore into you, reading for signs of retreat or remorse. When he finds neither, he finally inhales—slow, deliberate, calming himself by increments.

“I know what you were doing,” he says. Because you know as well as he does that jokes are always a vector for the truth. “But I mean it. Don’t.”

He’s still a gracious, charming host the rest of the evening, but you see that it’s subdued, less warm.

The moment you’ve called out the last of your goodnights from the front steps as your guests wander home, Andy turns, looks at you with those hard, steel blue eyes, and goes inside without a word.

Now it’s you following him into the kitchen, because the clean up from these dinners with friends has become part of the closing ritual that you two share, as well, but when you step up next to Andy at the sink, he growls, “Leave it and go upstairs.”

You don’t bother to argue, to offer some response meant to salve either of you and smooth things over. Instead, you pivot with a clipped, “Fine,” and leave him. You don’t bother flipping on lights as you reach the master. You stand there in the dark, hearing your own heart thumping, feeling every inch of your skin alive and restless, your body trying to decide if it is angry or simply keyed up by the aftershock of that confrontation.

You pace the bedroom, back and forth, and finally drop onto the edge of the bed, arms crossed hard over your chest. For endless minutes, you’re just locked there in the moon-shadow, staring out over the black sweep of the lake, counting seconds. You’re waiting to hear Andy’s footsteps, the sound of him coming up to finish what he started, to demand a further reckoning.

When Andy finally comes upstairs, you’re ready for him. He enters without a word—just a sweep of dark eyes, a tightening of his mouth as he closes the door behind him, the quiet slide of the latch declaring this space sealed from the rest of the world. You don’t let him get two steps in before you say, “It’s not going to be anything like it is here when we go back to Boston, is it?”

He stops. The shadows cut the sharp lines of his bearded jaw, and for a second you wonder if he’ll lie—if he’ll even bother with a performance for your benefit or simply bulldoze past the question. Instead, he stands there, hands in his pockets, and weighs you like a problem.

“No,” he says. “It won’t.”

You push up from the bed and take a few steps forward. “Why?”

He stalks the edge of the bedroom, not coming closer, his hands still jammed in his pockets. His voice is quieter, but it vibrates at a pitch meant for you alone. “Because,” Andy says, each syllable landing deliberate, “a honeymoon is a liminal space, a fairytale. It isn’t real.”

You know what he means, but you want to punish him for the admission, want to see how far he’ll go in spelling it out. You cross your arms tighter, say nothing, hold the silence until he continues. He’s right, but this hurts because you wanted it to be more than temporary.

“This,” he gestures vaguely—at your body, at the lake, at the high, old bones of the house, and the air quivering between you—“is a retreat. It’s not the world. It’s not sustainable. I borrowed this time for us. But it can’t last.” You watch him, still and wary.

“Why can’t you fucking want us?” Andy asks.

You want to scream because somehow you’ve unraveled everything right back to the start in the space of mere hours. You don’t scream, but you do choke on a frustrating sob when you say, “Because you demanded it. I would have chosen you if you’d been kind instead of cruel, but you never even gave me a choice.”

You say that last part too loud, but you want him to hear the garble and the pain in it, that you want him to finally react as a person, not as an institution or a fortress. Andy holds very still.

“Don’t you see?” he says, and he’s close enough now that you can see the quiver in his left hand. Then his hands curl, not into fists, but into something worse—into the shape of wanting to touch you. He comes closer, walking with a kind of exhausted inevitability, and you can tell he’s been fighting with the words since before he came up the stairs. “If I didn’t take you, you would have run.”

You surge forward and raise your hand to slap him, but he catches your wrist before you can strike. You try to shake out of his hold, but he doesn’t let you.

“You don’t know that,” you argue. “You never even let me make the call.”

Andy doesn’t flinch, but his grip changes, less capture and more containment. Andy’s breaths are ugly and uneven. “I wasn’t going to risk it. I couldn’t.”

Your pulse is skittering under his thumb where it grips your wrist. You wish you could say the feelings are all anger, but the emotions are thick with something raw and unkillable that’s lived under your skin since the first week you met, all the more terrible and breathtaking now that whatever’s between you has evolved and expanded deeply here in Italy. You close your eyes, just for a second, because the only thing worse than being seen by Andy is seeing the want on his face.

He yanks your body tight to his, foreheads nearly colliding. You feel the way his whole being is trembling, probably close to shattering, you in the fallout zone. “You don’t understand,” Andy says, and you hear the ferocity in his conviction.

“Then make me,” you bite back.

You are thrust backward, the world contracting to the violence of his mouth on yours, then down the column of your neck, his tongue ferocious and wild. There is nothing careful in the way Andy drags you toward the bed, your body crashing against the mattress, his grip so absolute you know you’ll wear the ghost of his fingers for days. He tears at your clothes—not undressing you, but stripping you, rough and elemental—and pins your wrists above your head, his weight a pact that you are not leaving, not now, not ever.

He fucks you with a savagery you haven’t seen in him since the earliest days, when everything between you was a war, and then an addiction, and then a war again. There is no foreplay because your bodies remember every password, every escalation, and Andy knows yours by heart. He forces you open, mouths your skin so hard you arch up in shock, pleasure already a cry from your throat. He bites at your mouth, your jaw, the line of your neck.

He forces a knee between your legs, spreads you wide, and fucks into you in a single, savage thrust so deep your vision whites out for a second. There’s only the impact of Andy’s hips crashing into you, the push and force of hands you could never mistake for gentle. You are flipped as if you weigh nothing, your face pressed to the mattress, your body pinned in a way that is—should be—danger, but now reads as his. Because his cock finds you wet, spread, so ready you want to scream with the humiliation of it, and when he plunges in, you do scream, muffled by fists knotted in the bedding. He fucks you with a violence that lights up every nerve ending in your body, stroking so deep it feels like he’s remaking you, each thrust a seismic reminder that you are his, that you have always been his, that even now, especially now, you want it. You want it more than you want to win.

He is relentless. He takes you from behind so hard you nearly lose your bearings, his hands bruising your hips, his cock battering a rhythm into you with no mercy, no space for anything but the friction and fullness. He grunts into your shoulder, each sound a confirmation that the only thing he wants is more—more from you, more inside you, more of everything you have to give.

When you come, it’s not a climax so much as a collapse, a convulsion that tears something loose, but Andy doesn’t slow down. He fucks you through it, not letting up, as if your pleasure is a thing to be drained. You sob, raw, and he covers your mouth with his—biting, licking, silencing the sharpness with his tongue. He flips you again, manhandling you onto your back, and hooks your knees over his elbows, spreading you so wide you can barely breathe. His cock pistons in you, deeper, until you are gasping, keening, until you are reduced to the rawest version of yourself, nothing left but sensation, the feel of him, the violence of his wanting you.

He is not gentle, not even a little, and you don’t want gentle. You want to be consumed, and Andy obliges—he fucks you until your body is shaking, until the tears spill down your face, until your voice is hoarse from the pleading, the yes, the please, the more that you can’t help falling from your lips. He does not stop. Not until you are truly broken open, legs trembling, cunt so raw and used you think you will never get the ache out of your bones.

He circles back to your mouth, forces his tongue inside, kisses you with the same ferocity as he fucks you. He bites your lower lip until you taste blood, and then licks it away, tongue soft as an apology, but you know it is not one. You have been wrecked in the span of a few minutes, but it’s clear he’s not done.

He is going to fuck you until you don’t remember your own name.

He crawls up over your body, grabbing your jaw with his big hand and shoving the wet head of his cock between your lips, not waiting for an invitation. The first taste is salt and skin, your juices and his precum, the burn of him so deep on your tongue you gag, but Andy does not relent. He drives his cock into your throat, one hand fisting in your hair to keep you exactly where he needs you, the other bracing against the wall as he looms over you, and all you can do is take it. If you try to twist away, he holds you tighter. If you choke, he says, “Good girl,” and pushes in further. Your vision blurs with new tears as he fucks your face, the thick, hot shaft of him relentless, your mouth ruined already from the earlier kisses and now wrecked by the invasion.

You want to hate him for it, you’re sure you do, but you are gone, reduced to this animal need to please and to be conquered, to see how far he’ll push you and whether you’ll break. You need to be ruined by him, made anew, fucked out of even the memory of the anger that brought you here. You try to breathe through your nose but he’s too deep for too long, and when he finally lets go, you gasp so hard your lungs ache.

Andy groans as he fists himself furiously and then comes across your face, and shifts so he can shoot the rest of his load over your chest. When he finally releases your head, you collapse backward on the bed, breath heaving, spit and come and tears streaking your face. Andy towers over you, his own chest heaving in time with yours.

You feel the collapsing hush of the bedroom as Andy composes himself, standing at the edge of the mattress, his features still marred by the wet brilliance of anger and longing both. Your legs are spread, trembling, and you hate how much you love the weightless aftermath of being used until your head empties out, until there’s no room for doubt, only this: this knowing, this rawness, like a secret you must never confess.

You don’t flinch as he reaches for your chin, thumb smearing his come from the corner of your mouth and dragging it slow across your cheek, tracing his claim into the skin. It’s humiliating, and it’s the only thing that quells the shaking inside you.

He leans down, bracing his hands on either side of your head, and you see the play of war and reverence in his face—still caught between violence and awe. Then he kisses you, you, deep, with a hunger that seems bottomless, the heat of his tongue against your teeth and the salt-blind taste of your own tears and the ache he’s left in every muscle. The kiss is messy, open-mouthed, more bite than balm, but it binds you to him in ways words never could. You can taste the iron resolve in it, the promise of obliteration and devotion entwined. He doesn’t say “I love you” — and you don’t want him to. Not like this, not ever. All the same, you know the truth of it down to your marrow.

Andy injects his cursed, talented fingers into your cunt, tormenting you with the mess of your ruin, again, knuckles grazing your clit and making you buck up on reflex because you are so tender and slick all movement is pain-laced pleasure, so much more intense than usual. He probes two fingers inside, pressing deep and curling to stroke that perfect, devastating spot. “You’re dripping, cunt still gripping for me,” he murmurs with a strange reverence, as if confirming a suspicion about the physics of your body. He works his fingers in and out with increasing speed, and the obscene wet sound of it is so raw you want to die. “You take every inch of me,” he says, not as a question, but as the ending to an equation. “You’re made for me.”

He moves with a deliberate roughness, fucking you with his hand, thumb never leaving your clit, and in seconds you’re strung out and shuddering again, unable to stop. You wail into the darkness, no longer caring if it sounds like anger, or keening, or the wound of wanting. Andy doubles down, unrelenting, until your body spasms and you break yet another time for him, this time so wrung out you black the edges of your own consciousness, every muscle clamped and helpless to resist.

After, you lie there, wrecked, every limb trembling and dead, your breathing wild and uneven. Andy finally draws away from you, leaving, and you can’t pinpoint to where since you can hardly sustain your own functionality.

Andy’s presence is gone for less than a minute, but the void is so total it makes your ears ring. When he returns, he is silent. He carries a hand towel in one hand, and in the other, a damp cloth. You lie there, still splayed and shaking, and let him clean you—face, chin, the slick mess over your breasts. He is methodical, almost gentle, the movements so unlike the violence that came before you want to claw at him for the contradiction. You’d planned to meet his eyes, maybe spit a retort or something wounding to break the spell, but the look on his face is so devastating, so utterly intent on you, that you can only stare back and let him do what he will.

He wipes his hands and sets the towel aside. Then leans back, surveying you. He should be satisfied, should be spent, but you feel the air thicken again—the promise of more, of escalation. Without further warning, Andy slides his hands under your shoulder and thigh and flips you face-down to the mattress, your body a ragdoll in his grip. You are so dazed you don’t even register the force of it, the way he wrests your upper half down to the pillows while yanking your hips up with his other hand. You wind up face down, arms crushed beneath your chest, your ass arched in the air and on display, vulnerable and wide open.

You whimper, not even sure if it’s resistance or anticipation, and try to close your legs, but Andy just presses your knees wider, immobilizing you with a ruthlessness that’s almost tender.

He presses your chest to the mattress with one palm, weight pinning you flat, the other hand palming your ass, squeezing, kneading, as if cataloguing every inch of you before making a decision. You can’t see him, but you feel the heat of his breath ghost over your skin, and then—his tongue, hot and slick, working a slow, punishing stripe from your cunt to the rosebud of your asshole. You buck, shocked at the invasion, but Andy’s grip on your hip is iron.

The first lick is speculative, as if Andy is testing the edge of your reaction, what you have left in you tonight, but when your hips jerk and you press back, he doubles down, dragging his tongue in slow, obscene circles around your rim, then spearing it in with a precision that leaves you keening into the bedding. He holds you wide, open, and feasts on you, his tongue circling and plunging, working you in both places with obscene, relentless pressure. It is too much, and not enough, and you cannot believe you are so needy that when he works his thumb inside your ass, you nearly come from just that.

He fucks you with his tongue and his fingers and then both, alternating, escalating, until your thighs are slick and the sheets beneath them are soaked, and you have lost the thread of yourself entirely. There is no air, no sound but your own voice breaking, the wet slick of his mouth and the way your body trembles and begs for more. You arch, you plead, you scream into the mattress, devoured, mindless, reduced to a surface of nerves and a single quaking need. It is worse—better—when he spits on your asshole, massaging it with two wet fingers before working them in, stretching, filling, never ceasing his licking and sucking at your clit.

You sob, humiliated and mind-shattered, when Andy’s fingers press deeper, opening you; you arch and shudder, every part of you stinging, burning, exquisitely ruined. He pushes three fingers into your cunt, then adds a second into your ass, the double invasion so intense it makes you come almost instantly, the orgasm breaking through you like a blackout. You can’t move, can’t even process the pleasure—just take it, and take it, every aftershock.

Andy finishes you, and himself, in a blur of escalation and satisfaction, then, without ceremony, lifts you from the wreckage of the sheets—one arm under your knees, the other braced at your back. You’re so limp he might as well be carrying a sack of flour. He deposits you so achingly gently onto the still cool and untouched side f te bed, then climbs in beside you. He wraps both arms around you, winding you tight into his chest, flushed naked skin next to his flushed naked skin. You don’t fight him. In fact, you’re still so strung out that you cling to him, so spent it takes you a minute to realize he’s murmuring something—a string of words, low and urgent, nearly inaudible above the static in your ears.

You scrabble for a reply, but your own pulse is so loud it drowns out everything; your only coherent thought is the feel of his hand in your hair, the rough sweetness of it, an anchor to reality.

You drift toward sleep. Andy holds you so tightly you can’t tell if your ribs ache from the aftershocks or from the pressure of his arms. His breath comes in a slow, deliberate cadence, each inhale a claim, each exhale an ironclad reassurance.

He never releases you. Even as your breathing slows, even as your mind empties out, he keeps you pinned to him, chest to chest, as unwilling to let you drift in sleep as he is this marriage. You can’t move. You don’t want to. There’s nothing left in you that isn’t claimed, nothing untouched by Andy’s insistence. Even your bones feel different.

Andy presses a solemn kiss to your forehead, and the weight of it is so grave, so final, that for a moment you are sure you will never be released.

You try to stay awake, to hold on to something—anger, maybe, or identity—but it dissolves, every thought leaching out of you until only Andy’s grip remains, steady and absolute.

You wake at dawn with your thigh thrown over his hip, his hand still buried in your hair. The room is cold, but your body is kept warmed by his. He still has you locked, but the violence is gone, replaced by a solemn stillness that feels almost, but not quite, like peace. You move to extricate yourself, but he anticipates the

As the waves of everything that transpired the night before roll over you, battering your memory, your throat aches, and your eyes burn, and softly you start to cry.

The last time you were held like this was years ago, childhood, your mother tucking you in on the worst night of your life. The same hush, the same grave quiet, as if by clutching close she could keep the world from breaking you. Some animal core in you recognizes the shape of this hold, the way it’s designed not just to possess but to comfort, to render you safe against your will.

You hate him for it. You hate him in a way that loops back on itself and becomes something else entirely. You hate that he’s devastatingly handsome, that he’s capable, that he’s clever and so good at loving you—yes, loving, you are not a fool. You hate that he can make you want him even after he’s destroyed you, that he can ruin your body for anyone else and then hold you like you are a thing to be treasured.

Andy wakes exactly when you need him to, which is to say, when you are at your worst, about to break down. His arms shift; his breath changes. You sense him resurface and look at you, then the thumb at your cheek, rough but oddly tender, and he wipes away a tear.

“Don’t cry,” he soothes, and you lean into his touch for one brief last moment.

When you push to roll away, Andy lets you go. You shift to the other side of the mattress, heft your legs over the side, and pull yourself out of bed. “I want to go back,” you say, voice sanded raw. You don’t say back to where—you both already know.

Andy props himself on an elbow, gaze unreadable. “Good,” he says. “I already arranged it.” His tone is flat, businesslike. “But not until the end of the week.”

You blink, waiting for the justification, and he gives it without you having to ask. “We’re expected for dinner at Paolo’s tomorrow, brunch at Sarah’s on Thursday, and we owe our neighbors a few more nightly dinners, so they don’t think anything’s awry.”

“You just expect me to play house with you until you let us leave?”

“That’s exactly what I expect of you. The charming newlyweds who’ve welcomed so many new friends to their home wouldn’t leave without inviting everyone over for a farewell-for-now dinner.”

It takes everything in you not to stamp your foot. “You’re unbelievably infuriating.”

You don’t wait for Andy to respond, biting down the taste of an argument you know he won’t let you win. You dress in whatever shirt is closest, clambering into soft pants and hissing at the burn between your legs as you do. You stalk through the villa and out onto the upper terrace. The sun is not fully over the mountains, and wind off the lake stings your face, cooling the sweat and salt and tears you haven’t yet washed off.

You pace the perimeter path above the water for an hour before you realize you haven’t brought anything with you—no phone, no shoes, not even the scarf you’ve worn every morning for weeks. It doesn’t matter. You don’t need anything but the sensation of your feet striking the cold flagstones, don’t need anything but the air to burn out the memory of last night and everything that led to it.

You re-enter the villa through the kitchen, hoping for empty space, but Andy’s already there, leaning over the marble island, hunched in concentration as he prepares your preferred morning drink right alongside his. He doesn’t look up right away, only when he’s poured your cup and slides it across the counter to you.

You take it, despite yourself, and let the liquid sooth the rawness in your throat.

“Chef’s been notified to resume evening meals,” he says without any undercurrent. “I told her to stock us up for the week, until we leave. If there’s anything you want, just let me know.”

“I’d like to have no plans,” you say, and the words come out so blunt it surprises even you. “No social obligations. No guests. No performances.”

Andy shakes his head. “You already know that’s not up for negotiation.”

“I won’t share a room with you here anymore.”

Andy takes a beat, then nods. “Fine,” he says, and you can feel the shift in him—the hard retraction of self.

You did not expect him to agree to that. And certainly not so easily.

So you quickly add, “I don’t want to share a room when we get back to Boston, either.”

Andy scoffs, and his eyes narrow. “No deal. We both own that this honeymoon has been a suspension of real life, so separate rooms will do us both good to recalibrate. But when we get back to Boston, you are my wife. My wife, not my guest. We start our real life then.”

You wonder if Andy’s version of real is something you will even recognize, let alone want.

You set your mug down with care, fingers curling around the handle as if to anchor yourself. Andy watches, lips pressed thin, and you can see he's expecting a counter or a protest. Instead, you say, “I don’t know if why you never believed me or never understood, but I said it in the beginning, I said it last night, and I still mean it now: you never should have forced me into you bed or to accept your proposal. You keep making these choices for us, and you keep assuming I would have run if you hadn’t forced it.” You wait for him to look at you, to meet your eyes, and when he does, you let out a breath that tastes like iron. “But that night—the first night—if you’d asked, really asked, I would have chosen you. No threat, no blackmail, no war. I would have said yes.”

You say this, and your hands shake around the mug, but you don’t look away. Andy doesn’t either. The stillness is absolute—so sharp you hear the tremor in your pulse, the old house humming with the tension of two people who want, and are ruined, and will not concede.

You really would have said yes to that first night and undoubtedly so much more.

You didn't know he was this—the depth and breadth of so much good, so much bad, so much ugly—but part of you had wanted him and assumed he'd never seriously entertain your as an option.

He’d taken you so seriously you never saw him coming.

A fairytale honeymoon had been the curse, not the breaking of a spell, and the next chapter awaiting you in Boston? You truly didn’t know where you would land, how it would mold and carve itself, especially now that you knew what had existed here with him in Lake Como, both of you transformed, and now seemingly all of it lost.

This is how I feel posting this chapter. I've questioned going back on it all week, but ... I think the fact that I'm so conflicted means it was what needed to happen. I'm not second-guessing the longterm plot, I only feel bad about how it hits in this moment right now.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

They’re talking amongst each other, laughing and leering at you, before looking away. The Soldier’s scowl deepens with every passing moment. It shouldn’t feel safe, to stay shielded behind him, to feel the warmth of him against you. But it does.

Whatever his reputation—whatever the Soldier plans to do to your friends when you arrive—you don’t think he means to hurt you.

At least, he hasn’t so far.

The flight is both long and far too fast; your heart never stops pounding, but the Soldier never leaves your side, either.

Once you’ve landed, Scarface leads the pair of you to a windowless transport van, shoves you in with the rest of them, but the Soldier holds his ground there, too, lashing out when one of the others dares to reach for you.

The Hydra goon’s fingers barely brush your arm, and half a second later, he’s down on the ground, screaming in pain while the Soldier straddles him, knife already slicing through skin.

“Enough,” says Scarface, lazily, not even paying attention, and when the Soldier rejoins you, he pulls you close, even though you’re shaking too hard to stop.

It’s the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere, when you finally exit the van, the Soldier gripping your elbow tightly. You stumble, exhausted and sore and stiff, but he keeps you upright and doesn’t look at anyone else.

“The entry codes, please,” says Scarface. It’s almost polite.

You stare at him. “Uh, no?”

He sighs. “If you insist on doing this the hard way—”

“You’re the one who brought us to the middle of nowhere,” you point out. “I don’t know why you’re asking me anything.”

Scarface leans into you. You try to lean back, but the Soldier stands behind you, an impenetrable, unmovable brick wall. When you glance up at his face, you’re a little surprised to see his throat swallowing and swallowing, over and over.

“There is, approximately forty feet under the surface, an Avengers stronghold for various medical experiments that Dr. Banner wishes to remain under wraps, so to speak. You know where the entrance is and how to access it. I strongly recommend you share that information, or I will ensure that the Asset convinces you. And you will not like how he convinces you.”

You try not to shudder, or push yourself into the Soldier’s chest. You fail at both. “He’s not going to hurt me. Or them. He’s not yours.”

“Isn’t he?” Scarface stands up, and flicks his finger.

The Soldier’s grip on your arm tightens, so tightly, so fast, that you have pins-and-needles in your fingers. You cry out before you can bite the noise back.

“I’m not telling you squat,” you spit, gasping through the pain.

Scarface takes a step towards you, and the Russian that flows from his lips is achingly, heart-breakingly familiar. “[Beautiful]. [Sensual]…”

The fog washes over you, and you fall back on the Soldier again, trembling, covering your ears with your arms, your hands in fists against the Soldier’s chest. “No. No. I won’t…”

“[I want you]….”

You close your eyes, squeeze your forearms against your head.

And feel the bulk of something sharp, something familiar, something you last saw a thousand years ago, tucked under the Soldier’s arm.

“You think he’s not mine?” hisses Scarface. “You think either of you are not mine? You both answer to me, and no one else!”

You yank at the knife, pulling it from under the Soldier’s arm and pressing it against your throat. The sharp tip stings, but you keep your eyes solidly on Scarface. “Then order him to kill me, or I’ll do it myself!”

He laughs.

He laughs. “Soldat… finish the job!”

You hold your breath.

Hands grip your wrists, pulling the knife away from your neck, as the Soldier’s voice speaks low into your ear, the Russian a rough, guttural bite of words.

“ты нужен. ты твой.”

You suck in a breath, blinking fast at Scarface, who’s smirking in triumph.

Words you’ve heard him speak before.

[I need you.]

With one… small… difference.

[You are yours.]

The words echo, the cloud around your head remains… but it doesn’t close off. Oblivion remains at bay.

The Soldier’s whisper drops, a caress so quiet, so low, directly in your ear. You fall into it, clinging to it, desperate for something to hold to keep from falling.

“Tell him the absolute truth. Everything he asks. Trust me. You know what to say. Gotov soobshit’.”

You stare at Scarface, and the words slip from your lips. “Готов сообщить.”

*

The underground bunker is far from empty, but the Soldier takes down every combatant with ease. One shot each, so fast and furious that you barely see where they’re shot before they fall.

With every step, the fog recedes, but the horror does not.

The Soldier leads the way, unerringly, and when there’s a fork in the road, Scarface gives you a rough shake, and you tell him which way to turn to find the control room, where he’ll have access to everything the Avengers want hidden.

You want to lie. You want to scream and kick them both, run in the opposite directly, hit the fail-safes that litter the halls, the ones that will send the entire bunker into lock-down before the Soldier can take out a single other person.

Trust me, Bucky had whispered.

Tell the absolute truth, he’d said, so you do, hating every word.

You watch as the Soldier overpowers Widow.

You watch as he outshoots Hawkeye.

And when you reach the control center of the bunker…

“Cap,” you say, your knees almost giving up. “You’re alive.”

Steve, standing tall and strong and proud in the center of the control room, gives you a sharp nod. “Reports of my death were greatly exaggerated.”

Falcon rolls his eyes. “Man, stop using references you only barely get.”

“Bucky,” says Cap, focusing on the Soldier. “You don’t have to do this.”

“But he does, Captain,” says Scarface scathingly. “Or didn’t you notice, they both belong to me. The brains and the brawn, so to speak. She has led me straight to you, and now my Soldat… he will remove you from the playing field.”

Scarface looks at the Soldier. “Kill him.”

The fight is every bit as physical and draining as any of their sparring sessions. Sam is knocked against the wall within moments, wings curled around him, forgotten as Cap and the Soldier duke it out, blow for blow.

“No, hold back!” Scarface orders the rest of the Hydra battalion as they surround the fighting super soldiers. “Let them finish it alone.

“Now do you see?” he says to you. “He was never theirs. He’s not even his. You both belong to Hydra. And soon, so will everyone else.”

*

The fight ends with Cap on his knees, and the Soldier behind, gun at his head.

“Captain America,” scoffs Scarface. “I could give you the opportunity to join us.”

“You could,” agrees Cap, breathing hard. You wince; you can hear the pain in his voice, the way the blood runs down from the side of his mouth. You think, given the wheeze, that there’s a good chance he has at least one broken rib. “Or you could stick some words in my head and make me whatever you want.”

“I admit, that thought had occurred to me. Would that be easier for you?”

“Nah,” says Cap. “Not sure the system’s entirely fool-proof.”

“Is that so?” says Scarface, as the Soldier pushes the gun against Cap’s head, and Cap leans forward a bit more. “You don’t think I control them both? You don’t think he answers to every order I give him? You don’t think he would kill you now on my command?”

“Nope.”

Scarface stares at Cap.

“Wanna know why?” says Cap.

“I await your delusion with bated breath,” says Scarface.

Cap grins at you. “You said she’s the brains, right? Has to answer every question with the absolute truth? Why don’t you ask her, who finished saying the Soldier’s trigger sequence back at the Tower.”

Oh.

Oh.

“What?” says Scarface. He shakes you. “What is he talking about?”

“Me,” you say, realizing. “I finished them.”

Scarface throws you to the floor. You wince and bite back the cry. “You’re lying.”

You look up at him. “I can’t lie. You programmed me to tell the truth.”

It happens fast. Instead of Hydra surrounding the Soldier and the Captain, now Hydra is surrounded, by every agent the Soldier had taken down. Or not taken down, because they’re there, fully armed and fighting. Hawkeye and Widow, Iron Man and Hulk, with barely a scratch on them.

But when it’s over—and it doesn’t take long—it’s Bucky’s gun, aimed at Scarface’s head instead of Steve’s, that has your attention.

“Buck,” says Steve quietly, gently. “Stand down. It’s over.”

The Soldier’s jaw tightens.

“Bucky,” repeats Steve.

Your heart pounds. You stand up from the floor, walk over to him, and gently touch his elbow. “Bucky?” you whisper. And then, when he doesn’t respond, “Soldier?”

He glances at you, his arm shaking.

“It’s your choice,” you whisper. “No one’s ordering you to do anything.”

He takes a deep breath, chest rising and falling.

Scarface smiles, and opens his mouth, the words already on his lips.

The Soldier shoots him in the dead center of his forehead.

Epilogue ->

One of my favorite elements is the "takedown". Because HYDRA believes The Winter Soldier to be so ruthlessly and fantastically efficient (based off previous deployments), they don't even question that he can one-handedly take down the entire host of SHIELD agents and each of those Avengers with almost no effort. It's such an excellent ploy.

Log Date 53498Willow5

Male subject released from quarantine. No harmful outburst observed toward female subject. Both subjects stabilizing in enclosure. Further observations to follow.

The boulder grew, stretched overnight. Like a dining room table set for the two of you.

Your meals appear with a quiet clunk-clunk for you both to dine before the glass. Side by side.

The cage disappeared, too. Your new roommate waking up on the soft ground where it once stood. The sign outside your window replaced by an avid crowd, ready to observe your interactions.

Kurt prods at the goo on his plate. An aggravated pinch in his jaw.

“Is everything okay?” you ask, nudging the nuggets of almost potato around your plate.

He sighs and drops his fork, crossing his arms over his chest. “What do you call these?” He nods toward the plate.

You glance down at your own and point to each with your utensil. “Uh, potato rocks, purple fluffy stuff, and,” you pause to scoop some of the blue goo into your mouth, “gross blue gunk,” you say with a grimace. “Most of the time, they stop sending the nasty ones after a time or two.”

“What’s your favorite food?” he asks, tone somber as he stares at the alien food without touching it.

“Oh.” Of all the fascinating and delicious foods you’ve been given—your favorite? You take a moment to think before replying, “those flower things. And I think they know it. They always put them on my plate when they want me—”

“No,”Kurt interrupts. Your lips clamp shut. His tone harsh, gritting in his throat. “What’s your favorite food from home?”

Your lips pop as you think. Wondering whether it’s best to just leave it, or if bonding over your pasts will somehow make this experience easier.

“I, uh, I,” you clear your throat, “this noodle dish my mom invented, as far as I know. She only ever made it on my birthday.” You stop, turning your gaze down to the plate. The alien food. You don’t even know its real name. “It always made me feel at home,” you whisper more to yourself than Kurt.

“I always liked a nice massaman curry.” His fork prods at the blue gunk. His teeth grit, a tic in his jaw. You ignore the moisture that beads on his waterline. His throat clears. “And I miss the sun,” he says, head tilting back on his shoulders. The artificial light shines on his skin.

You stare, drinking in the angles of his form. The sharpness of his jawline. The slope of his throat. The width of his shoulders. And the long lashes that brush his cheeks. All accented by the art that paints his skin—flowers and fauna, real and abstract, hard and soft lines flowing across planes of muscle, reaching up his neck and down to his toes.

But you don’t know how to respond, utensil scraping against your plate.

“I’m sure they give us enough vitamins and nutrients to keep us healthy,” you finally say, tipping your head up to search for the ceiling you can never make out.

“Is that enough?”

Your lips seal, pressing together. He turns his eyes to you, the harsh edge of his stare cutting.

The utensil clinks softly as you set it down. Your fingers pop as they roll and twist together. “We don’t have much of a choice,” you admit in lowered tones. Your eyes flick to the window, the door. “We can’t escape from here.”

“We could—”

“We can’t,” you interrupt quickly. “I saw someone try. It hurt.” You rub the band of light around your arm. Head shaking, look to Kurt. His fierceness broken as he meets your eye. “At least they treat us well here.” You nod, more to convince yourself than him. Blinking a few times, you clear your head. With a steadying breath, you ask, “So, what was your favorite movie?”

He doesn’t respond right away, letting the silence stretch taut and uneasy.

“The Man From Goldenrod,” he finally relents.

You roll the title around in your head. “You mean that spy one?”

He nods and returns to his meal, finally shoveling a spoonful into his mouth with a grunt.

Kurt is content letting you ramble, comparing his favorite movie to one of yours. The space filling with your chatter. He even participates in the conversation, grumbling or responding in his way.

It’s one of the first real conversations you’ve had since your capture. You smile at him, a soft sweet press of your lips. Finding a companion in the person stuck here with you. Learning about his mom, his little sister. The life he has to leave behind.

After your shared meal, the tour of the enclosure is brief. A sweep of the layout, explaining the areas of privacy—the shower and the bed. Even as you wonder why there’s still only one. The sleeping surface the same as ever. The rest of the time, you spend watching him explore the platforms, hammocks, and lofts of rope high above. The thought of joining him up there enough to make your stomach flip with dread.

But you watch his muscles as he reaches. The strain of his inked skin sculpting around them. The furrow of his brow as he concentrates. Something about his features rough and uninviting, but, like this, in this light, he’s also kinda beautiful. You wonder why they took him.

He thumps to his feet behind you, the soil dipping to cushion his impact. His hand scratches through the shorn side of hair. Eyes tipping up as he gestures to the hammock.

“I can sleep up there tonight,” he says with a nod.

You hum in response, rolling the thought over in your head. Your perch is certainly more comfortable—you would know.

Which is how he ends up on it beside you. It took some convincing, sure, but you knew what you were talking about.

“Isn’t this better?” you ask, rolling to your side to face him.

He grumbles and shifts on his back. “I guess.”

You smile and tug the blanket over your body. “And you should be fine. They keep the temperature pretty steady at night.”

He rolls to face you. Shifting back at your close proximity. “And yet you’re still using a blanket.” He tucks it over your shoulder, eyes focused on his task and hands gentle.

You blink in surprise. A flutter in your stomach.

He looks up, his fingers lightly grasping the fabric at your shoulders. A crack in his surly demeanor. His eyelashes flutter as his eyes rove over your face. Something unspoken sparking to life in their grey depths.

Next Part

His hand shot out, a harsh gesture your way, and it was instinctual, the way you flinched and whimpered as you threw your arms up to shield your face without thinking. 

It was the kind of instinct–and expectation of violence–that was ingrained in you after the life you had lived, after years and years of being punished and beaten for always making your poppy so angry. 

There was a long, tense moment of silence before you realized Ransom wasn't going to hurt you, and then you slowly dropped your arms and gazed up at him, your eyes brimming with tears. 

"What are you doing in here?" he asked again, his voice still terse and his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"Scared," you whispered. 

Ransom just stared at you for a beat, the last of his fury slowly melting away into a blank mask of indifference. His jaw ticked once and then he spun on his heel and stalked into his bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him. 

You jumped at the loud sound–at his sudden and aggravated departure–your heart hammering beneath your rib cage as your tears finally spilled over. 

Ransom had been so nice to you, such a good friend, and you made him mad.

Your poppy was right, you were so bad.

Another wave of tears flooded your vision and you tried to choke down your sobs, hurrying from Ransom's room and back down the long hallway until you reached your own guest room.

You didn't even know why Ransom was so mad, or what you had done to cause it, but you knew it was your fault, and the memory of the way he had looked at you just now–so enraged–it had you shaking as you tried to swallow down your sadness and shame. 

You must be really bad if you made your friend so upset.

Glancing around the bright, foreign space–and all the unfamiliar luxury that came along with it–you felt even more lost and out of place before finally catching sight of another door across the room.

You scurried over to it and pulled it open, revealing a tiny mostly empty room. It had a shelf stretching across the entire space and a rod fixed in place beneath it, with a few oddly shaped objects hanging on the rod. 

You weren't sure what the small room was for, but it seemed so much less overwhelming than the rest of the room, or Ransom's room, or the house as a whole.

This small room felt safe. 

So as your distress and confusion began to mount, along with the fear of Ransom making you leave–sending you off all by yourself with nowhere to go–you stepped into the tiny room and pulled the door shut behind you. 

Making your way to the furthest corner of the small space, you curled up on the floor in the dark–feeling oddly at home here–as you continued to cry.

Ransom gritted his teeth as he bent over the bathroom sink, turned the faucet on, and splashed his face with cold water.

And then he just stood there for a moment, staring into the sink, unseeing as the water continued to rush free before circling down the drain.

He felt the last dregs of his anger and confusion fade away, and he hated that that had been his knee jerk reaction to finding you sleeping on the floor beside his bed.

He wasn't even mad about that, really, he just hadn't been fully awake yet when he had unexpectedly tripped over you and nearly face planted on the floor. You had startled him and he had reacted badly.

So badly.

God, the way you had cowered away from him, like you thought he was going to hurt you…

It made his stomach turn, because Ransom knew that was what you were used to.

And it was his fault.

Blinking against the burning sensation at the back of his eyes, Ransom sniffed hard before finally turning off the faucet and straightening.

He stared at himself in the mirror, and for some reason, it felt like he was looking at a stranger. The poised, perfectly put together socialite disaster with stoic features and cold, blue eyes. So quick to anger and so desperate for a way to turn it all off - the anger and feelings and too loud thoughts in his mind.

But when he was with you, all of that seemed to fall away.

Despite being dealt such a shitty hand in life, you had somehow managed to retain that sweet, gentle demeanor. You hadn't changed much at all, in fact, still a soft, bright soul with kind eyes and so eager to be his friend. 

And now here you were, back in his life, and although Ransom hadn't been in your presence much so far, when he was, things just seemed…simpler. Quiet.

You soothed him in a way he hadn't experienced since he was a boy.

In fact, last night as he had gotten you all cleaned up and settled, he hadn't thought of his own shitty situation, or family, or the demons nipping at his heels once.

And how had he repaid you for that small reprieve? By that fucked up fiasco a few moments ago.

Swallowing against the lump in his throat as he thought of you, and how small and frightened you had looked–of him–Ransom wished to god he had a drink or at least a joint right now, anything to quell the shame and remorse bubbling up inside of him. 

But he didn't have any of that—not anymore—so he just huffed to himself before shedding his joggers and turning the shower on full blast. He let the scalding hot water beat down on him for a while, pretending it could wash away the turmoil eating him alive.

Once he was showered and dressed, Ransom slowly made his way down the hallway to your room. He hesitated, still feeling like the world's biggest asshole for the way he had treated you earlier, before stepping into the wide-open doorway. 

When he found the room empty, Ransom frowned. He peered into the bathroom, finding that room dark and empty too, and was just about to head downstairs when he heard a quiet, muffled sniffle coming from the closet. 

Feeling his heart sink, Ransom slowly made his way to the closet door, standing outside of it for a moment and listening to the sound of your distress on the other side. He lightly knocked on the door and he heard you instantly go quiet, but you didn't respond.

"Hey, can I…can I come in?" Ransom asked through the door. "Please?"

Your voice was a quiet tremble as you replied, "Yes."

Ransom pulled open the door, allowing some of the sunlight filling the guest room to illuminate the small space. You were curled up in the corner on the floor, hugging your knees to your chest as you peeked up at him, your eyes glistening with tears. 

"I'm sorry–" you started, but Ransom shook his head. 

"No, I'm sorry, I was a total asshole."

"Asshole?" you repeated, your brow furrowed in confusion.

He snickered as he stepped into the closet and joined you. Sliding down the wall beside you, Ransom planted his feet on the floor and draped his arms over his knees. 

"Asshole…it means jerk. I was mean for no reason," he explained.

"Oh."

His lips quirked at the corners as he watched you, his heart feeling a little bit lighter as you straightened and glanced over at him. 

"I made you mad?" you whisper-asked.

"You just surprised me, I didn't know you were there and I'm not really a morning person," Ransom shrugged, knowing his excuse was lame. "I'm sorry I yelled at you and scared you, I didn't mean to."

"It's okay," you forgave him quickly.

"No," Ransom shook his head. "It's not." He turned to you, his eyes fixed on you and he didn't continue until you met his gaze. "I'm going to try really hard to curb my temper and not be such an asshole, because you don't deserve that. You didn't do anything wrong, okay?"

Your throat jumped as you swallowed, a few new tears streaking down your cheeks as you asked, "I'm not bad?"

Ransom's face softened. "No, you're not bad."

He watched you for a moment, noting the way you were blinking rapidly, and he knew you were trying not to cry anymore.

"You said you were in my room because you're scared." he started, remembering your reason for being in his room in the first place. "Why are you scared?"

"So different here, so big, and…" you struggled for the words, your lower lip trembling as you peeked over at him and whispered, "I don't want you to leave me. I don't want to be alone again."

Feeling that pit of shame open a little wider within him, Ransom nodded his understanding. He was quiet for a long moment, glancing away because watching you watch him with those big, sad eyes was fucking gut wrenching.

He did that to you. 

When he started to speak again, his voice shook a little, "Look, I'm stuck here for god knows how long, so I'm not going anywhere. My mother made sure of that."

You perked up at the mention of his mother. "She still mean to you?"

Ransom snorted, dropping his head back against the wall and lolling it your way. "Yeah, worse than ever."

"I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "It's not your fault."

You watched him for a moment, and he could see the question in your gaze before you finally asked, "You're here because you were bad?"

Ransom hesitated, thinking of that night–of the truth–before shrugging again, "So I’ve been told. Anyway," he hurried on, "You have free reign of this big house, and you're hiding away in here?"

"It's a lot."

"Yeah, I guess it would be after being in that tiny shed all those years, huh? Come on, I'll give you a tour, so it won’t feel so imposing."

Ransom rose to his feet before turning to you and holding out his hand. The way your face lit up, a beautiful smile finally breaking free had that sinking feeling in his stomach instantly replaced by something light and fluttery.

You took his hand as you stood up, smiling down at the way your hands were joined before squeezing his big one between both of yours. 

Ransom just stared at your joined hands for a beat, marveling at the difference in size, and how gingerly you touched him, like his hand–like he–was something you coveted. 

Clearing his throat, Ransom resisted the urge to yank his hand away and flee from all the feelings swirling within him, because you looked so fucking happy just from something as simple as holding his hand.

And after the way your day had started–and how much of a shit head he had been–he wasn't going to do anything to make that smile dim.

So Ransom stamped down his own instincts and decided to do the opposite of what he would usually do in a situation like this–be mean and flee–and instead gently held your hand in his as he gave you a small smile. 

"I want you to know that you can stay here as long as you want, and you're free to go, too. I just," his gaze dropped as he felt a wave of sorrow rise within him. "I want you to know that you're free now, okay?"

He squeezed your hand and you squeezed his in return, nodding as you echoed his, "Okay."

"Good," Ransom cleared his throat, glancing away for a moment, and then he shot you another small, encouraging smile and led you from the closet and out of the guest room to give you a tour of the manor.

It was like watching a flower bloom, the way in which you came to life under his undivided attention and patience for all of your excited–and endearingly sweet–questions.

It also made Ransom realize how much he took for granted, and emphasized just how different your life had been from his, the way in which you were so mind blown by the simplest things.

When he showed you the electric fireplace in the living room, and how the flames flickered to life with the flip of a switch, you knelt in front of it for a solid five minutes with eyes so big with wonder that he couldn't help but laugh.

And when he took you into the study, you had been floored by the computer and all of the buttons, pressing them one by one with your pointer finger and not stepping away from the desk until you had pressed every single button on the keyboard. 

Now you finally stepped away from the desk, giving the keyboard a sad, fleeting look at leaving it behind before your wide gaze drank in the rest of your surroundings. 

You chirped at the realization that you were surrounded by books. The study walls were floor to ceiling shelves all brimming with story after story. 

"Do you remember this one?" Ransom asked, pulling The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien from a shelf and holding it out to you. 

"Oh yes!" you replied, smiling as you caressed the leatherbound cover before looking up at him shyly. "Our story."

Ransom had been a voracious reader as a child and spent many days with you in your shed teaching you how to read with this very book. 

He watched as your smile fell away, replaced by a look of sadness mixed with shame. 

"Poppy found the one you gave me and he ripped it all up," you confessed. "He said bad girls can't have nice things, but I read it every day until then, I promise."

A spark of rage lit in the deepest depths of Ransom as he wondered what could be so wrong with someone that they could be so cruel to a child. Then he fleetingly thought of his own mother before shaking those thoughts away and returning his attention to you. 

"You can have this one," he said.

Your eyes widened and shot up to his. "What? Mine now?"

"Yeah," he nodded, his lips curling. "I'm sure we have half a dozen copies of it around here anyway. You keep that one."

"Thank you," you whispered in awe, your eyes glittering with tears again as you carefully held the book to your chest and hugged it for dear life. "Thank you, Ransom."

"You're welcome." He shifted on his feet, watching you for a beat before glancing past you and out the large windows. "How about I show you the back patio? It overlooks the garden."

"Okay," you nodded, still hugging the book to your chest as you followed Ransom from the study and outside.

He led you out the main entrance of the manor and around the wrap-around porch so you could see the property from all sides before you wound up on the back patio. 

Ransom paused as his eyes fell on the hose, now neatly replaced in its holder on the exterior wall, realizing that it had been just last night when he had hosed you down like a stray animal, his gut burning with shame as he glanced over at you.

You didn't seem to be rehashing the same memory, however, instead standing at the very edge of the patio bricks a few feet away, hugging your book still as you grinned big and glanced all around in amazement. 

"So green and pretty!" you said, smiling at Ransom over your shoulder. "And look, way out there, so many trees! And look! Pretty flowers right there!"

"Yeah, wait until you see the rest of it, that's just the entry to the garden."

"There's more?"

Ransom chuckled at your flabbergasted face. "Yup."

"Wow." You opened your mouth to say something else but went quiet as your stomach growled loudly.

Huffing a laugh, Ransom thumbed over his shoulder at the patio doors and toward the kitchen. "I'll go get us some food and coffee, okay? Then we can sit out here for breakfast."

"Okay," your voice quavered with uncertainty, but you just stood there and watched as Ransom turned and retreated into the house.

When he entered the kitchen, it was to find Ruby–dressed in colorful chef garb–pulling a pan of scones from the oven and Savannah putting the finishing touches on a tray of coffee, tea, and various breakfast foods.

The older woman gave him a look, her gray brows raising as she asked, "It's been one night and you already have company?"

Ransom scowled, "It's not like that, and even if it was, it's none of your business anyway."

"Guess all those rumors about you are true," Ruby muttered under her breath, setting the pan of scones down to cool before moving to spoon some homemade jam into a little serving dish.

"You got something to say?" Ransom challenged, leaning on the kitchen isle and giving Ruby the stink eye. "Then say it loud and proud or keep your mouth shut, Julia Child."

Ruby scoffed, dropping her hand to her hip as she scowled at Ransom. "Look–"

But you suddenly popped up behind Ransom, looking both shy and excited as you peeked around his arm and eyed the tray of food and drink as your stomach growled and gurgled.

You seemed unaware of the tense silence, your gaze flickering from the food to Ruby then Savannah, before you shifted closer to Ransom. You clutched the sleeve of his sweater, hiding behind him as you continued to cradle The Hobbit in your arms.

At your shy, nervous state, Savannah's grandmotherly features instantly softened as she aimed a kind smile your way. "Good morning, dear. Are you hungry?"

"Yes!" you nodded eagerly, returning her bright smile with one of your own. 

"Alright then, will you be taking your breakfast out on the patio?" Savannah asked Ransom.

He nodded wordlessly, still glowering between her and Ruby.

You frowned at him, tugging on his sleeve as you whispered, "Why mean face?"

Ruby's own scowl cracked then, her eyes shining with amusement as she snorted a laugh before finally moving to the pan of scones and carefully setting them on a plate to bring out to Savannah. 

Ransom sighed, mustering a small smile for you as he turned his full attention your way. "It's all good."

You watched him for a moment, looking sweetly wary, your lips pursed before you were reaching up and smoothing the furrow between his brows and making him laugh.

At that, you grinned. "All better!"

"Yeah, come on, let's get you fed," Ransom told you, corralling you out onto the back patio and rolling his eyes as Savannah gave the two of you a soft, knowing smile. 

"I'm Savannah, the housekeeper," she introduced herself to you before doing the same for Ruby. "You let us know if you need anything, alright?"

"Alright," you nodded shyly, leaning into Ransom under Savannah's attention but still giving her a genuine, "Thank you."

Once it was just the two of you left to enjoy your breakfast, Ransom patiently pointed out what each food and drink item was, telling you to taste everything to see what you liked. 

You were nearly buzzing in excitement, but still, before you dug into anything, you took a moment to scoot your chair as close to his as you could get, like you were afraid he would disappear or up and leave you entirely. 

"Here, try this," Ransom encouraged, smearing some jam on a scone before handing it off to you, something in his heart clenching at the way you carefully cradled the scone in both your hands and held it just beneath your nose to inhale the scent.

You bit into it carefully, your eyes lighting up at the taste, and he chuckled as you nodded at him, humming in happiness and dancing in your seat as you continued to eat.

Ransom took a moment to doctor a mug of coffee for himself, grabbing his own scone before he glanced over at you. 

"Hey," he murmured. "Are you still feeling scared?"

You perked up, your gaze flickering to him as you finished chewing. You thought for a moment, your head cocked to the side all sweetly before a small smile curled your lips and you shook your head. "No! Not scared."

"Good," Ransom grinned, laughing as you barely polished off your first scone before slowly reaching for another as you looked to him for permission. He nodded and you smiled, carefully covering the scone in jam the way he had before you continued to eat your breakfast with gusto.

"So good!" you chirped, your cheeks bulging with food as you wiggled in your seat and thoroughly enjoyed your meal, with Ransom at your side.

A little while later, Ransom set out a new set of his clothes for you to borrow as you showered, smiling softly at the closed bathroom door as he remembered the way you had shyly asked him after breakfast if you could get clean again.

While you were still occupied, he jogged back downstairs, heading into the kitchen to where he knew Ruby and Savannah were prepping dinner for later. 

"Hey," he cleared his throat, "My friend, she needs some clothes and…other things. Lady things, but she's…not great at shopping and stuff. Can you help me figure out what to get her?"

Savannah blinked at him, sharing a sideways look with Ruby before she asked, “She’s staying indefinitely then? Do your parents know?”

“Why? Are you gonna rat me out to them?" Ransom sneered, immediately on the defensive. "Is having a friend here against the rules of my imprisonment?”

“A friend, huh?” Ruby snorted, never lifting her gaze from where she masterfully chopped various vegetables for dinner.

Ransom glared at her, huffing as his eyes flickered to Savannah to find her watching him with a raised brow. An expectant one. 

And he knew that he wasn't going to get what he wanted–what he needed, for you–out of them unless he gave them more information, as much as he despised busy bodies.

Especially when it came to his business.

“Look," he gritted. "We knew each other when we were kids, and she had a shitty family life, and I wound up moving before I could help her or make it right, and now that I’m back and she’s here, I’m going to help her, okay?" He gripped the edge of the counter hard, glaring at Savannah. "So if you could just help me do that and keep it between us, I’d appreciate it.”

“How much?” Ruby piped up, her grin wicked.

Savannah hushed her immediately, giving her a disapproving look.

“Chill," Ruby rolled her eyes. "I was just joking. I don’t care, as long as I get paid and you leave me be." She went back to her chopping. "Besides, your friend seems like a sweet little weirdo, and she's already making you less of an ass, so.”

Sighing, Savannah shook her head at Ruby before her gaze returned to Ransom. Her eyes narrowed, lips pursing in contemplation, but after a long moment–and once Ransom started to fidget under her stare–a small smile broke free.

“I will come up with a list and we can go from there, how’s that sound?"

Ransom sighed in relief, nodding. "Okay, I can also just give you my credit card, if it's easier. Just, buy her whatever you think she needs - clothes, all the essentials. She really likes soft things. And you can get her anything else that you think may make her happy. I dunno, girl stuff."

It was clear Savannah was trying not to laugh at Ransom's rambling, so she just nodded once more, eyes sparkling at his grumpy glower as she told him, “That’s very generous of you, sir.”

"Yeah, whatever," he muttered, turning on his heel and storming from the kitchen. 

After a long moment, Ruby muttered, "So, we're really not gonna rat him out to his mother? Technically she's the one paying our salaries."

"Goodness no," Savannah shook her head. "That woman is a viper and she's the reason that sweet boy turned out like this." 

She moved toward the dishwasher, pulling it open to start putting away the recently washed load of dishes and cutlery.

"You know I've worked here ever since they first bought this property, back when he was a young boy," she said. "He was such a little ball of energy but very sweet. Perhaps his friend can help him remember that."

"Prayer circle GIF," Ruby replied, laughing as Savannah poked her in the side before dancing out of reach.

Ransom spent the day glued to your side as you slowly settled into life outside of the shed and here with him. 

As unexpected as your arrival was, it softened the blow of Ransom being exiled here in the first place. Even just a day later, he felt so much less angry and resentful than when he first arrived, because he had you to occupy his time. 

Instead of spinning out about his life in the city going on without him or wondering how long he'd be here, he got to watch your sweet, innocent brain short circuit when he showed you his cell phone, and had you snuggle close to his side when he cracked open The Hobbit for the first time since he was a kid and started to read it aloud to you, at your request.

And yet, as good as you were at distracting him, Ransom's mind was noisy. 

As the day grew later, and you dozed on the loveseat across the room, and Savannah and Ruby departed once the sun began to set, Ransom felt himself fall into a sullen, listless mood.

This was the time of day when he'd usually be getting ready for a night out on the town, a night filled with booze and his substance of choice, women too, as he'd waste the evening "blowing off some steam" and having fun.

Instead, Ransom was sprawled in the armchair by the living room window, staring outside into the growing darkness as that itch for something to numb out began to creep up on him. 

He was too distracted to realize that you had woken up and you had been watching him for a while, frowning at his sad state, before you slid to your feet and padded into the kitchen. 

Ransom was still zoned out when he heard your pained yelp and a loud clatter come from the kitchen, and then he was jumping to his feet and hurrying your way before he even realized what was happening. 

He found you standing before the stove, cradling your hand to your chest as you sniffled, the tea kettle turned over and streaming piping hot water all over the counter and floor.

"What happened?" he asked as he hurried toward you. 

"Burned it," you wobbled, holding out your hand to him and whimpering in pain. 

It hit Ransom like a freight train, the sudden memory of his 11-year-old self doing something similar…

Ransom yelped as he dropped the heavy pot of boiling water and macaroni into the sink, his little arms too weak to hold the weight of it as he tried to make himself mac and cheese since neither of his parents would.

"What the hell is all this racket?" Richard roared as he stormed into the kitchen, his face flushed with anger as he made his way to Ransom. 

"I was trying to make it myself," Ransom quavered, crying as he clutched his burnt hand to his chest. 

"Do you know how many things I have to do? Important things? And now I need to drop everything to take you to the goddamn hospital because you had to go and cause all this goddamn trouble?"

Ransom winced as his stepfather continued to berate him, uncaring of his injury or even checking it at all before he was turning on his heel and stalking from the kitchen. 

"Well, let's go! I swear to god, if you make me miss my meeting, there's gonna be hell to pay, you little shit!"

Crying more because he was such a burden than the way his hand was throbbing in agony, Ransom carefully clambered off of the kitchen chair he had moved before the sink and hurried after his stepfather. 

"It was so hot," your small voice brought Ransom back to the present moment and he gently led you away from the stove and to the small dining table off to the side of the kitchen. 

"Wait here, I'll be right back," he told you before hurrying to the first floor bathroom and digging the first aid kit from beneath the sink. 

"I'm sorry," you whispered once he returned. 

"It's okay, it was an accident," Ransom gave you a small smile as he knelt at your feet, rifling through the first aid kit for the burn cream. 

Once he found the small tube, he carefully applied the ointment, shushing you as you whined at the pain and squirmed in your seat. 

"I know it hurts, but give it a second, it will make it feel better," he promised. 

You nodded, sniffling back more tears before telling him, "It's better. Thank you."

"You're welcome." Ransom wiped off his hands before setting the first aid kid aside, his touch falling to your knees as you sat before him, frowning down at your injured hand. "What were you trying to do anyway?"

You glanced at him before your gaze dropped and you squirmed some more. 

"Make tea, like you did for me earlier when I was sad," you admitted.

Ransom felt his chest bloom with warmth as he nodded. "Thank you, that's very sweet."

"Ruined it."

"You didn't," he assured you, gently giving your knees a squeeze and getting distracted by how soft and warm you felt beneath his hands, still dressed in his clothes.

Ransom's gaze fell from your face, and despite the way you were swimming in his alma mater t-shirt and rolled up joggers, he could still see a hint of your womanly curves and he swallowed against the sudden dryness in his throat.

He jumped when your uninjured hand touched his cheek, soft and cradling as you gave him a look of concern. "Okay?"

And god, you had hurt yourself trying to do something nice for him, and yet here you were, checking on him.

"Yeah," Ransom whispered. 

That strange fluttery feeling invaded his gut as he watched you, and his brows furrowed at this new and unfamiliar feeling that had seemed to crop up just when you did.

Ransom was trying to figure out what that feeling was when his gaze dipped and he noticed something. 

The ragged scars and faded bruises all around your ankle.

From being chained up like an animal.

He reached for your ankle without thinking, his fingers so gentle as he held your foot atop his thigh and just gazed down at the healing wounds that marred your flesh.

And he wondered, once again, for the millionth time since reuniting with you, how anyone could do this, let alone to you. 

You were the sweetest, gentlest person he had ever met, and Ransom knew if your grandfather had just told you to stay in that shed and never leave, without chaining you up at all, you would have listened.

But instead he had shackled you to the ground like a dog, keeping you captive, keeping you prisoner, and Ransom couldn't even begin to imagine what it had been like for you, living every single day of your life like that. 

And yet, here you were, still this little beacon of kindness and gratitude and compassion.

It made him so angry that this had been done to you. It was horrifying what you had been through, and he hadn't stopped it, he hadn’t helped you, and you must have been so scared, you must have—

"Something wrong?"

Your unsure voice had Ransom blinking back to awareness, and he realized that he was panting, gasping for breaths that were shallow and difficult to catch as he rocketed to his feet, on the edge of a panic attack. 

"Ransom?"

"I'm okay!" he wheezed, quickly turning on his heel and shoving through the patio doors. 

He staggered outside, a few yards away, before sagging back against the side of the house, bending over and dropping his head low as he tried to calm his breathing, inhaling slow and deep and exhaling the same way. 

Ransom felt like the walls were closing in on him, trapping him, suffocating him as darkness danced on the edge of his vision and he struggled to breathe.   

It was the feeling of your small hand gripping his tightly that grounded him and finally had the fog of distress starting to clear. 

Ransom straightened, trembling and sucking in a deep breath greedily as you stood before him, your eyes big and scared but also so painfully soft and shining with concern. 

And then you were stepping close, pressing your cheek to his chest, hugging him tight, and saying, "It's okay, I promise."

Shuddering, Ransom hugged you back just as hard, his forehead dropping to the crown of your head as he suppressed the unfamiliar urge to cry. 

Instead, he breathed in as deep as he could, combating the urge to let his pain and overwhelm consume him by inhaling your soft scent until it flooded his senses and it was the only thing he could focus on, getting lost in it.

Getting lost in you.

Ransom wasn't sure how long the two of you stood out back and held each other, but by the time his stomach started to growl, making you giggle, he was feeling much better and ushered you inside for dinner. 

Wanting to end the night on a positive note, and do something fun for you, Ransom wrangled you into the TV room and pulled up the first Lord of the Rings movie on a streaming app, figuring you'd get a kick out of it.

And, at first, you did.

You gasped in delight and shot straight up in your seat beside him as the movie started. Before the opening credits even hit, you were across the room and kneeling beside the TV stand, gazing up at the TV from inches away with big, startled eyes. 

Ransom smiled softly as he watched you, much more avidly than the movie, but after a few moments, his smile faded as he noticed that your body had grown rigid. 

You seemed less and less entranced by the movie now, and more distraught. 

Sliding from his seat, Ransom slowly made his way across the room to crouch beside you. 

"Hey, you okay?" he asked, gently touching your shoulder.

Only to find you trembling hard as you turned to him with tear filled eyes and asked, "Trapped in this box? They bad, like me?"

Ransom's face fell, his hand smoothing down your shoulder until he was gripping your elbow and tugging you away from the TV and toward him. 

He murmured your name softly. "No, they're not trapped. It's all pretend, it's a movie, like a story."

You sniffled, wiping away a few tears as you glanced back at the TV in confusion. "Like our book?"

"Yes!" Ransom nodded, giving you a sad smile. "It's for fun - watching movies and TV shows."

"Oh," you sank onto your knees beside him, the distress melting from your frame as you blinked up at him, confirming, "Not trapped though? Okay?"

"Yes, they're okay, I promise." Ransom held up his pinky before you could, making you laugh. 

You curled your pinky around his, shaking on it before shifting to holding his hand instead. "Can we read instead please?" 

"Of course we can." Ransom turned off the TV immediately, then he was gently helping you to your feet and guiding you back to the sofa. 

He grabbed The Hobbit from the coffee table, where you had left it, and waited for you to snuggle close to his side before he opened up to where you had previously left off before starting to read.

Eventually, he felt you start to sag against him, your eyes struggling to stay open as he read, and you just nodded when he asked if you were tired and ready for bed. 

Soon Ransom had you tucked away in bed, snug as a bug in a rug, smiling softly as you pretty much fell asleep as soon as your head hit the pillow. 

After a long moment of lingering and just watching you, he retreated to his bedroom. Despite how exhausted he was, sleep eluded him, and after a couple of hours of tossing and turning and being wide awake, Ransom sighed, thinking of you.

The way you had reacted to the movie was heartbreaking.

Your shitty family had taken so much from you, even something as simple and supposedly fun as watching a movie was distressing and so confusing for you.

And it killed him, that you thought you were bad, because the truth was, you were anything but.

In his world, kindness was such a rare commodity–almost unheard of–but you gave it so freely, it was just a part of you, even after everything you had suffered.

And you had suffered, so much.

Feeling a cocktail of rage at the way you had been treated and determination to make it better, Ransom threw back his covers and slid from bed.

He silently made his way down the hallway to your bedroom, pausing in the doorway as he watched you.

The full moon was bright outside, perfectly illuminating your sweet face. You looked like some kind of ethereal angel as you laid curled up on your side, finally at rest.

He wanted to protect you with everything he had, Ransom realized quite suddenly.  

The thought alone had that growing-familiar-now lump of emotion back in Ransom's throat as he made his way toward you. He carefully sat on the floor beside your bed and pulled his knees to his chest, hugging himself as he looked up at you.

He was reaching for you before he even realized what he was doing, the urge to touch you–confirm you were real and okay–so powerful a need that Ransom was certain it was some kind of siren's song, sung just for him. 

Still, he hesitated for just a second–loathe to wake you but needing to just feel you, comfort you even though you were unaware of it–before his skin made contact with yours and he drew his knuckles down the slope of your cheek. 

“You're so good," Ransom whispered, gently cradling your face, his thumb drawing back and forth beneath your eye. "You're so sweet and kind and beautiful. You always have been."

For the first time in years, Ransom's eyes grew wet with tears before they were spilling over as he told you, "You're so good. You're so good, do you hear me?"

Because you were. 

You were the furthest thing from bad that he had ever encountered in his life.

Ransom Drysdale knew bad, and it wasn't you. 

You had such an air of wonder about you, this innocent type of awe and curiosity and delight in the simplest things that he wanted to guard at all costs. 

And that sweetness of yours? That pure heart of gold? They deserved to be protected. 

Cherished.

You deserved to be cherished, because you were a gift, a true, rare treasure in a world that didn't deserve you.

The longer Ransom watched you, the brighter that fire burned within him - a raging inferno of determination to keep you safe. 

He may not have been able to help you or protect you back when he was a child, but he could do it now. 

He would. 

As Ransom continued to gently stroke your face and whisper how good you were, he vowed that he would do everything he could to protect you and treat you right–make you happy–because that, not the shitty life you had known for far too long, was what you really deserved.

To steal a line from my BFF, Bee: CRYING IN THE CLUB 😭😭😭 Please take a moment to drop me your thoughts. I'd love to hear from you! Thank you so much for reading ❤️

NEXT PART

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His hand shot out, a harsh gesture your way, and it was instinctual, the way you flinched and whimpered as you threw your arms up to shield your face without thinking. 

It was the kind of instinct–and expectation of violence–that was ingrained in you after the life you had lived, after years and years of being punished and beaten for always making your poppy so angry. 

There was a long, tense moment of silence before you realized Ransom wasn't going to hurt you, and then you slowly dropped your arms and gazed up at him, your eyes brimming with tears. 

"What are you doing in here?" he asked again, his voice still terse and his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"Scared," you whispered. 

Ransom just stared at you for a beat, the last of his fury slowly melting away into a blank mask of indifference. His jaw ticked once and then he spun on his heel and stalked into his bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him. 

You jumped at the loud sound–at his sudden and aggravated departure–your heart hammering beneath your rib cage as your tears finally spilled over. 

Ransom had been so nice to you, such a good friend, and you made him mad.

Your poppy was right, you were so bad.

Another wave of tears flooded your vision and you tried to choke down your sobs, hurrying from Ransom's room and back down the long hallway until you reached your own guest room.

You didn't even know why Ransom was so mad, or what you had done to cause it, but you knew it was your fault, and the memory of the way he had looked at you just now–so enraged–it had you shaking as you tried to swallow down your sadness and shame. 

You must be really bad if you made your friend so upset.

Glancing around the bright, foreign space–and all the unfamiliar luxury that came along with it–you felt even more lost and out of place before finally catching sight of another door across the room.

You scurried over to it and pulled it open, revealing a tiny mostly empty room. It had a shelf stretching across the entire space and a rod fixed in place beneath it, with a few oddly shaped objects hanging on the rod. 

You weren't sure what the small room was for, but it seemed so much less overwhelming than the rest of the room, or Ransom's room, or the house as a whole.

This small room felt safe. 

So as your distress and confusion began to mount, along with the fear of Ransom making you leave–sending you off all by yourself with nowhere to go–you stepped into the tiny room and pulled the door shut behind you. 

Making your way to the furthest corner of the small space, you curled up on the floor in the dark–feeling oddly at home here–as you continued to cry.

Ransom gritted his teeth as he bent over the bathroom sink, turned the faucet on, and splashed his face with cold water.

And then he just stood there for a moment, staring into the sink, unseeing as the water continued to rush free before circling down the drain.

He felt the last dregs of his anger and confusion fade away, and he hated that that had been his knee jerk reaction to finding you sleeping on the floor beside his bed.

He wasn't even mad about that, really, he just hadn't been fully awake yet when he had unexpectedly tripped over you and nearly face planted on the floor. You had startled him and he had reacted badly.

So badly.

God, the way you had cowered away from him, like you thought he was going to hurt you…

It made his stomach turn, because Ransom knew that was what you were used to.

And it was his fault.

Blinking against the burning sensation at the back of his eyes, Ransom sniffed hard before finally turning off the faucet and straightening.

He stared at himself in the mirror, and for some reason, it felt like he was looking at a stranger. The poised, perfectly put together socialite disaster with stoic features and cold, blue eyes. So quick to anger and so desperate for a way to turn it all off - the anger and feelings and too loud thoughts in his mind.

But when he was with you, all of that seemed to fall away.

Despite being dealt such a shitty hand in life, you had somehow managed to retain that sweet, gentle demeanor. You hadn't changed much at all, in fact, still a soft, bright soul with kind eyes and so eager to be his friend. 

And now here you were, back in his life, and although Ransom hadn't been in your presence much so far, when he was, things just seemed…simpler. Quiet.

You soothed him in a way he hadn't experienced since he was a boy.

In fact, last night as he had gotten you all cleaned up and settled, he hadn't thought of his own shitty situation, or family, or the demons nipping at his heels once.

And how had he repaid you for that small reprieve? By that fucked up fiasco a few moments ago.

Swallowing against the lump in his throat as he thought of you, and how small and frightened you had looked–of him–Ransom wished to god he had a drink or at least a joint right now, anything to quell the shame and remorse bubbling up inside of him. 

But he didn't have any of that—not anymore—so he just huffed to himself before shedding his joggers and turning the shower on full blast. He let the scalding hot water beat down on him for a while, pretending it could wash away the turmoil eating him alive.

Once he was showered and dressed, Ransom slowly made his way down the hallway to your room. He hesitated, still feeling like the world's biggest asshole for the way he had treated you earlier, before stepping into the wide-open doorway. 

When he found the room empty, Ransom frowned. He peered into the bathroom, finding that room dark and empty too, and was just about to head downstairs when he heard a quiet, muffled sniffle coming from the closet. 

Feeling his heart sink, Ransom slowly made his way to the closet door, standing outside of it for a moment and listening to the sound of your distress on the other side. He lightly knocked on the door and he heard you instantly go quiet, but you didn't respond.

"Hey, can I…can I come in?" Ransom asked through the door. "Please?"

Your voice was a quiet tremble as you replied, "Yes."

Ransom pulled open the door, allowing some of the sunlight filling the guest room to illuminate the small space. You were curled up in the corner on the floor, hugging your knees to your chest as you peeked up at him, your eyes glistening with tears. 

"I'm sorry–" you started, but Ransom shook his head. 

"No, I'm sorry, I was a total asshole."

"Asshole?" you repeated, your brow furrowed in confusion.

He snickered as he stepped into the closet and joined you. Sliding down the wall beside you, Ransom planted his feet on the floor and draped his arms over his knees. 

"Asshole…it means jerk. I was mean for no reason," he explained.

"Oh."

His lips quirked at the corners as he watched you, his heart feeling a little bit lighter as you straightened and glanced over at him. 

"I made you mad?" you whisper-asked.

"You just surprised me, I didn't know you were there and I'm not really a morning person," Ransom shrugged, knowing his excuse was lame. "I'm sorry I yelled at you and scared you, I didn't mean to."

"It's okay," you forgave him quickly.

"No," Ransom shook his head. "It's not." He turned to you, his eyes fixed on you and he didn't continue until you met his gaze. "I'm going to try really hard to curb my temper and not be such an asshole, because you don't deserve that. You didn't do anything wrong, okay?"

Your throat jumped as you swallowed, a few new tears streaking down your cheeks as you asked, "I'm not bad?"

Ransom's face softened. "No, you're not bad."

He watched you for a moment, noting the way you were blinking rapidly, and he knew you were trying not to cry anymore.

"You said you were in my room because you're scared." he started, remembering your reason for being in his room in the first place. "Why are you scared?"

"So different here, so big, and…" you struggled for the words, your lower lip trembling as you peeked over at him and whispered, "I don't want you to leave me. I don't want to be alone again."

Feeling that pit of shame open a little wider within him, Ransom nodded his understanding. He was quiet for a long moment, glancing away because watching you watch him with those big, sad eyes was fucking gut wrenching.

He did that to you. 

When he started to speak again, his voice shook a little, "Look, I'm stuck here for god knows how long, so I'm not going anywhere. My mother made sure of that."

You perked up at the mention of his mother. "She still mean to you?"

Ransom snorted, dropping his head back against the wall and lolling it your way. "Yeah, worse than ever."

"I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "It's not your fault."

You watched him for a moment, and he could see the question in your gaze before you finally asked, "You're here because you were bad?"

Ransom hesitated, thinking of that night–of the truth–before shrugging again, "So I’ve been told. Anyway," he hurried on, "You have free reign of this big house, and you're hiding away in here?"

"It's a lot."

"Yeah, I guess it would be after being in that tiny shed all those years, huh? Come on, I'll give you a tour, so it won’t feel so imposing."

Ransom rose to his feet before turning to you and holding out his hand. The way your face lit up, a beautiful smile finally breaking free had that sinking feeling in his stomach instantly replaced by something light and fluttery.

You took his hand as you stood up, smiling down at the way your hands were joined before squeezing his big one between both of yours. 

Ransom just stared at your joined hands for a beat, marveling at the difference in size, and how gingerly you touched him, like his hand–like he–was something you coveted. 

Clearing his throat, Ransom resisted the urge to yank his hand away and flee from all the feelings swirling within him, because you looked so fucking happy just from something as simple as holding his hand.

And after the way your day had started–and how much of a shit head he had been–he wasn't going to do anything to make that smile dim.

So Ransom stamped down his own instincts and decided to do the opposite of what he would usually do in a situation like this–be mean and flee–and instead gently held your hand in his as he gave you a small smile. 

"I want you to know that you can stay here as long as you want, and you're free to go, too. I just," his gaze dropped as he felt a wave of sorrow rise within him. "I want you to know that you're free now, okay?"

He squeezed your hand and you squeezed his in return, nodding as you echoed his, "Okay."

"Good," Ransom cleared his throat, glancing away for a moment, and then he shot you another small, encouraging smile and led you from the closet and out of the guest room to give you a tour of the manor.

It was like watching a flower bloom, the way in which you came to life under his undivided attention and patience for all of your excited–and endearingly sweet–questions.

It also made Ransom realize how much he took for granted, and emphasized just how different your life had been from his, the way in which you were so mind blown by the simplest things.

When he showed you the electric fireplace in the living room, and how the flames flickered to life with the flip of a switch, you knelt in front of it for a solid five minutes with eyes so big with wonder that he couldn't help but laugh.

And when he took you into the study, you had been floored by the computer and all of the buttons, pressing them one by one with your pointer finger and not stepping away from the desk until you had pressed every single button on the keyboard. 

Now you finally stepped away from the desk, giving the keyboard a sad, fleeting look at leaving it behind before your wide gaze drank in the rest of your surroundings. 

You chirped at the realization that you were surrounded by books. The study walls were floor to ceiling shelves all brimming with story after story. 

"Do you remember this one?" Ransom asked, pulling The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien from a shelf and holding it out to you. 

"Oh yes!" you replied, smiling as you caressed the leatherbound cover before looking up at him shyly. "Our story."

Ransom had been a voracious reader as a child and spent many days with you in your shed teaching you how to read with this very book. 

He watched as your smile fell away, replaced by a look of sadness mixed with shame. 

"Poppy found the one you gave me and he ripped it all up," you confessed. "He said bad girls can't have nice things, but I read it every day until then, I promise."

A spark of rage lit in the deepest depths of Ransom as he wondered what could be so wrong with someone that they could be so cruel to a child. Then he fleetingly thought of his own mother before shaking those thoughts away and returning his attention to you. 

"You can have this one," he said.

Your eyes widened and shot up to his. "What? Mine now?"

"Yeah," he nodded, his lips curling. "I'm sure we have half a dozen copies of it around here anyway. You keep that one."

"Thank you," you whispered in awe, your eyes glittering with tears again as you carefully held the book to your chest and hugged it for dear life. "Thank you, Ransom."

"You're welcome." He shifted on his feet, watching you for a beat before glancing past you and out the large windows. "How about I show you the back patio? It overlooks the garden."

"Okay," you nodded, still hugging the book to your chest as you followed Ransom from the study and outside.

He led you out the main entrance of the manor and around the wrap-around porch so you could see the property from all sides before you wound up on the back patio. 

Ransom paused as his eyes fell on the hose, now neatly replaced in its holder on the exterior wall, realizing that it had been just last night when he had hosed you down like a stray animal, his gut burning with shame as he glanced over at you.

You didn't seem to be rehashing the same memory, however, instead standing at the very edge of the patio bricks a few feet away, hugging your book still as you grinned big and glanced all around in amazement. 

"So green and pretty!" you said, smiling at Ransom over your shoulder. "And look, way out there, so many trees! And look! Pretty flowers right there!"

"Yeah, wait until you see the rest of it, that's just the entry to the garden."

"There's more?"

Ransom chuckled at your flabbergasted face. "Yup."

"Wow." You opened your mouth to say something else but went quiet as your stomach growled loudly.

Huffing a laugh, Ransom thumbed over his shoulder at the patio doors and toward the kitchen. "I'll go get us some food and coffee, okay? Then we can sit out here for breakfast."

"Okay," your voice quavered with uncertainty, but you just stood there and watched as Ransom turned and retreated into the house.

When he entered the kitchen, it was to find Ruby–dressed in colorful chef garb–pulling a pan of scones from the oven and Savannah putting the finishing touches on a tray of coffee, tea, and various breakfast foods.

The older woman gave him a look, her gray brows raising as she asked, "It's been one night and you already have company?"

Ransom scowled, "It's not like that, and even if it was, it's none of your business anyway."

"Guess all those rumors about you are true," Ruby muttered under her breath, setting the pan of scones down to cool before moving to spoon some homemade jam into a little serving dish.

"You got something to say?" Ransom challenged, leaning on the kitchen isle and giving Ruby the stink eye. "Then say it loud and proud or keep your mouth shut, Julia Child."

Ruby scoffed, dropping her hand to her hip as she scowled at Ransom. "Look–"

But you suddenly popped up behind Ransom, looking both shy and excited as you peeked around his arm and eyed the tray of food and drink as your stomach growled and gurgled.

You seemed unaware of the tense silence, your gaze flickering from the food to Ruby then Savannah, before you shifted closer to Ransom. You clutched the sleeve of his sweater, hiding behind him as you continued to cradle The Hobbit in your arms.

At your shy, nervous state, Savannah's grandmotherly features instantly softened as she aimed a kind smile your way. "Good morning, dear. Are you hungry?"

"Yes!" you nodded eagerly, returning her bright smile with one of your own. 

"Alright then, will you be taking your breakfast out on the patio?" Savannah asked Ransom.

He nodded wordlessly, still glowering between her and Ruby.

You frowned at him, tugging on his sleeve as you whispered, "Why mean face?"

Ruby's own scowl cracked then, her eyes shining with amusement as she snorted a laugh before finally moving to the pan of scones and carefully setting them on a plate to bring out to Savannah. 

Ransom sighed, mustering a small smile for you as he turned his full attention your way. "It's all good."

You watched him for a moment, looking sweetly wary, your lips pursed before you were reaching up and smoothing the furrow between his brows and making him laugh.

At that, you grinned. "All better!"

"Yeah, come on, let's get you fed," Ransom told you, corralling you out onto the back patio and rolling his eyes as Savannah gave the two of you a soft, knowing smile. 

"I'm Savannah, the housekeeper," she introduced herself to you before doing the same for Ruby. "You let us know if you need anything, alright?"

"Alright," you nodded shyly, leaning into Ransom under Savannah's attention but still giving her a genuine, "Thank you."

Once it was just the two of you left to enjoy your breakfast, Ransom patiently pointed out what each food and drink item was, telling you to taste everything to see what you liked. 

You were nearly buzzing in excitement, but still, before you dug into anything, you took a moment to scoot your chair as close to his as you could get, like you were afraid he would disappear or up and leave you entirely. 

"Here, try this," Ransom encouraged, smearing some jam on a scone before handing it off to you, something in his heart clenching at the way you carefully cradled the scone in both your hands and held it just beneath your nose to inhale the scent.

You bit into it carefully, your eyes lighting up at the taste, and he chuckled as you nodded at him, humming in happiness and dancing in your seat as you continued to eat.

Ransom took a moment to doctor a mug of coffee for himself, grabbing his own scone before he glanced over at you. 

"Hey," he murmured. "Are you still feeling scared?"

You perked up, your gaze flickering to him as you finished chewing. You thought for a moment, your head cocked to the side all sweetly before a small smile curled your lips and you shook your head. "No! Not scared."

"Good," Ransom grinned, laughing as you barely polished off your first scone before slowly reaching for another as you looked to him for permission. He nodded and you smiled, carefully covering the scone in jam the way he had before you continued to eat your breakfast with gusto.

"So good!" you chirped, your cheeks bulging with food as you wiggled in your seat and thoroughly enjoyed your meal, with Ransom at your side.

A little while later, Ransom set out a new set of his clothes for you to borrow as you showered, smiling softly at the closed bathroom door as he remembered the way you had shyly asked him after breakfast if you could get clean again.

While you were still occupied, he jogged back downstairs, heading into the kitchen to where he knew Ruby and Savannah were prepping dinner for later. 

"Hey," he cleared his throat, "My friend, she needs some clothes and…other things. Lady things, but she's…not great at shopping and stuff. Can you help me figure out what to get her?"

Savannah blinked at him, sharing a sideways look with Ruby before she asked, “She’s staying indefinitely then? Do your parents know?”

“Why? Are you gonna rat me out to them?" Ransom sneered, immediately on the defensive. "Is having a friend here against the rules of my imprisonment?”

“A friend, huh?” Ruby snorted, never lifting her gaze from where she masterfully chopped various vegetables for dinner.

Ransom glared at her, huffing as his eyes flickered to Savannah to find her watching him with a raised brow. An expectant one. 

And he knew that he wasn't going to get what he wanted–what he needed, for you–out of them unless he gave them more information, as much as he despised busy bodies.

Especially when it came to his business.

“Look," he gritted. "We knew each other when we were kids, and she had a shitty family life, and I wound up moving before I could help her or make it right, and now that I’m back and she’s here, I’m going to help her, okay?" He gripped the edge of the counter hard, glaring at Savannah. "So if you could just help me do that and keep it between us, I’d appreciate it.”

“How much?” Ruby piped up, her grin wicked.

Savannah hushed her immediately, giving her a disapproving look.

“Chill," Ruby rolled her eyes. "I was just joking. I don’t care, as long as I get paid and you leave me be." She went back to her chopping. "Besides, your friend seems like a sweet little weirdo, and she's already making you less of an ass, so.”

Sighing, Savannah shook her head at Ruby before her gaze returned to Ransom. Her eyes narrowed, lips pursing in contemplation, but after a long moment–and once Ransom started to fidget under her stare–a small smile broke free.

“I will come up with a list and we can go from there, how’s that sound?"

Ransom sighed in relief, nodding. "Okay, I can also just give you my credit card, if it's easier. Just, buy her whatever you think she needs - clothes, all the essentials. She really likes soft things. And you can get her anything else that you think may make her happy. I dunno, girl stuff."

It was clear Savannah was trying not to laugh at Ransom's rambling, so she just nodded once more, eyes sparkling at his grumpy glower as she told him, “That’s very generous of you, sir.”

"Yeah, whatever," he muttered, turning on his heel and storming from the kitchen. 

After a long moment, Ruby muttered, "So, we're really not gonna rat him out to his mother? Technically she's the one paying our salaries."

"Goodness no," Savannah shook her head. "That woman is a viper and she's the reason that sweet boy turned out like this." 

She moved toward the dishwasher, pulling it open to start putting away the recently washed load of dishes and cutlery.

"You know I've worked here ever since they first bought this property, back when he was a young boy," she said. "He was such a little ball of energy but very sweet. Perhaps his friend can help him remember that."

"Prayer circle GIF," Ruby replied, laughing as Savannah poked her in the side before dancing out of reach.

Ransom spent the day glued to your side as you slowly settled into life outside of the shed and here with him. 

As unexpected as your arrival was, it softened the blow of Ransom being exiled here in the first place. Even just a day later, he felt so much less angry and resentful than when he first arrived, because he had you to occupy his time. 

Instead of spinning out about his life in the city going on without him or wondering how long he'd be here, he got to watch your sweet, innocent brain short circuit when he showed you his cell phone, and had you snuggle close to his side when he cracked open The Hobbit for the first time since he was a kid and started to read it aloud to you, at your request.

And yet, as good as you were at distracting him, Ransom's mind was noisy. 

As the day grew later, and you dozed on the loveseat across the room, and Savannah and Ruby departed once the sun began to set, Ransom felt himself fall into a sullen, listless mood.

This was the time of day when he'd usually be getting ready for a night out on the town, a night filled with booze and his substance of choice, women too, as he'd waste the evening "blowing off some steam" and having fun.

Instead, Ransom was sprawled in the armchair by the living room window, staring outside into the growing darkness as that itch for something to numb out began to creep up on him. 

He was too distracted to realize that you had woken up and you had been watching him for a while, frowning at his sad state, before you slid to your feet and padded into the kitchen. 

Ransom was still zoned out when he heard your pained yelp and a loud clatter come from the kitchen, and then he was jumping to his feet and hurrying your way before he even realized what was happening. 

He found you standing before the stove, cradling your hand to your chest as you sniffled, the tea kettle turned over and streaming piping hot water all over the counter and floor.

"What happened?" he asked as he hurried toward you. 

"Burned it," you wobbled, holding out your hand to him and whimpering in pain. 

It hit Ransom like a freight train, the sudden memory of his 11-year-old self doing something similar…

Ransom yelped as he dropped the heavy pot of boiling water and macaroni into the sink, his little arms too weak to hold the weight of it as he tried to make himself mac and cheese since neither of his parents would.

"What the hell is all this racket?" Richard roared as he stormed into the kitchen, his face flushed with anger as he made his way to Ransom. 

"I was trying to make it myself," Ransom quavered, crying as he clutched his burnt hand to his chest. 

"Do you know how many things I have to do? Important things? And now I need to drop everything to take you to the goddamn hospital because you had to go and cause all this goddamn trouble?"

Ransom winced as his stepfather continued to berate him, uncaring of his injury or even checking it at all before he was turning on his heel and stalking from the kitchen. 

"Well, let's go! I swear to god, if you make me miss my meeting, there's gonna be hell to pay, you little shit!"

Crying more because he was such a burden than the way his hand was throbbing in agony, Ransom carefully clambered off of the kitchen chair he had moved before the sink and hurried after his stepfather. 

"It was so hot," your small voice brought Ransom back to the present moment and he gently led you away from the stove and to the small dining table off to the side of the kitchen. 

"Wait here, I'll be right back," he told you before hurrying to the first floor bathroom and digging the first aid kit from beneath the sink. 

"I'm sorry," you whispered once he returned. 

"It's okay, it was an accident," Ransom gave you a small smile as he knelt at your feet, rifling through the first aid kit for the burn cream. 

Once he found the small tube, he carefully applied the ointment, shushing you as you whined at the pain and squirmed in your seat. 

"I know it hurts, but give it a second, it will make it feel better," he promised. 

You nodded, sniffling back more tears before telling him, "It's better. Thank you."

"You're welcome." Ransom wiped off his hands before setting the first aid kid aside, his touch falling to your knees as you sat before him, frowning down at your injured hand. "What were you trying to do anyway?"

You glanced at him before your gaze dropped and you squirmed some more. 

"Make tea, like you did for me earlier when I was sad," you admitted.

Ransom felt his chest bloom with warmth as he nodded. "Thank you, that's very sweet."

"Ruined it."

"You didn't," he assured you, gently giving your knees a squeeze and getting distracted by how soft and warm you felt beneath his hands, still dressed in his clothes.

Ransom's gaze fell from your face, and despite the way you were swimming in his alma mater t-shirt and rolled up joggers, he could still see a hint of your womanly curves and he swallowed against the sudden dryness in his throat.

He jumped when your uninjured hand touched his cheek, soft and cradling as you gave him a look of concern. "Okay?"

And god, you had hurt yourself trying to do something nice for him, and yet here you were, checking on him.

"Yeah," Ransom whispered. 

That strange fluttery feeling invaded his gut as he watched you, and his brows furrowed at this new and unfamiliar feeling that had seemed to crop up just when you did.

Ransom was trying to figure out what that feeling was when his gaze dipped and he noticed something. 

The ragged scars and faded bruises all around your ankle.

From being chained up like an animal.

He reached for your ankle without thinking, his fingers so gentle as he held your foot atop his thigh and just gazed down at the healing wounds that marred your flesh.

And he wondered, once again, for the millionth time since reuniting with you, how anyone could do this, let alone to you. 

You were the sweetest, gentlest person he had ever met, and Ransom knew if your grandfather had just told you to stay in that shed and never leave, without chaining you up at all, you would have listened.

But instead he had shackled you to the ground like a dog, keeping you captive, keeping you prisoner, and Ransom couldn't even begin to imagine what it had been like for you, living every single day of your life like that. 

And yet, here you were, still this little beacon of kindness and gratitude and compassion.

It made him so angry that this had been done to you. It was horrifying what you had been through, and he hadn't stopped it, he hadn’t helped you, and you must have been so scared, you must have—

"Something wrong?"

Your unsure voice had Ransom blinking back to awareness, and he realized that he was panting, gasping for breaths that were shallow and difficult to catch as he rocketed to his feet, on the edge of a panic attack. 

"Ransom?"

"I'm okay!" he wheezed, quickly turning on his heel and shoving through the patio doors. 

He staggered outside, a few yards away, before sagging back against the side of the house, bending over and dropping his head low as he tried to calm his breathing, inhaling slow and deep and exhaling the same way. 

Ransom felt like the walls were closing in on him, trapping him, suffocating him as darkness danced on the edge of his vision and he struggled to breathe.   

It was the feeling of your small hand gripping his tightly that grounded him and finally had the fog of distress starting to clear. 

Ransom straightened, trembling and sucking in a deep breath greedily as you stood before him, your eyes big and scared but also so painfully soft and shining with concern. 

And then you were stepping close, pressing your cheek to his chest, hugging him tight, and saying, "It's okay, I promise."

Shuddering, Ransom hugged you back just as hard, his forehead dropping to the crown of your head as he suppressed the unfamiliar urge to cry. 

Instead, he breathed in as deep as he could, combating the urge to let his pain and overwhelm consume him by inhaling your soft scent until it flooded his senses and it was the only thing he could focus on, getting lost in it.

Getting lost in you.

Ransom wasn't sure how long the two of you stood out back and held each other, but by the time his stomach started to growl, making you giggle, he was feeling much better and ushered you inside for dinner. 

Wanting to end the night on a positive note, and do something fun for you, Ransom wrangled you into the TV room and pulled up the first Lord of the Rings movie on a streaming app, figuring you'd get a kick out of it.

And, at first, you did.

You gasped in delight and shot straight up in your seat beside him as the movie started. Before the opening credits even hit, you were across the room and kneeling beside the TV stand, gazing up at the TV from inches away with big, startled eyes. 

Ransom smiled softly as he watched you, much more avidly than the movie, but after a few moments, his smile faded as he noticed that your body had grown rigid. 

You seemed less and less entranced by the movie now, and more distraught. 

Sliding from his seat, Ransom slowly made his way across the room to crouch beside you. 

"Hey, you okay?" he asked, gently touching your shoulder.

Only to find you trembling hard as you turned to him with tear filled eyes and asked, "Trapped in this box? They bad, like me?"

Ransom's face fell, his hand smoothing down your shoulder until he was gripping your elbow and tugging you away from the TV and toward him. 

He murmured your name softly. "No, they're not trapped. It's all pretend, it's a movie, like a story."

You sniffled, wiping away a few tears as you glanced back at the TV in confusion. "Like our book?"

"Yes!" Ransom nodded, giving you a sad smile. "It's for fun - watching movies and TV shows."

"Oh," you sank onto your knees beside him, the distress melting from your frame as you blinked up at him, confirming, "Not trapped though? Okay?"

"Yes, they're okay, I promise." Ransom held up his pinky before you could, making you laugh. 

You curled your pinky around his, shaking on it before shifting to holding his hand instead. "Can we read instead please?" 

"Of course we can." Ransom turned off the TV immediately, then he was gently helping you to your feet and guiding you back to the sofa. 

He grabbed The Hobbit from the coffee table, where you had left it, and waited for you to snuggle close to his side before he opened up to where you had previously left off before starting to read.

Eventually, he felt you start to sag against him, your eyes struggling to stay open as he read, and you just nodded when he asked if you were tired and ready for bed. 

Soon Ransom had you tucked away in bed, snug as a bug in a rug, smiling softly as you pretty much fell asleep as soon as your head hit the pillow. 

After a long moment of lingering and just watching you, he retreated to his bedroom. Despite how exhausted he was, sleep eluded him, and after a couple of hours of tossing and turning and being wide awake, Ransom sighed, thinking of you.

The way you had reacted to the movie was heartbreaking.

Your shitty family had taken so much from you, even something as simple and supposedly fun as watching a movie was distressing and so confusing for you.

And it killed him, that you thought you were bad, because the truth was, you were anything but.

In his world, kindness was such a rare commodity–almost unheard of–but you gave it so freely, it was just a part of you, even after everything you had suffered.

And you had suffered, so much.

Feeling a cocktail of rage at the way you had been treated and determination to make it better, Ransom threw back his covers and slid from bed.

He silently made his way down the hallway to your bedroom, pausing in the doorway as he watched you.

The full moon was bright outside, perfectly illuminating your sweet face. You looked like some kind of ethereal angel as you laid curled up on your side, finally at rest.

He wanted to protect you with everything he had, Ransom realized quite suddenly.  

The thought alone had that growing-familiar-now lump of emotion back in Ransom's throat as he made his way toward you. He carefully sat on the floor beside your bed and pulled his knees to his chest, hugging himself as he looked up at you.

He was reaching for you before he even realized what he was doing, the urge to touch you–confirm you were real and okay–so powerful a need that Ransom was certain it was some kind of siren's song, sung just for him. 

Still, he hesitated for just a second–loathe to wake you but needing to just feel you, comfort you even though you were unaware of it–before his skin made contact with yours and he drew his knuckles down the slope of your cheek. 

“You're so good," Ransom whispered, gently cradling your face, his thumb drawing back and forth beneath your eye. "You're so sweet and kind and beautiful. You always have been."

For the first time in years, Ransom's eyes grew wet with tears before they were spilling over as he told you, "You're so good. You're so good, do you hear me?"

Because you were. 

You were the furthest thing from bad that he had ever encountered in his life.

Ransom Drysdale knew bad, and it wasn't you. 

You had such an air of wonder about you, this innocent type of awe and curiosity and delight in the simplest things that he wanted to guard at all costs. 

And that sweetness of yours? That pure heart of gold? They deserved to be protected. 

Cherished.

You deserved to be cherished, because you were a gift, a true, rare treasure in a world that didn't deserve you.

The longer Ransom watched you, the brighter that fire burned within him - a raging inferno of determination to keep you safe. 

He may not have been able to help you or protect you back when he was a child, but he could do it now. 

He would. 

As Ransom continued to gently stroke your face and whisper how good you were, he vowed that he would do everything he could to protect you and treat you right–make you happy–because that, not the shitty life you had known for far too long, was what you really deserved.

To steal a line from my BFF, Bee: CRYING IN THE CLUB 😭😭😭 Please take a moment to drop me your thoughts. I'd love to hear from you! Thank you so much for reading ❤️

NEXT PART

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You’ll never win in a hand-to-hand fight with the Winter Soldier. He’s stronger, faster, smarter, trained.

But you don’t care. You dig your fingers into his eyes, you claw at his ears, you pull at his hair and you bite hard on his chin. You kick your knees into every soft part of him you can reach.

He wraps his arms around you, tight, holding you close, and grunts with every scratch, every tug, every hit. His arms tighten around you, until you are pressed so closely to him that you can barely breathe, barely twitch a finger.

It’s only when you can’t move that you hear what he’s whispering.

I’ve got you. I’ve got you. You’re safe.

There’s nothing left in you, not a spark of fight, not an atom of energy.

You start to cry. Heaving, huge sobs that would wrack your body if you had space to breathe.

He doesn’t let go of you. He stops whispering, doesn’t do anything but hold you steady, hold you close. Heart beating under the layers of cotton and polyester, rough against your cheek.

You sob, and when you finally slow down, he loosens the grip around your body, enough that you can finally take a deep, shuddering breath, and he whispers in your ear.

“I’m sorry.”

You explode.

“You’re sorry? You’re sorry?!? You lying, traitorous, piece of shit—”

“Listen,” he starts, trying to pull you close again, trying to quell your anger.

But you shove against him anyway. “I trusted you! Bucky trusted you! Okay, fine, I get that you don’t understand this but you’re not Hydra—”

“I know that,” he snaps.

“—and neither am—”

Your mouth drops open, and you can’t say another word.

Because the words you want to say… you can’t.

Because, like it or not…

“I’m Hydra,” you whisper. “It was me. In the Tower. I let them—”

“No,” he says roughly. “You weren’t. You didn’t.”

You shove him; he almost budges. “Stop. Fucking. Lying to me.”

He waits, watching you, cautious and wary.

You squeeze your eyes closed, because you hate what you see on his face. It’s not pity, it’s not compassion.

It’s understanding. Like he knows everything you’re feeling right now, like he understands how your entire chest heaves and spins in place, like you want to throw up and at the same time, rip the entire room apart and tear it to pieces.

Or fall into his arms and cry your eyes out.

“I don’t even remember,” you whisper, because maybe, out of everything, that’s the worst. “How much did I tell them? How many people did they kill because of me?”

The Soldier speaks, roughly. “You didn’t know.”

“Like that matters? People died. Steve died, and it’s because of me!”

He grabs you by the arms. “It matters,” he says gruffly, pulling you in close. “You didn’t know. They fucked with your brain, hypnotized you or some kind of mind control shit. None of that is your fault.”

You stare at him, hearing the unspoken in his words. “Like it wasn’t yours?”

He shakes his head. “If I’m not Hydra, neither are you.”

His face is steady, blank, accepting. He lets you pound against his chest, because you’re still too exhausted and hurt from the rage.

“Then why”—hit—“are”—hit—“we”—hit—“here!?!?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” he growls, and you try to hit him one more time, but this time, he stops you, grabbing your wrist and holding it away.

“Liar!” you hiss. “You had a choice. We were safe at the farm, no one was going to get to us there! You’re the one who brought us in! You say you’re not Hydra, but you ran right to them!”

“I’m here because of you,” he snaps.

“Me? Me?!?” You struggle against his hands. Strangely, it’s not that hard to fight him, like he’s not trying to stop you from hurting him as much as he’s trying to keep you close. “I thought you remembered, you asshole. I thought I had you back, I wouldn’t have—”

“Quiet,” he hisses at you, covering your mouth with his hand, going utterly still and holding his breath.

And that, somehow, makes you angrier than anything else he’s done, or said, or tried. You bite at the palm of his hand, and somehow, that’s all it takes for his eyes to blaze.

That’s all it takes for him to jerk his hand from your mouth and kiss you.

It’s a rough kiss, possessive and greedy; his hand yanks down on your shirt, the collar digging into your skin, the fabric ripping at the shoulder seam until he’s cupped your breast in his hand, thumb flicking against your nipple. He shifts to cover your body on the thin mattress, one foot braced on the floor to keep you from flinging him off, the other folded so that you’re trapped beneath his weight, unable to move.

You don’t want to move. You should, and you know it; inside you’re screaming in fury, but your heart…

Your heart is desperately pulling him closer, your hands yanking on his hair, his clothes, his skin. His mouth is warm and wet on yours, and he kisses you like he’s been hungry for you for hours, like he hasn’t been fighting you since you woke up in the van that morning. Like he’s scared and you’re the only thing that makes sense.

Kissing him doesn’t make sense. But nothing makes sense, so what does it matter? What does any of it matter?

Bucky, kissing you, is careful and caring, playful and teasing.

This? This is your body as a battleground, this is dominating and determined, the Soldier reminding you who’s in charge (it’s him) as well as your place (under his body, naked and squirming, panting for his kiss).

You want it.

You want him, over you, in you, taking you, marking you. It’s why you spread your legs so he can slot himself between them. Why you shift until you can feel the hard length of him pressing against your sex. You moan, breaking the kiss and exposing your throat for his teeth.

He covers your mouth with his hand again, growling into your ear. “Louder.”

And that’s when you hear it. Boots heavy on the stone floor, scraping and echoing as the come closer to your room.

They’re talking, but you can’t make out a word, assuming it’s even English. All you can make out is male voices, laughter full of scorn, and your heart goes cold even as it begins to pound.

“I can’t—” you whisper, beginning to shake.

The Soldier moves fast, pulling your wrists above your head with his left hand, stretching you beneath him. Your breath is fast and shallow, your heart pounds, and your eyes flutter as he bends back down to kiss your neck before working his way back up to your mouth. Heat scorches the blood under your skin; you’re wet and shaking, pushing up against him for any sort of relief.

Laughter, from down the hallway. Words, spoken harshly, cruelly. Suggestively.

The Soldier’s right hand slides down your side, to the waistband of your pants, before sliding under the band to touch the dampness between your legs.

“Scream for me,” he whispers into your mouth.

You do, the sounds coming softly at first, then louder, bouncing off the walls of your cell, rolling and twisting until you’re crying out something between pleasure and fear.

In the hallway, they’re coming closer and getting louder.

But the Soldier kisses you, his body blocking the view of the door. His thumb rubs warm circles around your clit, his fingers in your cunt, brushing your slick over your folds as you gasp and shout, unable to hold back, even as he swallows every sound. Your legs tremble and shudder, even knowing that they’re watching, listening.

Maybe because they’re watching, listening. Every crest of pleasure is higher, every drop sends your stomach soaring. You whimper in between moans, the slick sounds of his fingers in your pussy obscene even to you.

“Come on,” the Soldier snaps at you, tense and tight, even as he flicks your clit with the nail on his thumb. You let out a sharp, shocked cry, and he smiles against your lips. “That’s it, doll, let it out. Louder. Make my eardrums shatter.”

He flicks your clit, curls his fingers inside you, and you moan again. In the hall, they burst into loud laughter. Outside your door, watching, leering, maybe even touching themselves.

“Think she’s learned her lesson—?”

“Wouldn’t mind a chance to teach her ourselves.”

The Soldier growls into your mouth, going still, though his hand starts to slide out of your pants.

“No!” you gasp, reaching down and grasping his wrist, pushing his hand back down. “I’m close, please…”

He groans, and slides his fingers back, pumping them in and out of you, thumb pressing hard now against your clit.

It’s too much, it’s too fast, and you rise and fall and scream into his mouth as he carries you over the orgasm, until you’re whimpering and jerking away from his fingers even as you push your face into his chest, seeking comfort.

“Shhh,” he whispers, and he slides his hand up your body to rest on the mattress, poised as if he’s ready to launch himself off you and toward the door.

“Don’t,” you whisper, so soft you barely feel yourself say it, your hands holding him tighter, closer. His eyes narrow, darting between you and the door, ready to spring, ready to fight.

But the only move he makes is to slide his hand between your mouths, the scent of your come on his fingers, pressing against your lips.

You squeeze your eyes closed, feel the metal fingers light on your wrists, holding you steady, his mouth sucking at the skin below your ear. He shifts against you, pressing his body to your abandoned clit, and you cry out into his hand, arching your back as he moves against you.

They’re laughing in the hall, footsteps fading, but you’re hot and warm and you rise and you fall against him, gasping against his fingers. Tears prick your eyes, wet and damp and hot. The Soldier’s face presses into your neck, his breathing harsh and rapid and shallow.

As if he’s waiting for penance. Or forgiveness.

His voice, when he speaks, is hoarse and quiet. “I know exactly what it’s like to have control stolen from you. To lose yourself and become someone else’s puppet. You’re not just angry at them, you’re angry with yourself because you think this is your fault. You won’t believe me, but I’ll tell you anyway: it’s not. It’s not your fault. But you have every right to be angry with them, with me, so you hold onto that. Don’t let it go. Hold that anger close. Because there’s gonna be a time you need it, when it’ll drive you forward, but it ain’t now.”

You let the words sink into the silence, settle into your skin, before you whisper into the palm of his hand, still over your lips.

“How am I supposed to trust you? I don’t even trust myself anymore.”

He sighs, shifts against your neck, pressing lips to your skin. “How’s this. The man you remember, he trusted you to take care of me.” His voice is soft and warm in your ear, words only for you. “If you can’t trust yourself. Trust me with you.”

You close your eyes, hot breath against his palm, against your lips. Him holding you so close, keeping you safe.

“What happens next?” you whisper.

He opens his mouth to answer, but before he can the door flies open.

The Soldier’s on his feet and shielding you from view before you even have time to realize who’s come in.

“That’s enough playtime, Soldier,” says Scarface, marching into the room at a brisk, unconcerned pace. “Leave her, it’s time to—”

Two strides, and the Soldier has a knife at Scarface’s throat, a hair’s breadth away from nicking his skin. “She stays with me,” he growls.

Your stomach twists; your fingers clench at the blanket on the cot. Both at the thought of staying behind—and the idea that the Soldier would willingly, actively, drag you into battle against the Avengers.

Scarface’s mouth quirks; his eyes flick down to the knife, and then back up at the Soldier again. “If you wish. Get dressed. It’s time to go.”

Next Chapter ->

"Bathroom's through there," he waved a hand toward the door that was ajar and the dark room beyond. "There should be soap and towels and everything you need to get cleaned up."

You blinked at him, overwhelmed, not knowing what any of those things were, but the tense lines in Ransom's handsome face had you suppressing your questions, worried that you would make him mad. So you just nodded and scurried into the bathroom before just standing there in the dark. 

After a long, awkward beat, you heard Ransom sigh behind you before he joined you in the small space, reaching for a switch on the wall and flipping on the lights. 

You winced at the sudden brightness, blinking owlishly as you glanced around the room that was done up in all bright whites and grays and that looked just as sparkling and beautiful as the rest of the house that you had seen so far.

"Here's a spare toothbrush and toothpaste," Ransom said, rifling around in one of the drawers before setting said items out for you beside the sink. 

Those things you were familiar with, as grammy had brought them to you every so often so you could keep your teeth strong and clean and they didn't need to hear you whine about any pain or issues over the years.

Next, Ransom pulled a fluffy, folded bundle from the cabinet beside the sink and set it on the edge of the counter for you. 

He waved you toward the large glass encased shower, "It's all yours."

But when you just glanced between him and the shower, your brows furrowing in confusion as you swallowed nervously and didn't move an inch–clearly unsure of what to do next–Ransom huffed, hands dropping to his hips as he cocked his head and gave you an annoyed look.

“You’re acting like you’ve never showered before," he snapped in frustration.

You winced at his tone, blinking back tears as you admitted, “I haven’t.”

Ransom's eyebrows shot up in surprise, and he just stared at you for a moment before his features softened as he asked, “They never let you out of the shed? Not once? In all those years?”

You shook your head. “Grammy would bring a bucket of water and a cloth so I could clean, but this is the first time I’ve been…" you struggled for the words before finally settling on, "Not there.”

“And you immediately came here?” Ransom gaped at you.

“Just like you told me to," your lips curled into a small, proud smile. "I remembered this whole time, what you said."

Ransom swallowed, raking a hand through his hair, glancing away for a long moment–like he needed a beat to comprehend what you were telling him–before his gaze returned to you. “How did you get out?”

“Poppy, he was so mad and he…” your voice quavered, your vision blurring with tears as you whispered, “He died. And grammy’s gone, too. Just me now.”

"Jesus," Ransom muttered, just watching you and observing how you were starting to fidget and curl in on yourself again. "Okay, let's just get you cleaned up, alright?"

When you nodded quickly–grateful to move on from that line of questioning–Ransom turned to the shower and showed you the different nozzles.

"This one's hot water, this one's cold, you can adjust them however you like." He turned the water on, glancing over at you as you jumped and squeaked in surprise as the showerhead burst to life and rained down clean water in a loud rush.

"Oh!" You scurried closer, peeking around him in wonder and hesitantly sticking your hand beneath the stream of water. "It's so hot!"

"Too hot?" he asked, noting how your hand quickly recoiled. He adjusted the temperature until it was slightly cooler, his gaze dipping to your dress. "You can just leave your dress on the floor. I'll have the housekeeper trash it tomorrow and we can get you some new clothes. In the meantime, I'll find you something to sleep in, okay?"

"Okay!" you answered quickly, not really paying attention to what he was saying as you hesitantly stuck your hand back into the stream of water, making a noise of wonder. 

"Okay," Ransom chuckled, earning your attention then–and an abashed smile–as he moved past you. 

You watched as he left the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Your smile faded as you realized you were all by yourself now–again–and in an unfamiliar space no less. Desperate to rejoin Ransom–to not be alone–you hurried to undress and stepped into the shower, gasping in delight at the warm spray of water and how good it felt on your cold, achy body.

You read the bottles of the products lining the in-shower shelves, using a few of them and in awe at how nice they smelled and how soft they made your skin feel. 

After a while, you were fumbling with the shower nozzles, clean as a whistle as you turned off the water and just stood there dripping for a moment. 

You stopped at the sink long enough to use the toothbrush and toothpaste, then once you figured out how to use the faucet and nozzles, you drank some cold water before returning to the bedroom. 

It wasn't as big as some of the other rooms in the manor, but it was so nice! The bed was huge and piled high with soft, luxurious linens and pillows that you couldn't help but touch. 

At the foot of the bed was a small pile of clothes, and you touched those too as you walked by before leaving the room and retracing the route Ransom had taken earlier so you could go and find him. 

Ransom wiped up the last of your muddy footprints from the kitchen floor before throwing away the dirty paper towels, and then he just stared down at the closed silver trash can, unseeing as he tried to remember the last time he actually cleaned up anything himself. 

He literally couldn't recall. His entire life, his family had employed help to clean up and cook and take care of them and their various homes.

Meanwhile you had been locked in that shed like an animal for your entire life.

Ransom planted his big hands on the edge of the marble countertop, sagging against it as he closed his eyes and tried not to drown in the guilt and shame that was eating him alive.

How could he forget about you?

How could he have done nothing and just left you to that awful fate?

It didn't matter that he had tried to tell his parents about you and they had done nothing, at the end of the day, he had failed in his measly attempt to help you.

And then he had been whisked away by his parents, back home to the city, leaving you behind and stuffing the memories of you–and the distress that came with them–down so deep he didn't even know they were there.

It was finally starting to make sense, why he endlessly sought escape through drugs and alcohol. He had always thought it was to escape his family–drown out their constant noise and disappointment–and some of it was because of that.

But Ransom was starting to think that maybe, on some level, he had been punishing himself. 

He just didn't know why until now.

Ransom was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of quiet shuffling behind him, and when he straightened and turned around, his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open in shock.

Because you were standing in the kitchen doorway, shivering, dripping wet, and completely naked.

Ransom just gaped at you a moment, his mouth hanging open as his dark blue eyes trailed over the length of you from head to toe. 

It was obvious that you were malnourished, but despite that–despite the life you had lived, if it could even be called that–you were beautiful, and your eyes were still so bright and kind as your lips tilted into a smile as you met his gaze.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, something in his chest clenching at the soft, happy way you were looking at him–a way he didn't deserve, not after what he did to you–but he quickly shook it off. 

Before he could rein himself in, his discomfort got the best of him, and Ransom was snapping at you with a narrowed gaze. "Jesus, what the fuck are you doing?"

You cowered at his harsh tone, your smile falling away as you hugged yourself tightly and whispered, "Sorry?"

"Why aren't you wearing the clothes I left out for you?" Ransom huffed as he rounded the kitchen isle and moved toward you.

Your look was part puzzled, part surprised as you gaped at him. "For me?"

He blinked at your confusion, suddenly realizing that you probably weren't used to receiving things. Averting his wandering gaze from your body–and feeling pissed at himself for even looking–Ransom stormed past you and back upstairs to the guest bedroom.

He was confident that you would follow him, and you did, trotting after him as he swept into the room, then the bathroom, grabbing the towel from the counter before returning and holding it out to you. "Dry off."

You were like a deer in headlights, and Ransom could see it written all over your face, that you were perplexed by what he was asking of you. Still, you tentatively took the towel and just held it against your chest, unsure of what to do next but too afraid to ask as you stared at him. 

And then suddenly, you were chirping softly, your eyes going big as you realized the towel was so soft and fluffy. You hugged it against you, rubbing your cheek along the material, and you looked so fucking sweet and amazed that Ransom felt all of his frustration instantly melt away.

How could he be annoyed with you? 

It truly seemed an impossible feat, especially as he watched you bury your face in the towel and cling to it like it was some kind of cherished stuffed animal or pet or something.

Heaving another sigh, Ransom patiently explained how to dry off, his gaze pointedly focused elsewhere as you did what he instructed.

"Put these on," he said next, scooping up the spare clothes from the foot of the bed and handing them off to you. Again, he kept his eyes averted before you were breathing a quiet, awe-filled "Thank you." that had him finally looking back your way. 

You were swimming in the sweatshirt and joggers he had lent you, and Ransom tried his best to squash the primal kind of awareness that was rising up in him at seeing you dressed in his clothes.

It helped that you beamed up at him, so sweet and innocent as you spoke another grateful little, "Thank you!" And how you kept smoothing your hands down the front of the sweatshirt, murmuring to yourself, "So soft and clean!"

When your stomach growled loud enough to startle you, making you squeak and jump as you shot him a wide-eyed look before dropping your gaze to the floor in embarrassment, Ransom chuckled, so fucking charmed by you.

"You hungry?" he asked, waiting until you peeked up at him and nodded shyly before moving past you. "Come on, I'm no chef–and she comes tomorrow–but I'm sure we can find something to tide you over."

And back down to the kitchen you both went. 

You stood awkwardly in the doorway of the kitchen, unsure of what to do with yourself as Ransom rooted around in the cabinets before moving to a huge, silver box at the end of the counter, opening its doors, and doing the same. 

Your curiosity got the better of you, and you couldn't help but ask, "What's that?" as you gazed at the silver box, trying to see around Ransom to its brightly lit contents.

He glanced over his shoulder at you, lips twitching at your inquisitive look as you stared at the fridge, explaining, "It's a refrigerator. It's a kitchen appliance that keeps food cold and fresh." He pulled a few things free, gently tapping the bottom drawer of the fridge with his foot since his hands were full as he told you, "And that's the freezer. Freezes things, makes them cold as ice so they last longer."

"Oh."

Closing the fridge, Ransom turned toward the isle and placed down a small haul of items, his eyes flickering to you as he frowned at the way you were just standing in the doorway, fidgeting nervously.

"Have a seat," he gestured to one of the stools on the other side of the isle counter, waiting until you tentatively made your way closer before turning away to pull a plate from the cabinets and a knife from a drawer. 

Your throat jumped on an apprehensive swallow as you stood beside the stool across from Ransom, your brows furrowed in trepidation as you asked, "I can sit here? On the nice chair?"

You smoothed your hand over the soft microfiber material of the seat, humming a little at how nice it felt as you glanced up at Ransom.

He blinked at you, processing your question–your hesitancy to use the furniture–before his features softened. "Yes, you can sit there."

"Thank you," you grinned, carefully climbing onto the stool and folding your hands in your lap as you sat still and watched him.

Ransom nodded, quickly making some sort of sandwich as you observed, and then he set the plate in front of you. 

You perked up in your seat, your stomach growling non stop now and your mouth watering, because it had been days since you last ate anything, and you were starving.

But still, you waited for Ransom's permission to dig in, watching in amazement as he used a device on the front of the refrigerator to fill a tall glass with water before placing it in front of you.

He just watched expectantly as your gaze flickered between him and the sandwich, his brows furrowing in confusion before he realized what was going on. 

"Go on, eat," he encouraged, his eyes sad as he watched you nod eagerly before picking up half of the sandwich.

Your gaze flickered to Ransom's before you took a bite, and you chewed slowly, humming your delight as the salty-sweet flavors burst all along your tastebuds. The flavor was so familiar, and it took you a moment to realize that Ransom had made you a PB&J sandwich, just like he had when you were children and he came to visit you all those years ago.

Something about that realization, and those memories, and the fact that you were now here–free and with him–hit you hard, and you burst into tears as so many mixed emotions rose within you at once. 

Sadness and relief, gratitude and disbelief all warring within you–consuming you–as you set down your sandwich and covered your mouth with your hand as you sobbed. 

There was a long, awkward moment where you just sat there, shaking as you cried, lost to the maelstrom of your feelings–beside yourself and so overwhelmed–and then Ransom's warm, musky scent filled your nose before he hesitantly touched your shoulder and began rubbing your arm to console you.

Another sob hitched in your chest, and it was instinctual, the way you turned and sank against his chest, seeking comfort from the one and only person who had ever been kind to you.

Ransom was rigid against you at first, but his stance softened the longer he held you, his chin knocking against the crown of your head as he murmured, "It's okay." His big hand pressed between your shoulder blades, a soothing weight, as he shushed you. "You're okay now, I promise."

Your unexpected watery giggle had him stilling, and he stayed close, holding you loosely as you pulled away, sniffling and wiping away your tears. 

"Pinky promise?" you quavered, holding up your pinky.

The smile that broke out across Ransom's face at the familiar exchange from a lifetime ago was beautiful–and it instantly quelled the turmoil within you–his eyes warming as his cheeks glowed with a rosy flush and he nodded. 

"Yeah, pinky promise," he chuckled, curling his pinky around yours and giving it a shake. After a long moment of watching you gather yourself, he stepped away, nudging your plate closer to you as he said, "Come on, finish eating, I'm sure you're starving."

You nodded, devouring your sandwich in record time, humming and wiggling in your seat, thoroughly enjoying the yummy taste the entire time as Ransom watched you in amusement. 

Just as you finished your first sandwich, he placed another on your plate, smiling as you chirped your gratitude before scarfing down that one, too. 

When you finished, you drank down half your glass of water in one go, feeling exhaustion start to lap at you as you blinked over at Ransom, who was watching you with warm, twinkling eyes.

"You're kind of a disaster, you know?" he teased, reaching for a nearby napkin and stepping up beside you to wipe stray jelly from your cheek.

Despite his words, his tone was fond, and you leaned into Ransom's soft touch. You were desperate for it, having gone so long without such a gentle kindness or physical contact that wasn't a violent punishment.

Once he set the napkin aside, Ransom remained close, watching as your small hands smoothed over the front of his sweater then up along his broad shoulders. Your touch was innocent–inquisitive–your eyes, although drooping with fatigue sparkling with wonder and appreciation as you pet along the soft material of his shirt.

Soon your admiration for his sweater shifted to admiration of him, your gaze lifting to Ransom's, unwavering as you said, “You got so big and strong!" Your lips twisted into a slight frown as you watched him, raising your hand to cradle the side of his face as you whispered, "Your eyes are the same though, so pretty, but so sad now, too."

A slight grimace flickered over Ransom's features, but then his lips were curling into a small smile as he looked you over in return. “You’ve grown up quite a bit yourself.”

You returned his smile with one of your own, blinking at him sleepily before you reached for him. Your fingers curled into the front of his sweater and you tugged him closer, whispering, "I missed you."

Ransom swayed near–against you–not resisting as you pressed your face against his chest and just took a moment to breathe him in. There was an unfamiliar feeling rising up within you the longer you remained in Ransom's loose embrace, and it was something so foreign to you that it took you a moment to place what exactly it was.

Safety.

Ransom made you feel safe.

You sank against him even more at the realization–trying to soak it all in, and desperately so–gripping his sweater tighter as you blinked back a fresh wave of tears, because you never thought you'd feel this way, not in your wildest dreams. 

Ransom's amused voice and gentle touch as he rubbed your back snapped you back into the present moment as he asked, "Did you fall asleep on me?"

His amusement lingered as you gave him an abashed smile. Your eyes drooped with exhaustion as you whispered, "Sleepy."

"Yeah, it's been a long, crazy day, huh?"

You nodded. 

"Okay, let's get you to bed then."

Ransom stepped back, waiting for you to slip from your seat. You followed him back upstairs, yawning as you padded behind him, trying to cover it with your hand as he stood at the doorway of the guest room and ushered you inside. 

"My room's all the way at the other end of the hall, past the staircase, if you need me," He gestured behind him. "The staff should arrive first thing in the morning, so if you wake up before me and want some food or coffee or something, just ask the chef."

You were too tired to ask what coffee was, but you were suddenly more alert when Ransom took a step back to retreat. You darted toward him, your eyes going big and scared as you asked, "You're leaving?"

"Not leaving," he told you, "Just going to my bedroom to sleep."

You swallowed, looking distraught as you wrung your hands before you. "Not leaving? Like before?"

Ransom's features softened as he stepped into your room and closed the distance between you. His hands cupped your upper arms as he ducked his face close, his expression–and eyes–so earnest as he said, "I'm not leaving, I promise."

You automatically held up your pinky in expectation at his words, and Ransom huffed a laugh.

"Pinky promise," he told you as he curled his pinky around yours.

"Okay," you still looked worried as you stepped away, frowning a little before another yawn broke free and your tiredness won out over your apprehension.

You sank to the floor, your hand running over the soft texture of the rug beneath you before you went to curl up on your side, but Ransom's voice stopped you. 

"What are you doing?"

You glanced up at him, lips pursing in confusion. "Sleeping."

"That's what the bed is for," he said, moving around you and pulling some of the decorative pillows from the bed and tossing them aside. He pulled back the thick comforter before stepping back and gesturing for you to climb in. 

You felt another lump rising in your throat as you stared at the bed. 

You'd never slept in a bed before. You'd spent your entire life sleeping on the floor of the shed, considering yourself lucky when you had a spare, worn blanket to help shield you from the cold elements during the winter months. 

"For me?" you trembled, pulling your tearful gaze from the bed to glance at Ransom. "I can sleep there?"

"Of course you can, it's a guest bedroom and you're my guest."

"I am?"

"Yeah," Ransom laughed, "Now tuck in, it's late and we're both exhausted."

You scrambled into the bed, quietly squealing at how soft it was. You tugged the comforter up to your chin and sank back against the luxurious pillows, wriggling around, your eyes big and brimming with happy tears as you breathed, "It's so soft! And warm!"

"That's kind of the point," Ransom grinned.

“Thank you, thank you!” you told him, dipping your nose to the comforter and inhaling the soft clean scent. "Such a good friend!"

"Eh, these days, I'm not really the friend type," Ransom replied before he could think better of it.

Your face fell, your lower lip wobbling as you whispered, "Oh."

A look of panic flickered over Ransom's face, and then he was clearing his throat, glancing away as he replied, "But I suppose, I can make an exception for you."

Your dejected look instantly melted away as you perked up, giving him the sweetest look of hope ever as you asked, "So…friends?"

"Sure," he shrugged. "Friends."

You were launching yourself from the bed before you realized it, overcome with joy and hugging Ransom tight as you thanked him over and over again. 

"Okay, you're welcome, Jesus, calm down, you little ball of gratitude," he muttered, giving you a squeeze before corralling you back into bed. "Sweet dreams or whatever."

He turned to leave but paused in the doorway when you called his name. 

"Ransom?"

He glanced back at you. "Yeah?"

"Thank you for protecting me," you smiled. 

He just watched you for a beat, looking strangely sad before he mustered a smile and murmured, "You're welcome. Good night."

"Good night!" you echoed back at him, watching as Ransom stepped from your room and switched off the light before pulling the door shut. 

Still smiling, you settled back against the perfectly fluffy pillows, hugging the thick comforter around you and feeling like you were living an actual dream, one of the many fantasies you had conjured up over the years to help you escape your harsh reality.

When you finally fell asleep just a few moments later, safe and cozy in bed for the first time in your life, your dreams were so much better than your fantasies had ever been.

You dreamed of a new reality, of a life where you were free and happy and loved, and Ransom was there with you the entire time, his big hand holding yours tight as he kept you close–right beside him–where you belonged.

EEEEEEP!! I LOVE THEM SO MUCH, THESE SWEET, TRAUMATIZED BABIES 🥺😭 ALSO! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT - TWO CHAPTERS AND STILL NO FILTH?! HAHAHAHA. PLEASE OH PLEASE TAKE A MOMENT TO DROP A REBLOG OR COMMENT! I TRULY APPRECIATE IT! 🙏🏻❤️

NEXT PART

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Just as fast, his weight is gone, and there’s a crack. You stay face-down on the concrete, breathing hard, as the asshole’s body falls to the ground beside you, eyes slowly going dull.

“That was unwise,” says the scar-faced man coldly.

“She’s mine,” growls the Soldier standing over you, and you hear the click of his arm reattaching.

“Hmm. Get her up.”

The Soldier lifts you up with one swift move that leaves your head spinning. “I can give you information about the Avengers. Where they are, how to eliminate them in one move.”

“You asshole,” you shriek, and shove at him, scratching his face with your fingernails, digging under his skin, drawing blood. Not that he seems to feel it; the Soldier tightens his left hand around your forearm and you scream at the sudden sharp pain. “I can’t wait for them to find us and shoot you dead.”

 “And I should believe you, why?” sneers the scar-faced man.

The Soldier shakes you. “Ask her. She’ll confirm.”

“Like hell I will!”

The scar-faced man leans in close, and you hold your breath. “What an excellent idea.”

You spit at him, blood mixed with saliva. It hits him on the cheek, and he wipes it away with a handkerchief and a grim, almost admiring smile. “I’m not telling you anything.”

“My dear girl,” he says. “You don’t seem to understand. You don’t have a choice.”

And then he says something else, and with that word, the veils around your mind begin to drop. “Krasevye….”

*

The world is bleary, confused, too loud and too soft and too bright and too dark, all at once. It’s easier to focus on the small details: the feel of the hard floor under your cheek, the chill in the air, the sound of men talking, barking orders, of the Soldier responding, rote and dry.

Your mouth is dry, thick like cotton. Your head aches, like you’ve woken before you were ready. Your eyes won’t focus, and you push yourself out of whatever fog you’re in, trying to make sense of it.

“—this may be our best chance to remove the remaining Avengers from the playing field.”

“We’ll arrange for immediate transport.”

None of them look at you. They’re busy on the other side of the room, walking around a large table, pointing and plotting, orders thrown in every direction. The Soldier, Scarface, minions in uniform.

You remember Scarface, speaking to you, words in Russian, overlapping with words you’d heard from the Soldier’s lips against your skin. Bucky, in the half-light from a dying fire, and Scarface, glowing in the pink and blue of a nightclub, raising a glass to you in a congratulatory toast.

It burns, the images, deep in your heart. Burns so badly you can barely breathe with it, barely think past it.

“We’ll come in fast and with full power. Less chance of tipping them off.”

“They’ll suspect anyway.” The Soldier, his voice brisk and gruff. “They’re too well trained not to be wary.”

“Then we use that against them.”

You feel sick, even as you stand. But still no one notices you. Not even when you cross to the table, and pull the gun right out of a guard’s holster, and hold it at Scarface’s spine.

Your finger rests on the trigger. It wouldn’t take much.

It’s still somehow too much.

“You can’t do anything if you’re paralyzed,” you say, your voice shaking. “One shot. That’s all it’ll take.”

“Is that so?” says Scarface mildly. “Soldier.”

He moves fast, and hard, and the gun clatters to the ground as he twists it from your fingers. There’s not even a shot to ricochet; before you can blink, the Soldier has your arms locked behind you, held tight to him. His breath dancing in your hair as he turns you to face Scarface, a sardonic smile on his twisted lips.

“You should have just shot me,” he says. “But then, you have wasted a great deal of my time to talking.”

You blink at him, confused. “I’ve never talked to you in my life.”

“Haven’t you? Since the day you walked into the Tower, you’ve been mine. Giving me every bit of information you learned about its security and its occupants. There is not a single shred of information that you have not given to me, willingly and without hesitation.”

You stare at him, shaking your slowly. “No. That’s not… I wouldn’t!”

He leans closer to you. “Krasevye. Chuvstvennyy. Hochu tebya…”

You blink, hard, shaking your head as the fog begins to form around you. The Soldier’s fingers digging into your skin helps. “I don’t… stop it. What are you…?”

“You told me the names of the guards at the front desk: Leo, John, Hassan, Ali. There are three main entrances on Park, 42nd, and Atlantic, but also three other access points that lead into the garage, only accessible by employees with driving privileges. Supplies are delivered to an unmarked door on an alley that cuts through 45th to Atlantic, and must be pre-arranged by calling a specific number. The last access code you used was 513678, and while it was due to expire in another two weeks, it would have been cancelled the moment you were taken by the Soldier, per protocol.

“I know, because you told me. Mixed in with the daily habits and lunch orders and office gossip. There is not one scrap of information that passes through that Tower that you did not give me, willingly, every time I asked. So when I thank you for your service, remember. You have been mine, from the very beginning. And do you know the most important thing you have given me?”

Your breathing speeds up, your heart pounds. Your eyes are wide on him, horror dawning.

“You have given me back my Soldier. A piece of luck, his taking an interest in you, one I did not anticipate but welcomed nonetheless. Without you, I would never have been able to access the Tower and remind him of his loyalties. And without you, I would not be able to use him to destroy the Avengers for good.”

“You bastard,” you hiss, and you try to lunge for him, but the Soldier holds you fast.

You twist, and somehow, jam your shoulder into the Soldier’s solar plexus, and your elbow into his groin. Even the Soldier can’t stand under that assault; he lets go of you just long enough for you to take two steps toward Scarface.

But that’s all you do, before two additional guards flank you. You try to fight, but it’s no use, and to make it worse, one of them punches you in the stomach, just to the side of your still-healing wound, which makes you scream in pain.

No help comes. When you lift your head, you see the Soldier first, on one knee, hands clenched at his side, jaw tight with pain, eyes staring into the middle distance.

“Yes, hold yourself,” the man sneers at him, and the Soldier’s jaw works, though he doesn’t move. The man glances back at you. “She’s rather outlived her usefulness, of course. We can hardly use her in the field again. But I suppose you will do as the Asset’s plaything, since he has taken a liking to you. And I’m sure he’d like to repay the favor you paid him.”

You feel sick, light, loose; the Soldier growls.

“They’ll kill you for taking him,” you spit. “Steve broke his programming before. He can do it again.”

The man’s eyes widen. “My dear girl. Don’t play games with me. You saw Steve Rogers fall. Why do you think they haven’t come to save you yet? Why save you, when you’re the one who killed him?”

Your eyes widen. “No. I—Tony went after him! He’s fine!”

“Take her to her room,” snaps the man. “The Soldier can play when his work is done.”

They drag you away before you can scream, but not before you see the Soldier, staring wide-eyed at you, before he turns back to the table where the plans are being made, determination on his face.

Next Chapter ->