Disclaimer: Lawless and it's characters belong to Benaroya Pictures, FilmNation Entertainment, and Annapurna Pictures.

Trigger Warning/Spoiler: This fic is centered around Maggie and Forrest's storyline, particularly of the conversation at he end of the movie, when Forrest learns about Maggie's rape.

A/N: I didn't need another ship to ship, but I couldn't help it when I saw Lawless. Tom Hardy and Jessica Chastain are amazing actors, and they brought so much to the roles of Forrest and Maggie. They're both such strong characters, though they have weaknesses, but the beauty of their relationship is that they're strong where the other is weak. Anyways, when I first saw the movie, I thought Rakes' two men had actually cut her when they pulled the knife on her after they'd slit Forrest's throat (I figured out they didn't obviously, when she got back to her room without a knife wound to the ribcage). But this fic is based the premise that they actually did. Any reviews or critiques are welcome.

Scarred

The sound of the car motor at full throttle summoned Forrest to the window just as he finished buttoning up his shirt. :Shit. He'd hobbled over in time to see Cricket's beat-up little roadster fly by the station. From the front porch he could hear Howard yelling to the driver to come back, then for him and Danny to wake up, leaving little doubt as to who was behind the wheel. "Dammit Jack, " Forrest cursed, moving into action.

Forrest turned to the chair beside his bed, snatching his hat off the back and placing it on his head before turning his attention to his vest. He had just slipped it over his shoulders when a light tread approached the doorway, then a sedate voice asked, "What're you doin'?"

A fleeting glance established the voice as belonging to Maggie, though the glance was more out of an appreciation for her beauty than needing a confirmation of identity. He'd recognize that voice anywhere—never quite as accented as any girl he'd known from Franklin—as hers and hers alone: soft-spoken, with a hard edge of flint and grit that he'd learned defined her. That strength, along with being the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen made her something that he'd never grow tired of seeing, hearing, loving. Right now, she was wearing that peach and cream-colored nightgown that perfectly complimented her red hair and pale skin. Forrest dragged his eyes away to finish buttoning the vest, saying, "Well, Jack's gone off."

"That's it then." Her tone was accusatory and filled with disappointment and….heartache?

Forrest ignored her, not sure how to respond and grabbed the rifle from its place propped against the wall as Howard started hollering—this time from inside the station—and clambering up the stairs. "Forrest! Forrest! Jack done took off in Cricket's car!"

:Jesus Howard, use yer brain. Forrest held in that comment and the mental sigh that accompanied it before replying placidly, "Calm down Howard. Go fix the car."

He grubbed around in his pocket for spare bullets to load into the rifle and pulled several out when Howard appeared in the doorframe behind Maggie, who stood steadfast—he guessed she would probably try to block him from leaving in a moment. Forrest was about to remind his brother about gettin' to the car, but then Howard was already on the move, turning back to get Danny, calling over his shoulder, "He got trouble written all over 'im." Forrest took that to mean Jack. Some heavy footfalls on the stairs, then, "C'mon Danny! I said ge'up!"

Forrest didn't waste nerves or energy on loading the bullets; that's you how you dropped ammo. :Take your time an' you only gotta do it once. Two bullets, three bullets, more footfalls on the stairs, four bullets.

"I gotta watch you die all over again."

:What in hellfire? Forrest looked up briefly before returning to his vigilance of loading the rifle and with a hint of annoyance, muttered, "Whatch you talkin' bout?"

"I gotta find you lying in a pool of your own blood? Drag your damn body to my car? Drive you down to the hospital, your throat cut from ear to ear?"

Forrest started, and his head jerked up at the part about 'dragging him to her car'. He'd stopped his loading of the gun. :She drug me? But I… "You did that?" he managed to stammer as he stared, dumbfounded at his tiny, strong Maggie.

"I'm not doing it again," Maggie said as she fidgeted with the shawl around her shoulders, her voice shaking.

:But I got there myself…Everyone said I walked. Forrest murmured in wonder, "I thought I walked." Dazed, confused—something wasn't right—Forrest frowned as he looked at the floor than back up at Maggie.

Bitterly, she retorted, "And that's just like you, to believe your own damn legend."

:That he couldn't die. That's why she's afraid. She saw me too close to dyin'. Couldn't take it, that's why she packed her bags to leave after that night.

From outside, Howard called, "C'mon Forrest, get a move on!"

:That night. That's when it clicked. He ignored his brother, instead focused the full force of his attention on Maggie. "Wait minute, you came back here that night?"

Her eyes grew shifty and her face guarded; she nodded tersely in answer to his question. :The scar…

Forrest paused in front of her room—just like he did every night—after he'd locked up and secured the money. Just paused in front of her doorway, building up the courage he didn't have. :Coward, he thought, but he never strayed from the trajectory back to his room.

:Ain't got no business lookin' at her anyhow. That's what he told himself—not that it helped. She was beautiful, smart, and feisty, all in her own distinctive way. Fight and grace, spontaneity and sweetness—the same hands that could stab a man that tried to hurt her were the ones that carefully tended to a wound minutes later. And that smile on her face as she danced to her favorite song on the radio?

It would be an understatement to say he was smitten.

Feeling like a failure once again, Forrest made his way across his room and then undressed down to his undergarments. With a gusty sigh and one last look in the direction of the spare room where Maggie was sleeping, he slipped into bed. Sleep wouldn't come for a bit, so he lied awake, staring at the ceiling as he contemplated stepping up production on the shine, what would Maggie say if he told her he loved her, what he was going to do about Jack's newfound attitude, if Maggie would like going on a daytrip to the waterfall up in the mountains—no matter how much he tried to think about business, his mind always came back to her.

:Always her, he thought. But then he was startled out of his musings by the creak of the floorboards in the hall, which announced someone's presence at his door. He lifted his head from his pillow and couldn't believe his eyes.

There she was, standing in his doorway. No dressing gown, no clothes. Just her: perfectly, painfully beautiful.

:Holy… Painful because despite his wildest fantasies, he'd never expected to see Maggie this way. It had been torment having her stay here the past few weeks, because even though he'd never wanted to leave her presence, he was constantly reminded of how he was too scared to try court her, let alone explain his feelings about her. Always there, but never in the way he truly wanted. :What's she doin'?

"You just gonna watch me forever?"

"Umm…" Up until this point, Forrest held the belief she'd been fast asleep when he lingered outside her door every night. :Shit, she's been awake? He laid stock-still in bed, trying to avert his eyes (though he was only mildly successful with that) and mumbled, "Umm…Whatch you doin'?"

He was half-afraid to hear her answer.

Then she was in the bed, under the blankets, straddled over him; Forrest still couldn't comprehend completely that this was happening. :If this's a dream, I better enjoy it, 'fore I wake up.

After: he held her in his arms, breathing in the faint, flowery smell of her hair and listening to her light, rhythmic breaths. :Can' believe she's here. Forrest lifted his hand and began stroking her hair softly. Maggie looked up and gave him a sleepy-eyed smile, then turned and burrowed her face against his chest.

Slowly, steadily, he ran his right hand over her smooth skin—learning her every dip and curve. They were both soaking up this moment: him in wonder that she was real, her basking in his adoration. Maggie was motionless under his ministrations, except when he hit a ticklish spot on her left side, just above the hip-bone; she let out a short giggle and squirmed under his hand. Forrest flattened out his hand on her skin, resisting the urge to see if he could get her to make that sound again. It was very tempting, but he continued what he'd been doing and slid his hand up along her side.

That's when he felt the ridge over one her ribs. This ridge didn't conform to smoothness of her skin and he ran his hand over it, exploring with hands when his eyes would do him little good. The scar was bout four inches long, a half an inch wide. He raised his head, and in the faint moonlight, he could see a stripe—slightly darker than the rest of her skin—running underneath her breast.

Forrest paused for a moment, and he felt Maggie tense slightly. He'd never ask her—it didn't matter—so it was up her if she wanted to share that particular story. She must have sensed his curiosity though and whispered her explanation.

"I fell off a horse into some brambles, back when I was kid."

"Hmph." Her voice had an odd, hollow quality, but he shrugged his shoulders slightly and pressed his lips softly to her temple, already moving on. :She has no reason to lie. His mild curiosity was satisfied, but somewhere in the back of his mind, Forrest thought the scar looked fresher, judging by the color. :But what do I know? Ain't no doctor.

But he was Forrest Bondurant, and Maggie Beauford was here, right in his bed. She'd wanted this enough force his hand. He wasn't about to let an inconsequential scar ruin the night.

Forrest didn't even remember standing up. In his mind, all he could see was the scar and her scared expression when she visited him in the hospital.

"They see you?" Deep down, in the depths of his being, he knew the answer. But he desperately prayed for that gut feeling to be wrong. Maggie stood frozen, like the deer when he'd suddenly flip on the porch light at night in wintertime—that was almost answer enough. The heavy feeling in his chest blossomed, filling each of his steps with dread.

His mind registered Howard yelling for him, but it was distant and not as important and all-consuming as what stood in front of him.

"Then what happened?"

"Nothin'."

Her response was a little too quick and lacking her usual spirit. There was a leaden weight on his chest, and he heard his voice go harsher. "I asked you a question."

"I told you," she said, eyes downcast. From outside, the car horn started blaring.

"Look at me," Forrest commanded, feeling as though the world was crumbling beneath his feet. All along he thought he'd been protecting her from harm, but he'd really already let her down. Maggie's eyes were now resolutely shut, and several tears slid down her face of their own accord—without her uttering a sound. He tried again, "Maggie, look at me."

She drew in rattling breath and opened her eyes, staring straight into his. Forrest held her steely gaze and asked, "What happened when you got back?"

With a stubborn tenacity and no tears, she fired back, "Not a damn thing…Now you know—not a goddamn one of them bastards ever did a damn thing to me."

Forrest couldn't say a word—he felt himself nodding in response—but in that moment he realized two things. First, that those two bastards had hurt her (and how he wished he could kill them over again, this time drawing out the process even further). The scar on her ribs was no doubt from the same knife that had slit his throat. Forrest didn't want to imagine what other atrocities they'd inflicted on her before leaving her to drag his body to the hospital. But the second realization was that Maggie was more resilient than he'd ever previously imagined.

Forrest thought he'd needed to protect her, but now he could see from the fire in her eyes, that she was plenty strong for his world. By refusing to acknowledge what had clearly happened, Maggie was proving to herself, and him, that this wouldn't destroy her.

A Bondurant didn't lay down for nobody. No matter how battered, how outnumbered—a Bondurant didn't back down from a fight, nor let anyone—or anything—keep them down. And Maggie, she wasn't a Bondurant in blood, but in spirit. As Forrest walked out of the bedroom, racking a bullet into the chamber, he vowed that as soon as he returned, he'd make her a Bondurant in bond as well.