Consequences Pt. 01

For some reason he'd declined to give her shoes. He'd gone to her home (which she really didn't like) to get clothes for her since she apparently couldn't be trusted to do it herself. The suitcase, her suitcase, was full of stockings, nightgowns, and underwear. All the softest, thinnest clothes, and she couldn't figure out if it was for his viewing pleasure or because he wanted her to freeze to death.

The thought of him snooping through her delicates drawer made Delilah furious, but she was mad at herself too, for owning so many revealing ones. Not long ago it had seemed, fun, a way of declaring her womanhood to herself now that she'd moved out of her mother's house and gotten a job in the city. She'd wanted to feel mature, desirable in a way she'd never been before.

Delilah had stood in front of the mirror in her apartment, wearing red lipstick, and holding a clove cigarette in her teeth as she pulled the fabric taught against her waist and hips to admire her modest curves. But her short stature and round face made her feel like nothing other than a girl playing dress up.

That was how she felt now, wearing two pairs of socks and a blue silk nightgown with Will's coat over top as she wandered down the nearest hallway. It was Thursday, she was fairly sure, morning, but it was getting hard to track the days without the sun, and she didn't sleep well. Not when everything was so uncertain, and when he might walk in at any moment and decide they should share a bed.

When he did return, she was sitting at his desk, somewhat defiantly, positioned with her legs over the arm rest as she flipped through a Jane Austen book--one of the few normal reading materials he'd provided her with. She'd read most of them when she was a girl, and they were comforting, familiar. In fact, she'd been so absorbed she hadn't realized he was there until he was standing right behind the chair, hand braced on it as he bent down over her.

"Pride and Prejudice?" He asked. When she looked up at him, he was smiling faintly. "I thought you might like that one."

Delilah cleared her throat. "I've read it before, lucky guess," she said, swinging her legs down so she was sitting properly in the chair, facing away from him entirely.

"And if you'll read it again it must be a favorite," he pointed out. "Typical romantic. Fancy yourself a Mr. Darcy, huh?" The tone of his voice was playful mockery, but it stung. As a child she'd dreamed of romance, a kind man who cared for her, and for a short while she'd thought she had it.

"My romantic inclinations are none of your concern," she said tartly, keeping her eyes fixed on the text, but she was no longer reading.

He laughed. "English men can be quite charming."

"Your little accent stopped being cute the first time you stole me from my bed in the middle of the night." She closed her book with a soft thud.

"That's when real romance begins," Will said, and she heard crinkling for a moment before he held a small brown paper bag out for her. "Brought you something." Her hand brushed the sleeve of his coat as she took it, and the fabric was slightly damp.

"Is it raining?" She asked, thinking about the sound of raindrops thudding on the roof, the smell of wet ground. Streetlights reflected in puddles.

"A bit."

Delilah opened the bag and peeled back a layer of tinfoil to reveal a warm loaf of bread. The crust crackled when she pressed on it, exuding steam into the cold air. Eagerly, she pulled it out of its packaging, holding it close to her face as it continued to leech warmth. It was small, one of those little French rolls from a nearby bakery.

"Thank you," she muttered, tearing off a piece and biting into it. As soon as the top layer had been split the volume of steam increased. She wanted to bury her face in it. Instead, she turned halfway around and offered him some. Even if she loathed him, it felt like the right thing to do.

Will cocked his head, looked at her curiously. "No, thank you, I'm fine," he said. From what she'd seen, he hardly ever ate, at least not when he was with her. The only thing she ever saw him consume was tea--black, strong-brewed without sugar or milk. That and the occasional cigarette. "I will need you to get out of the chair, though you're more than welcome to sit in my lap."

And there it was, the little quip, the sort of thing that made that trace of peacefulness vanish. Reminding her in a very ungraceful way that she had a body, that he'd probably been staring down the front of her nightgown this whole time.

She got out of the chair quickly, book in one hand, bread in the other. "I'm alright," she said, already backing out of the office.

The rest of the loaf she ate, sitting in her terrible little bed, reading, and not caring about the crumbs or how uncivilized it was to eat the whole thing by herself with her hands. It was warm, and she held it close to herself, her knees drawn up, her back against the headboard. She'd layered as many blankets as possible over herself, Will's coat still on underneath it all.

Yet Delilah was chilled right down to the bone. She thought about taking a bath, but she'd had one yesterday and damp skin and hair afterwards had only added to her misery. There was no good solution other than to sit here, shivering and aching peculiarly as she read and reread. Somehow the cold amplified her loneliness, making her wish she had someone to curl up with. Making her wish she didn't hate Will.

The nights were freezing, and the archive was particularly unnerving then. Most of the lights were off, the one in her room dimmed severely, but she couldn't bear to turn it all the way off and be left in pitch black. Humans weren't meant for that.

When he found her next, she was in the kitchen. Well, kitchen was a strong word. Everything in the archive had been poorly built. It wasn't really designed for anyone to live there, just for long hours and brief stays with captives whose fates she didn't want to ponder, but she knew she wasn't the first person to stay in the room that was 'hers.'

There was one gas burner stove that had to be lit with a cigarette lighter or match, the sink water really needed to be boiled before drinking it, and the creaky cupboard was filled with mostly canned soup and tea bags.

She was huddled over the stove, eating soup out of a small pot, dipping a small piece of bread she hadn't polished off before. It was about the warmest she'd been all day, but her hands still felt slightly stiff and trembling.

Will came in to rinse an empty mug out in the sink. She glared at him out of the corner of her eye. He wasn't cold, not like her anyway. Not when he was wearing a long sleeve shirt, sweater, coat, and wool trousers--clothes appropriate for November weather. While her legs were still bare save for the two pairs of socks.

"When is this going to stop being fun for you?" She asked. "When I'm hypothermic?"

"Hm, I don't know," he said thoughtfully. "You do look a bit blue but I'm sure you'll be alright."

She swallowed a mouthful of bread and soup. "It's not funny."

"Just a bit," he said, as he turned the cup upside-down on the cracking tile countertop. "Clearly I'm fine so it can't be that bad." She saw the corner of his mouth tilt. He was goading her, but she was cold and angry and it was going to work.

"Easy for you to say when you're wearing real clothes."

"If you didn't think those were real clothes then perhaps you shouldn't have bought them for yourself," he said, entirely too smug as he stooped in front of her and turned the stove off. Her soup was bubbling now, she'd been too impatient to wait for it to heat up all the way before she started eating. Now it was too hot but she didn't care. "You'll burn yourself."

"At least I'll be warm then," Delilah said bitterly. "And this particular article was intended for summer evenings, not winter."

"It's only autumn," he reminded her, as she took a bite of soup which did in fact scorch her tongue.

She cringed as she swallowed it. "I'll be dead by winter. A real gentleman would offer a woman more than a coat in circumstances like this."

Will sighed and shrugged off his coat, then pulled the grey sweater he was wearing over his head and handed it to her. "You're welcome to my trousers too but I really don't think they'd fit you."

"I'm half-tempted to take you up on that," she challenged, looking up at him as she slid her soup off of the stove and onto the cool counter to try and reduce the temperature faster. Then she took off technically also his coat, put the sweater on, and put the coat back. It was warm and heavy, draping down almost to her knees. Though the rough texture of the wool set off static electricity, disturbing her hair and causing it to frizz.

His had done the same, to a lesser degree. He grinned. "Of course, the caveat is I won't be taking them off unless we're in bed together."

Then she got that feeling again. Something cold in her stomach and chest that made her realize how preferable it was to be angry over being scared. But this time she shook herself, and tried to stay with the anger. Anger was warm. It stood up to him even when she wasn't eye-level with the knot on his tie when they both stood normally.

"You strike me as the sort of man that always sleeps in his clothes," Delilah said. "If you weren't you wouldn't need to try and force yourself on a hostage."

"Are you trying to tell me I'm ugly?"

She shrugged, stirring her soup around before taking another bite and then swallowing it while she held his gaze. "I'm saying you could certainly stain to gain a pound or twenty."

His eyes narrowed slightly and she could tell she'd hit a nerve. It felt good, but he didn't show more than that.

"Only if you'll agree to make me dinner," he said, without missing a beat as he smoothed back his hair and put his coat on again.

Will really thought it was amusing--this flirting, teasing. The strange parody of romance that was them standing over a kitchen stove, trading clothes. If she weren't so hungry she would've tossed her dinner at him. At least she thought it was dinnertime.

"You don't even know if I can cook," said, pushing up the sleeves of the sweater so they didn't dip in her soup as she raised the pot closer to her mouth and continued to eat.

"Well you're cute now but I have a feeling you weren't always. Which means you must've found another way to get people to like you."

Delilah's face felt suddenly warm from shame. It was true, painfully true that she'd been plain, underdeveloped and uninteresting for most of her life. Feeding people--homemade bread, jam, cookies--was how she'd made friends for most of her life. But she hadn't really managed to make friends since moving to the city, other than Judy who she was probably never going to see again.

"I'm better at baking," she admitted. "Familiar with the ugly duckling story yourself?"

"Possibly," Will said, folding his arms and leaning against the counter. "If you can make sticky toffee pudding that's as good as my nan's I might let you go home." Only he would find that funny.

She scoffed and huddled closer to her soup. "Get her to make it for you."

"I would, but she's very dead."

She scraped the pot, trying to get every last bit out. "Go visit her grave, maybe her ghost will give you the recipe."

"Maybe, she's only buried in a cemetery outside of London. What's that, three thousand miles?" he said with a sigh. "God I haven't been home in ages."

"You should go," she said dryly, before sucking down the last of her soup and pushing past him to rinse out the pot. "Ideally forever." She turned on the sink, waiting for the water to come out hot.

"Only if you'll go with me," he said, words framed with a laugh. "Miserable place, but it would be a great way out of this little mess we're in."

We. She hated that word. The way he tried to make it sound as if he wasn't the source of all of her problems. She slammed the pot down in the sink, splashing back water. As soon as she'd let go of it, Will was grabbing her wrists and pulling her towards him as if this were fun. But his grip was solid, keeping her right where she wanted even as she tried to slip herself free.

"You mean your job?" Delilah snapped.

"Oh come on, darling, humor me a bit," he coaxed, "the way you used to."

His face had changed, when she looked up at him. It was relaxed, calm, gentle, his eyes poised in that sad, boyish way she remembered. Only this time she knew better. No matter how badly she wanted it to be real, she'd seen the ugliest side of him. He was a very good liar, good at playing coy and tugging at her heart strings.

But a part of her did see him that way, wanted to kiss him and throw her arms around him. The rest of her felt physically ill at the thought, disturbed by his transformation.

"No, no, stop it!" Delilah shouted, squeezing her eyes shut.

But he didn't. He pulled her in closer, until her head was against his chest. Then his arms were around her and she felt utterly frozen, helpless. He was warm, and she was so cold, and she so badly wanted comfort.

Desperately she tried to hold onto her anger, fear, disgust. She tried to keep those images in her head, of his cruel gaze. His hands creeping up her thighs, his threatening words and the utter lack of sympathy he possessed. Instead she thought of who he'd been before, his awkward grace and gentle assurances. The way he'd insisted on driving her home every time it was raining--

--but in hindsight that was probably just so he could spy on her because he was still terrible.

"It's alright, bunny," he muttered, resting his chin on top of her head. "I've got you. Now what do you say I make you a deal? Help you warm up a little?"

"F-fine," she stammered, trying to separate herself from him, pushing her hands against his chest and looking up at him. He was more normal now, somewhere halfway between who she'd known before and who she hated.

"You've been here about a week with no incidents, or escape attempts, and you've been fairly polite--a model hostage, really," he said as if it were a completely normal thing to say. "So, I'll take you back to my place tonight," he said as he released her.

She shook her head. "That sounds like it's for your benefit."

"I suppose it could be, but if you really want me to be blunt, do you think location matters in my decision of whether or not to get pervy?" Will asked, sounding oddly sincere. It wasn't comforting, but it wasn't alarming either.

The thought of going back to his felt eerily intimate though. "I don't know," Delilah said.

"How about we go to your apartment first and you can get your winter clothes, books, and whatever fancy soap you'd like so you can bring it all back here tomorrow?" Was this an attempt to placate her, or something he might use against her later? Probably. But did she need winter clothes and some more personal items to keep her sane and keep her fingers from falling off? Definitely.

"With you looking over my shoulder the whole time?" She asked with a sour expression.

"I've already had a look in your panty drawer, it's not like you have anything else to hide from me," he said, as if that would provide any consolation.

She sighed. "Fine, but I don't suppose we could just sleep at my place?" She paused, and crossed her arms. "And you can sleep on the couch."

"Not unless you happen to have interior door and window locks installed," he said, waving her along as he slipped out the door to the tiny kitchen.

She puzzled. "Why wouldn't you just keep me there?" It was a strange thing to ask. Not the sort of questions she ever would've seen herself asking someone a few months ago. Now it seemed oddly mundane.

"Because if you'd started yelling and causing a fuss, the neighbors might have intervened," he said casually.

"And you're not worried about that now?" Delilah asked. Was she weak? Had she relented too easily to being a captive? It didn't seem like the great struggle it was so often depicted as. Granted she'd feared it for a while, and Will had already isolated her, gotten her fired from her job and threatened to hold her hostage if she told anyone what she knew.

She wasn't fighting to get back her livelihood. She was just trying to hold onto any sense of comfort and dignity.

"If a nosy neighbor happens to see me bring in a scantily clad woman, and she spends a lot of time yelling and begging, I don't think he's going to tell the police--it's the second day where things get tricky."

That was a disturbing pattern of thought. Logical, perhaps designed to discourage or shame her from trying to get help. But he wouldn't take the chance if he wasn't certain it would work out in his favor.

The implications of his little conjecture had her looking down at her clothes though, envisioning the nightgown underneath. "Am I dressed like a whore?" She shocked herself with that question, but it was a strange thing to think. People didn't say things like that about her, didn't even imply them.

She felt dirty, as she followed Will down the hall, knowing that however this night ended, she wouldn't like it.

"Well yes dear, wearing a nightie in public is a bit crass, but we really want to sell it."

***

The drive was quiet, but blissfully warm.

His car was unassuming, and she didn't bother to care what kind it was. Only that it was clean, smelling of leather with a faint chemical aftertrace. She tried not to think about how she'd been in it before, stealing glances at him as they talked through the whole ten-minute ride, milking every last bit of time they had together.

The last few times she'd been unconscious. She wondered if he tied her up then? Did he put her in the trunk or in the backseat? Had he touched her while she was unaware? Or perhaps just felt her up with his eyes? Peeled back her nightgown, just because he could, because she wasn't awake to stop him.

She had to stop wondering.

It was raining still, so she focused on that. Staring out the window at the glossy wet ground, the puddles reflecting the headlights over other cars. The sun had set, but its light wasn't quite gone, just barely squeezed through the thick, dark rain clouds in a way that made time feel thick and strange. She missed the sun.

Even though it had only been a week, Delilah felt like a stranger entering her own home. Will had offered to carry her in. She declined, instead letting her double layer of socks get sopping wet as she walked to the door. Her feet started to ache but she didn't let it show on her face.

He pulled out a key, her key, and used it to open the door. Inside it was cold and dark, and she didn't even care that she was dripping water onto her wooden floors as she entered. She peeled off her wet socks and dropped them carelessly by the door. Her wet feet felt slippery on the floor.

He reached for the lights but she stopped him. "Don't." Somehow it felt wrong to see her home in full light. To see the open book on her coffee table or the small amount of dishes in her sink.

The bedroom was worse though, everything illuminated with the cool blue-grey light of late evening. It made her feel like a ghost as she grabbed her suitcase--her old one anyway--the spare, and started filling it with clothes. Will lingered near the doorframe, almost on par with it in terms of height.

Delilah tried hard not to think about how her bedsheets were still pulled back. How he'd been in here while she was sleeping.

"Full moon tonight," he said, a poor attempt at making conversation. It wouldn't be visible anyway.

She didn't reply, but she thought of the last full moon she'd seen, on Halloween night. How she'd seen it through the window next to her as he betrayed her. Just before that everything had been bright, full of hope and curiosity, and he'd crushed all of it an instant. Had it really been a month already?