CrimsonWrites

The bathwater had cooled quite a while ago; steam no longer rose from the surface, but Ashe, caught up in her thoughts, seemed unfazed by the nip of cooling water. This was part of it, a bath as part of the procedures for the ceremony day. Washed and brushed like a prize pig, she heard other girls describe it. We are expected to make ourselves clean. Cleanliness was treated as compliance, with our humanity reduced to a procedural matter. Something almost measurable.

She was stretched out, occupying the entire bath space. Her back was pressed against the porcelain of the tub, her body submerged to her collarbones, her head tilted over the back of the rim. Her eyes drifted shut, then opened again, tracing the familiar cracks in the ceiling. The water lapped softly as she shifted lower into the tub, trying to find a warmer spot beneath the surface. As she did, her mind drifted far away; her focus was no longer on the lavender-infused washcloth she gripped in her fist. This is how people lose the plot, Ashe thinks. Her thoughts betraying her.

Thoughts of… him. Thinking of Commander Joseph Lawrence. She allows the name to surface in her mind like a forbidden phrase, then exhales a long, drawn-out, humorless puff of air into the space above her. Her brain has decided this is the appropriate venue for developing feelings for a Commander. And she’s aware it’s absolutely unhinged. A Commander. That Commander. An architect of this place. A man whose authority could end her with a single sentence. Shipped off to the colonies, or who knows what worse. The power imbalance alone should be enough to cauterize any inappropriate thought on contact for a man who has been—what? Polite, observant, and sometimes humane.

Humane. That’s the adjective she latches onto. Humane. Which, she reminds herself firmly, is not the same thing as good. And yet…

Her traitorous brain keeps circling back to the idea. Her infatuation. Or whatever this is. She chooses it’s safer to keep it unnamed for now and dips slightly deeper into the water, lowering her chin into it, as if that could drown the thought. But it doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t.

She’s not naïve. Yes, he has been kinder than others, but she knows that kindness exhibited here is more currency than any virtue. She knows this. God does she know this. She knows he exists within the system despite the way he mocks it. That he upholds everything it stands for, even though he seems to resent it.

Still.

She can’t help but reflect on how much more person than Commander he seems around her. Her specifically. The dry humor. The way conversations, even brief ones, slip into a quippy, academic rhythm, she thought she’d never experience again. The comfort of shared silence under a starry sky. The way he looks at her sometimes, as if she’s said something interesting rather than something permitted. And how he seems to appreciate her for it. She presses her fingers into her knee, blowing bubbles into the water, annoyed at herself. Shared moments and mutual disdain for stupidity should not spark attraction. That’s not romance. That’s the truly damning part. Of all the qualities to find compelling—that? Witty conversation and a low tolerance for idiocy. She imagines trying to explain this to anyone. Anyone.

I’m not drawn to him because he’s powerful, a Commander. Or for his looks, even though he definitely isn’t rough on the eyes. I’m drawn to him because he sounds like he’d argue about macroeconomics over bad coffee and then forget to finish his sentence because he thought of something more interesting to share with me.

Insane. Completely, catastrophically insane. She closes her eyes. It doesn’t matter. None of it does. She is naked in a tub, wrestling with hypotheticals, preparing to be ritually violated by the state, and she is thinking of a man whose most seductive quality is intellectual foreplay.

She drags a hand down her face, trying to get a grip. She knows how absurd this is. And she knows how it ends. Tonight will strip the illusion bare. The ceremony will reduce him to a function and her to a role, and whatever foolish narrative she’s been entertaining will collapse under its own weight. This feeling will not survive contact with reality.

And yet.

For just a moment. Just this one. She lets herself lean into it. Indulges a little. The dry academic thing Joseph Lawrence has going on is absolutely doing it.

____________________

Joseph Lawrence wakes with the house. This is not unusual. Sleep, these days, is a negotiated truce at best. He lies still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, listening to the old house settle around him, the bones responding to the morning routines of his two Marthas and the Handmaid.

Today is a ceremony day. The thought arrives fully formed, heavy with implication. He doesn’t flinch from it. He doesn’t pretend surprise. He knows exactly what the day demands of him. Performance. He needs to put on a stellar show.

What he doesn’t expect—what irritates him immediately—is that his mind drifts from preparation.

To her.

To Ashe.

He exhales slowly, rubbing his face with his hand, already annoyed with himself. Full knowing this isn’t the time for sentimentality or, worse, attraction. He has built a strict internal firewall against such feelings, and it has served him well so far. But apparently, the facade is cracking, growing bigger with every interaction. First, Emily, then June, and even more so with Ashe.

He swings his legs out of bed and stands, efficiently dressing in his familiar uniform. Downstairs, the kitchen is already active; Beth has prepared the coffee. Of course she has. He pours a mug and cradles it between his hands, feeling the warmth radiate and ground him. He takes a sip, and the bitter taste hits instantly, offering reassurance.

His thoughts should be on logistics, on Aunt Lydia’s imminent scrutiny, and on the careful choreography required to pass tonight without incident. Instead, they circle back, unbidden, to Ashe. A curiosity that continues to perplex him.

There is something undeniably compelling about his new handmaid, and it has nothing to do with vulnerability or docility that Gilead finds favorable. If he’s honest, it’s very much the opposite. It’s the quiet intelligence she keeps folded away, like a private document she sees no reason to circulate, yet keeps it coiled tightly, ready to be drawn on when necessary. It’s the dry humor she doesn’t deploy as a defense, but as a read on the events around her. Her careful self-judgment—considering when, how much, and to whom to offer. A quiet competence. No arrogance. Insight without appetite.

All deeply inconvenient traits. Even in the world before, he thinks, taking another sip of coffee.

This is inappropriate, he tells himself flatly. Not morally. He abandoned that particular fiction years ago, but structurally. Emotionally. Practically. More in line with the way he operates.

He is her Commander.

He is the reason she is here.

And tonight is supposed to be the thing that collapses that illusion. The blunt instrument that reminds her, and more importantly, reminds him, that whatever connection exists between them is neither mutual nor safe for either of them.

Except it won’t. He knows that. Has known it for days. Weeks, if he’s honest. The decision was never in doubt. The outline of events will be followed. The appearances maintained and the performance delivered. All in the name of Gilead.

But the act itself?

No. That line, at least, he will not cross again if he can help it.

Which only sharpens his irritation at the whole situation because that means this attraction will persist anyway. Persists despite the certainty of their situation. Despite his restraint. Because some stubborn, embarrassingly human part of him will still register how she occupies a room. The way she has begun to light up when he engages her in conversation. How her humor slots too neatly alongside his own. A resonance he did not plan for when he plucked her file.

He finishes the coffee and sets the mug down with a decisive clink. Upstairs, footsteps move along the hall. A door creaks. Then Beth’s voice, dry and practical, drifts down through the house.

“Handmaid, are you alive in there? You’ve been in the bath quite a long time.”

Joseph closes his eyes, tilting his head back. He does not need that image added to the problem. Not today.

______________<

The Ceremony begins as it always does, downstairs in the study. The Handmaid kneeling as the commander reads from the Bible before his witnesses, usually his wife.

However, tonight’s proceedings are unique. Commander Lawrence stands near the mantle, book in hand, reading from the text with all the reverence of a man skimming IKEA assembly instructions. His voice is flat, disinterested, almost bored. He does not look up when he reads. And where his wife should be, Aunt Lydia sits instead. Her hands folded, posture rigid with expectation, eyes scanning the scene laid out before her, seemingly waiting for a misstep.

Ashe listens from her place on the floor, detached enough that the words begin to lose meaning. At one point, he clips a line short, impatient, as if late for an appointment he resents. She almost laughs. The sound gets caught in her throat just in time.

When he finishes, he closes the book without much ceremony.

“That’ll do,” he says.

She blinks. He turns and gestures toward the door leading to the staircase. “Come on.”

He doesn’t wait for her to rise before heading upstairs. Ashe follows, each step rehearsed, her body already beginning the familiar retreat inward. The hallway feels narrower than usual. The air heavier. Her feet weighed down like lead as she lifted them to ascend the staircase.

At the bottom of the stairs, Aunt Lydia watches them go, hands still clasped, smile stretched tight with anticipation.

“I’ll be just below,” Lydia calls up brightly to the Commander. “If guidance is needed.”

Lawrence pauses on the stairs.“I sincerely doubt that,” he replies, not bothering to turn around.

Something sharp flickers behind Lydia’s eyes, but she says nothing as they continue upward.

Once at the bedroom door, Commander Lawrence pauses just long enough to lock it.

The click is soft. Final. He doesn’t turn right away.

Ashe acts on instinct, moving across the room to the bed. She sits at the edge, keeping her back straight and her hands placed in her lap. Her fingers feel the smooth coverlet beneath her, grounding her with its velvety texture—something tangible—as her thoughts drift away from what is to come. This is normally the part where she leaves herself. Disassociates. Untethered to what’s about to come.

Her hands move without instruction. Muscle memory takes over as she reaches for the hem of her skirt, lifting it just enough to comply and signal readiness. Before she can go any further, a hand stops her. Not gripping. Not forceful. Just there.

Joseph’s palm rests lightly against her thigh, signaling her to stop.

“No,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to do that,” he adds.

The word cuts through the fog, bringing her back to the moment, back into herself. Ashe pauses, not out of fear but in utter confusion. Her breath catches in her throat as she looks up at him, eager to understand. Searching his expression and bracing for the disappointment when he changes his mind.

He holds her gaze, then glances pointedly at their hands. “This,” he says, “is the one decent thing I can offer at the moment.” Her breath catches again, this time shallow and surprised. Her mind still sensing the ghost of his hand on her thigh.

“We’ll sit here,” he continues, stepping back but not entirely letting go, “for twenty minutes or so. Then we’ll go downstairs. And Aunt Lydia will be satisfied that the appropriate… rituals were observed.”

Her mind struggles to reassemble itself. This is not part of the ritual. There is no script for this moment. She’s improvising now.

“You’re… sure?” she asks, the question barely audible.

“Yes,” he says. No hesitation. “I’m very good at appearances.”

She gives a gentle nod, her hands softly returning to her lap. Though her body still feels a little unsure, a tiny sense of relief begins to seep in.

Commander Lawrence clears his throat, glancing around the room like a man suddenly unsure what to do himself. Then, as if recalling something absurdly mundane, he crosses to the dresser and opens a drawer. When he turns back, he’s holding a deck of cards.

He raises it slightly, before asking, “Do you play?”

A soft, startled laugh slips out before she can contain it. One tinged with disbelief. "I used to,” she states.

He sits in the chair opposite her, far enough to keep the space intact, and begins to shuffle. The sound is soothing. “You choose,” he says. “We can play something dignified or something stupid.”

Ashe hesitates, then lifts her chin a fraction, trying to catch his meaning. “What’s the difference?”

He smirks, clearly glad she asked. “In dignified games, people pretend skill is involved. Even when there’s usually not. In stupid ones, luck gets the credit, and no one feels bad.”

“Stupid,” she says after a beat.

“Ah. A woman of taste.” He deals with an easy flick of the wrist. “War, then. Brutal, pointless, and usually decided by who blinks first.”

He deals out their cards and makes the first move, laying his card flush on the table. She responds in kind.

“Has Impressionism always been your favorite?” he asks, making conversation after a few cards had hit the table.

“I’m sorry?” she clarifies, still trying to catch up to his train of thought, her focus on the card he laid before her.

“Impressionism? Or did you forget already?” he jokes with no real bite to it.

“Monet, Renoir, Delacroix, all impressionists… or impressionist adjacent at least. They were the first you noticed downstairs. My deduction skills suggest favoritism.”

“Oh.” She smiles faintly, remembering. “Yes. I’ve always had a soft spot for it.”

“Hm,” he murmurs out, pretending his focus was now entirely on the

card in his hand.

“Was that judgment?” she laughs out, feigning offense.

“Not judgment,” he says, clarifying. “More curiosity. Impressionism lives in the fleeting present. Thought the historian might prefer something sturdier. Classical. Realist.”

“Historians are capable of nuance,” she rebuts.

“Clearly.”

“And you, Commander Lawrence?”

He arches a brow. “What do you think?” It comes out as almost a

challenge, without him meaning to.

She pauses for a minute, sizing him up. He meets her gaze, finding that he enjoys being under it more than he should. After a few moments, she pipes up, eyes still firmly locked on the Commander. “You strike me as an expressionist enjoyer,” she confirms confidently. No hint of hesitation in her answer.

“Ah, that easy to read am I?” he concedes, his tone a clear admission of defeat.

“Expressionism doesn’t lie,” she continues. “It doesn’t pretend the world is orderly. Or neat. Or clean. It looks for meaning in that chaos. Feels like something you’d appreciate.”

He exhales a quiet laugh, impressed, and maybe a little uneasy, by

her ability to see right through him. “Touché. Perhaps economists are the ones

incapable of nuance.”

They share a laugh and then settle into a quiet, comfortable silence, broken only by the sound of cards hitting the table.

“Commander…” Ashe starts.

He doesn’t look up, keeping his eyes on the cards in his hand. “You get one,” seemingly already anticipating this.

She exhales and proceeds, her tone a little more cautious than usual. “Did you—“

“Yes,” he interrupts.

He sets the deck down for a moment, then leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. Clearly distraught over his past actions. “It’s something I’d prefer never to do again. And why… with the bit of power I still exercise here, I intend to use it,” he finishes, gesturing vaguely to her. “And now there’s you.”

Ashe slowly absorbs this, gradually understanding the significance of his words in light of the whispers and details she had heard about the Lawrence house: “You did get them out.” Emily Malek. June Osborne.

“I’m looking to go for three,” he confirms with a sly grin, a touch of arrogance radiating from him. He realizes how remarkable it is that he escaped with what he did and is still sitting here having this conversation with her.

She shoots him an incredulous glance, “You’re serious.”

“Serious as a heat attack.”

“You’ll end up on the…”

“On the wall, yes, I’m aware,” he interrupts, his expression sobering slightly as he thinks about it. “I told Eleanor I’d ‘tidy up’ a bit with the remaining time I have. Which, in this case, means getting a few more of you impossibly bright women the hell out of here.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything. Just be ready to go when the time comes,” he exhales, clearly exhausted by the thought. “Though after the stunt with June, it could be a while before they loosen the leash,” he admits.

“I’ve got nowhere to be,” she quips, proud of that one.

“So it would seem,” he smiles. “Which means we probably have time for a couple more hands,” he says, shuffling the cards and dealing them out again.

After a few rounds, Joseph checks his watch and announces, “Time’s up. I believe we’ve been appropriately virtuous.” By then, Ashe has won more rounds than she’s lost. She’s sitting up straighter now, unbothered that her wins were due to dumb luck; accepting whatever she can get.

He gathers the cards and tucks them away.

“Same time next… occurrence,” he says lightly. “Assuming we both come across as convincing.” He extends a hand toward her, almost unconsciously. Ashe hesitates for only a fraction of a second before taking it. His grip is firm and steady, pulling her to her feet as if this were any other moment, any other world.

“Ready to convince her?” he asks, already turning toward the door.

She smiles. “Yes.”

“I’ll go first. You follow in a few minutes.” He rolls his eyes slightly. “Something about lying still so the pregnancy… sticks.” The word lands with quiet contempt. “They love their rituals,” he finishes, shaking his head.

“I’ll wait,” Ashe says, moving back to her original spot on the end of the bed.

He reaches the threshold and pauses. “I’ll do my best to remove Aunt Lydia before you arrive, but no promises.”

With him at the door, she hesitates, contemplating what to say next. Then, quietly, “Thank you. For the decent thing."

He pauses, hand on the doorknob. "Don’t thank me yet,” he says.

It's late afternoon, and Commander Lawrence is at home, but his day isn't finished. Far from it, if he's being honest, and he has no one else to blame for these long days. Juggling the chaos he helped June create and the duty of steering Gilead through another potential war keeps him busier than usual. Gilead was approaching a crossroads, and he needed to be in a position to steer the tide.

As he lifts a folder of documents and turns a corner toward his office, he pauses, his eyes shifting from the page to a figure standing by the console table beneath Eleanor’s portrait. Ashe, caught off guard, is oblivious to his presence. He really should have announced himself, but he can't help being captivated by her. He watches her carefully arrange a small vase of flowers, slightly repositioning it and adjusting each stem to match her vision. Her methodical approach involves selecting the appropriate locations for various types of reds, blues, and whites. He watches her for a moment, amused by her actions, then the recognition hits him. Her floral pattern is an effort to imitate the van Huysum in the basement collection, including the gold vase. An eye for detail.

Lawrence clears his throat, starting to feel guilty about watching for too long. Ashe jumps slightly and turns quickly, caught in the act. “Commander—I can move them if that’s not—”

He glances at the flowers again.“Sorry if that was out of line. I just saw them at the market and thought...” she begins, rambling as she tries to explain. “Usually is,” he cuts her off, though not unkindly.

He moves closer, examining the arrangement with a frown that seems more contemplative than annoyed. Ashe holds her breath, awaiting his response. Lawrence’s face tightens as he finally speaks. “Eleanor would’ve appreciated your work. Though, she might’ve offered some criticism," he admits.

“She sounds opinionated,” she says warmly, presenting it as a compliment instead of a flaw. Ashe looks up at the portrait before returning her gaze to the vase, offering a small, cautious smile.

He recalls with a gentle smile, tilting his head toward her, saying, “Exhaustingly so.” He chooses to remember the woman he married instead of the shell she became in her final days. He quiets his thoughts with the sobering reminder that he played a part in creating that version of her.

The silence persists until the Commander decides to end it. “You can leave them,” he finally says. “Thank you.” She nods, understanding this as her cue to go. “Of course.”

Joseph lingers a little longer than necessary, watching the flowers while thinking about the woman who put them there. In a way, she reminded him of Eleanor—curious, perhaps excessively so. Perceptive and confident without needing to prove it to others. They share a common humor, in Ashe's way of letting a thought slip out only when it’s perfectly safe, when punishment is no longer an option. Eleanor used to do the same. Had perfected it, really.

However, Ashe was not her, and that distinction he appreciated. The world they’d made—he’d made—required a kind of moral callousness Eleanor never possessed. She couldn’t stop seeing people. Weighing the consequences, the utilitarian in him didn’t even register. She couldn’t stop caring about what systems did to the human beings within them. And it hollowed her out. He hollowed her out. Eleanor wasn’t suited for this world, but perhaps, he thought, Ashe was. Ashe was different. She had demonstrated this during the brief days she’d been here. He observed how she acknowledged the ugliness but didn’t let it overpower her. That’s just how she remained here. Instead, she navigated around it, through it, and learned its boundaries. She possessed a quiet adaptability Eleanor neither had nor wanted.

The thought is ugly. Relieving though. He hates himself a little for the relief. He sees a handmaid who recognizes that decency isn't the same as safety. She knows that cleverness often needs to be concealed and that kindness must be reserved. She can navigate this world without being consumed by it, unlike his Eleanor.

The knowledge settles uncomfortably in his chest, heavy with consequence, and he finds it harder to ignore. That consequence means he’ll be careful with her. It means he’ll notice when others don’t. It means he’ll step in when he shouldn’t, justify it later, and pretend it’s pragmatism rather than something dangerously close to caring. He’ll do all that until he can get her out.

He gently adjusts a single stem before returning to his office with one final thought lingering, unwelcome in its clarity, that this one might make it.

—------------------

A few hours later, Joseph Lawrence emerges from his study, the door closing behind him with a soft, final click. The house has settled into its evening rhythm. He heads to the kitchen, already anticipating the small mercies of dinner and a drink strong enough to sand down the day's rough edges.

“Where’s the Handmaid?” he asks Beth as he enters the kitchen, casually as if it’s an afterthought.

Beth hardly looks up from her cooking, focused on finishing the final plates on time. “Out back. Patio, I think.”

He stops short, unsure if he heard her correctly. “The patio.”

“Yes, Commander.”

He exhales. “It’s thirty-eight degrees.”

Beth finally flicks him a look that suggests the behavior of his chosen handmaid is no longer her problem. “She does that.”

“Does what.”

"Goes out there. Looks at the sky. Doesn’t bother anything.” She pauses. “She put her coat on,” she offers, possibly considering that his primary concern was ending up with a handmaid popsicle.

Lawrence closes his eyes for half a second. Of course she did. He knows how to pick them. With a resigned sigh, he reaches for his jacket anyway and heads for the back of the house. The patio door opens with a muted scrape, the cold slipping in immediately against him.

Ashe is standing near the end of the brick patio, arms folded inside her cloak, head tipped back, watching the night sky. She doesn’t turn when he steps out. Unflinching.

“You’re going to give the neighbors ideas,” he says mildly. “Solitary contemplation is suspicious behavior.”

She glances over her shoulder just long enough to catch his eye, expression composed, timing impeccable. “I’m fully clothed.”

He exhales through his nose. “In this neighborhood,” he says, “that’s only marginally reassuring.”

He steps beside her, his hands in his pockets. The cold pierces down to his shoes. "It’s freezing,” he adds.

“Yes.”

“Compelling argument,” he retorts, already growing weary of this. She lifts her chin again, subtly indicating the sky. “It comes with benefits.”

The night is unusually clear. The sky stretches wide and deep, crowded with stars, far more than he remembers ever seeing. Millions of them, sharp pinpricks of light, undimmed. “Huh,” he says.

“There’s hardly any light pollution now,” she says quietly, something like wonder softening her voice. “No billboards. No stadium lights. Nothing bright enough to drown them out.” She looks around, almost reverent. “I lived in cities my whole life. I’ve never seen this many stars.

He keeps staring upward. “I suppose authoritarian collapse has its perks.”

“Limited,” she agrees.

After a moment, he says, “You’re going to catch a cold.”

She shrugs, unconcerned. “I’ll risk it.” A faint huff escapes him, half amusement, half resignation. Knowing it was useless to change her mind. Another stretch of quiet passes before he decides to share some information with her.

“Aunt Lydia will be here in two days,” he says at last.

Ashe stiffens—not visibly, but he feels it in the air between them. “Here,” she repeats. “For the ceremony?” The conclusion lands without assistance.

“Watching,” he adds. “Closely. Me, especially. I’ve apparently developed a reputation for… creative compliance.”

Her mouth curves, just barely, understanding the connotation. “Lucky us.”

The cold finally gets to him. He turns back toward the door. “Come inside before you freeze solid, and I have to explain why my Handmaid turned into an ice sculpture.”