A/N: I always say if a plot bunny doesn't go away after a few weeks, I have to write it... One PSA though: this is a work of fiction. I have twisted around some things for the benefit of this story. I know it doesn't quite work the way I have it. (But I mean y'all want Christian and Ana's HEA, right? ;)) Anyway I hope you enjoy my little trip down this dark road.
I find you fascinating.
I read the last line of her letter over and over as if the words will transform into something different. As if they'll manifest into sounds and I'll be able to hear the sweet words from her precious mouth. The mouth of a woman that has changed my life, kept me going, kept me sane over the past few months.
I find you fascinating.
No, Anastasia Steele, it's I who find you fascinating. Fascinated by your words, the vibe you emit, by the feelings you evoke from me when I read your words. She doesn't write in Times New Roman font when she writes me. Why is that? I wonder. But Bradley Hand, or whatever that font is that looks like handwriting. It makes me feel like this is more personal. Like she's writing the words instead of typing them.
I find you fascinating.
I try to picture her as she writes these words except- I have no idea what she looks like. I have no idea what she looks like when she writes these words to me. Does she wear glasses? Ones that sit down on the bridge of her nose as she types away on her laptop, or maybe her iphone? Does Anastasia Steele have an iphone? Or maybe she doesn't have a smartphone. Maybe she's one of those people that are anti new-age technology. Maybe she's old- like really old. I like to picture Anastasia Steele young. Maybe my age. Or maybe mid twenties. Young, full of life, craving adventure. She certainly speaks as if she's wise beyond her years, and yet something about her leads me to believe that she's young. Very young.
I know that she's in grad school, studying social justice, with no intention for law school- her words.
But I don't know much about her physical age. We haven't discussed that. Surely she knows my age. Everyone does. Everyone knows everything about me after all of the press releases, the articles, the spots in the Seattle Times, USA Today, New York Times, Washington Post, you name it, my name has been there.
My name.
What happened.
What I did.
I was twenty seven when everything went down. And now here I am two years later, not moving. Not progressing, not doing anything except what it seems everyone in America wants me to do. Rot.
It's been two years and nothing's changed. Despite the mitigating circumstances surrounding what happened, I'm here. Rotting. Like everyone wants me to. Not Anastasia though. She sees through the bullshit. I'll never forget her first letter that I got. I thought about tossing it to the side like the other "fan mail" I got. People looking for an interview, a scoop, journalists looking for their big break. I wasn't stupid. My case was intriguing, sexy even. Everyone wanted the scoop. The thing about murder is- it was sexy. Whether people wanted to admit it or not. They wanted to know the who's, the what's, the where's, the how's. They were disturbed but they wanted to feel the shiver down their spine. It's why serial killers were so popular.
I wasn't a serial killer though- far from it. I'd killed one person. A crime of passion, they called it.
He deserved it.
He hurt her.
He destroyed her from the outside in. People often used the phrase from "the inside out". But he destroyed her outsides and then penetrated her insides, deeply. Darkly. Madly.
He'd done it for years and I hadn't known.
I hadn't seen the bruises, the scars. Hadn't seen the look in my little sister's eyes until the day I walked into her apartment to see her sprawled out in her bathroom having swallowed a whole bottle of pills. She was barely awake, half drugged as she croaked out the words that made my blood run cold.
Rape. Jack. Years.
Mia's stomach had been pumped freeing her from the poison she'd tried to put in her body for forty five minutes before I was on the move, looking for our step brother. Jack Hyde. An hour later, I'd shot him. Two hours later, I was in cuffs.
And now here I was serving a nine year sentence because self defense fell through- self defense as in acting on my sister Mia's behalf. I wouldn't plead insanity because I wasn't insane. I was a big brother and I would be damned if I would ever let Mia go through another second of his torture. So I went down.
And I'd do it again.
Mia testified but to an extent. She was traumatized, scared, petrified and I didn't want her going through it on the stand underneath the scrutiny of a judge, jury and the bullshit prosecution that tried to paint Mia and Jack's relationship as consensual.
Fuck that.
Mia and I spoke through plate glass after that, and she told me everything. I wish the police would have taken the conversation I know they were tapping more seriously. But I think they thought it was all for their benefit.
I sigh, rubbing my fingers over my forehead as I read her words again.
I find you fascinating.
I'd been in here six months before I got her letter. A white crisp envelope with my name across the front in that fancy calligraphy that's reserved for wedding invitations or secret society sex parties.
Christian Grey
I opened it, at best hoping for a laugh. At least, hoping for a reason to go work my frustrations out at the gym. I never expected what was inside that perfectly creased envelope.
I held the note in my hand for hours, reading it over and over wondering if it was some type of joke. I had read letters before, but no one that wanted to help. No one that had put their name and a legitimate institution behind their name. No one that had used the word exonerated. A word that in its basic form meant "to free from blame."
I wrote her back the next day.
And thus began our year and a half chain of letters and after some time- email, when I was granted computer privileges. I wasn't in maximum security, but I did spend more of my day behind bars than in front of them which meant some days I couldn't talk to Miss Steele.
Those days bothered me. In the year and a half that we had spoken back and forth, it had been mostly about my case, rarely did we talk about other things, rarely did I get a glimpse into the life of Anastasia Steele. I wanted to change that.
I read over the last line of her letter one more time before I press my fingers into the keys of the ten year old computer in the library of the penitentiary.
I'd like to meet you.
Two weeks later
I don't know why I felt the need to spend more time in the gym today. I was the fittest I'd ever been in my life, a six pack that was growing firmer by the day, and arms that could bench press a Cadillac. I looked great. Physically I was in the best shape of my life. Emotionally I was a wreck.
But I was meeting Anastasia today, and for some reason I wanted to look my best. I'd even asked if I could wear something besides the orange jumpsuit.
They laughed when I asked. So here I was sitting on the other side of a metal table, my hands chained together and my feet shackled as I wait for her to enter the room. There's a guard on the inside with us, his eyes staring daggers into my forehead. I wish I could tell him to back the fuck off, that I don't need him here. That she doesn't need him here. That I wouldn't hurt her. But my guess is, they won't exactly take the word over a criminal.
There's that word again- criminal.
I hear some shuffling outside of the door and I look up, waiting for the door to open, my heart pounding as I wait for the only person outside of these four walls that I've had consistent contact with. I see the door open and the most beautiful woman I've ever laid eyes on comes walking through. My cock immediately rises to the occasion having not seen a woman that didn't work here in months, but also having not seen a woman that looked this good- ever.
Of course, she's dressed like she's from the convent. Her hair is pulled back in a neat ponytail as a turtleneck sweater, long pants and boots cover almost every inch of her skin. Her face is essentially free from makeup except maybe a few coats of mascara on her lashes extending them upwards and what might be a basic lip balm. My father- when he was alive, was a lawyer. He'd also written a slew of books, one in which he'd advised that women visiting jails should cover up as much as possible.
But her eyes. Those blue eyes that stare through me. That shy smile she gives me when her eyes find mine. The teeth that nervously gnaw at her lip as she crosses the room. She's beautiful.
"Christian Grey, hi." She says confidently, her sweet voice ringing through the air.
I stand, putting both of my hands out as they're stuck together. "Miss Steele."
"Oh please, Ana is fine, aren't we friends by now?"
Friends.
All of my friends had abandoned me after sentencing. One of the things I sacrificed along with my freedom. Friendship. Everyone commended me for ending years of Mia's torment and abuse but I was a murderer now. A new box I had to check when I filled out applications. And as my friends started visiting less and less and visits became quick phone calls, I'd learned that my friends didn't want to check that box off.
Friends with a convicted felon.
"Take a seat." I usher towards her.
She looks at the guard by the door. "I can't be in here with him alone?"
"If you wish." The bouncer states as if to say it's your funeral.
"I do. I'll be fine." She turns back to me and waves him off with a flick of her wrist.
He disappears, leaving me and this raven-haired beauty that has me remembering that I haven't been inside of a woman in twenty four months.
I wet my lips and her eyes dart to my mouth. "I knew what you looked like but you're different in person."
"How so?" I ask. She's certainly different than how I envisioned her.
She shakes her head. "Seeing you on television and in pictures… it's not the same as seeing you in person." She shakes her head again. "I'm not explaining this right. I just- I feel like I know you."
"I feel the same."
"It's good to meet you." She tells me as she pulls out a notepad. "I have news."
"Oh?" I ask leaning back in my chair.
"My team got you a hearing with the appeals board."
"No shit." She nods. "You work harder than my lawyer. Maybe I should be paying you."
She shakes her head. "No no. It's a non-profit!"
"I know, so you've explained." When I initially offered her money for her help and services and friendship, she turned it down citing all of this pro-bono, non-profit, "I could never take your money" bullshit. Honey, you were trying to give me my freedom, you could have ever penny I had. Not that I had very many left after I spent a ton of them paying for asshole lawyers that just thought I was guilty anyway.
"You don't pay me to think, you pay me to get you off." Andrew Warner had told me, a friend of my father's from law school. He was one of the best defense attorneys in the game. But something tells me despite depleting my bank account, despite giving him everything minus the clothes on my back, it wasn't enough to keep me out of here.
She looks at me, and I realize I haven't said anything. I clear my throat. "Will you be there?" I ask with more hope in my voice than I intended.
She nods. "Yes, of course."
I reach across the table, desperate to feel her skin when she flinches slightly and I hope it's not due to nerves. The door swings open and I see the guard shaking his head at me sternly as if to say don't even think of touching the pretty grad student again, you piece of shit.
Her head whips towards the door and then back to me just as I snatch my hand back as if her skin is a burning flame, charring my skin. She looks back to me and then down at the place where my hand almost touched hers. "I'll be there." She says softly. She opens her notepad and fiddles nervously with her pen before she looks up at me. "So let me just give you a brief rundown on how this could potentially work."
"I'm all ears."
"You are in here for a nine year sentence with an eligibility to be paroled after four and half years with good behavior." I nod, knowing this well as I've been counting down until that moment."You do understand that this is not absolving you from a guilty sentence?"
"Yes."
"We aren't saying that you didn't kill anyone. This isn't the Innocence Project."
"I'm aware, Miss Steele."
"This project examines the circumstances surrounding your case and it petitions the parole board that it needs to be reviewed a second time so that you have a shot at an earlier parole."
"I understand."
"There is a chance that it will be denied."
"I understand that as well."
"But if it's approved…" she trails off. "You're looking at the time needed to be eligible for parole cut in half."
I narrow my eyes as I try to follow this new information she's divulging. Half? Of what exactly?
"You're eligible after four and a half years. If the motion is approved you're looking at a total sentence of two years and three months…" she trails off. "Including time served."
"Meaning…" I widen my eyes, needing her to say the words before my mind jumps to a million conclusions.
"Meaning we can have you out of here in 90 days."
I freeze, my heart beating wildly in my chest as I process what the woman in front of me has just told me. Ninety days? Ninety… fucking… days? "Holy shit."
A flutter of a smile crosses her lips and I don't mistake the slight ache in my cock as I watch her lips turn upwards. She really was insanely beautiful. And she's doing everything she can to get me out of here.
She's an angel in disguise.
My angel.
"Please don't get your hopes up." She says softly. "Stay positive, and know that we are all working very hard but I don't know how this is going to go."
I nod as visions of driving a car, sleeping in my own bed… my freedom, come to a screeching halt at her words. "I understand."
"You will need to make a statement, but we will prepare you as it gets closer."
"When is it?"
"Next month, specifically 36 days from now. April 23."
April 23. April 23. April 23.
"You'll be ready." She tells me.
"Do my lawyers know about any of this yet?"
"We've been in contact with them, yes."
"They tell you that you were wasting your time?" I snort thinking about my so-called Dream Team.
She swallows, tucking a loose hair behind her ear. "We are taking care of it."
"You're so diplomatic, Miss Steele." I know my lawyers are fucking assholes, and the look in her eyes tell me that she knows that too. I cock my head to the side as I notice her squirming in her seat. "Do I make you nervous?" Her eyes dart to mine and widen slightly as a hint of pink finds her cheeks.
"No, I just- I have a million questions running through my head."
"Oh, well by all means..." I raise an eyebrow at her as I open my hands as best as I can.
"Asking seems- I don't know, more invasive in person? It's easier via email."
"Ask away, I'm an open book." I lean back in my chair, my arms falling clumsily in my lap. I'm not in cuffs often as no one really comes to visit anymore, so the steel around my wrists feels awkward and uncomfortable.
"Everything okay… in here? I mean are you having any- trouble?"
I'm shocked that she asks. My own mother hasn't even asked how I'm doing, the few times she reaches out. I guess you murder your mother's husband's son and she's not exactly first in line to bring you care packages. Not that I could have them anyway. "Nothing I can't handle."
And this was true, my first three or four months was a constant standoff with almost every man in this wing of the prison. The new guy needed to be initiated. Twelve years of kick boxing, UFC training and Krav Maga with a trainer had prepared me well for my time here, and my skills were put to the test, constantly. After four months of essentially having to kick the asses of 70 percent of the men here, people kind of left me alone.
"Because we can have you moved, if you'd like. To be by yourself?"
"I have a cell by myself, I can assure you that I am fine Miss Steele. I'm a big boy."
She nods before she looks down at her notes and then back at me her brows furrowing together and I have a feeling I'm going to have a difficult time answering this next question. Her tongue darts out wetting her lips and again my cock takes notice. I try to convince myself that I'm not going to furiously masturbate later, but if she doesn't keep those teeth off her bottom lip, there's zero chance of that. She takes a deep breath. "How- how didn't you know?"
My heart stops in my chest and I feel like someone is physically trying to claw their way out of my body. Maybe it's me trying to climb out of my own body. She must sense my discomfort because she shifts nervously in her seat. "I just mean- you didn't see a change in your sister?"
I feel a growl rumbling deep within and I know if I open my mouth, it's going to scare the young woman in front of me. I take a deep breath, in attempt to slow my racing heart. "I think it's time for you to leave Miss Steele."
She doesn't move, her eyes just stay fixated on the table. "Your lawyers were stupid." She whispers.
"Miss Steele." I growl.
"Why didn't they put you on the stand? Why didn't you demand you go on the stand?" Her voice raises slightly but it doesn't waver. She's firm, her voice filled with conviction.
"I've had enough."
"You can't dismiss me."
"The hell I can't."
"I'm trying to help."
"By what making me feel worse than I already do? You don't think a day goes by that I don't think about what he did to my sister? How I didn't notice? How I was so caught up in my own life, my own shit that I didn't see what that asshole was doing to her?" I shake my head and stand to my feet, in my attempt to alert the people outside of the one way glass, that I was ready to return to my cell. "Get the hell out."
The door opens and she glances backward at the guard as she stands to her feet. I can barely look at her as my eyes are cast to the floor, embarrassed both by her question as well as my reaction to it. She was doing everything she could to get me out of jail and I proceeded to throw her out.
"That passionate response you just had? That is what you will need because you're going to speak up this time. I don't care if I have to drag you onto the stand kicking and screaming. You're going to tell them why you can't be in here. Why you did what you did. Why you were acting on behalf of someone that couldn't do it them self." I still don't look at her but I can feel her eyes on me.
"Ma'am, time to go." The guard tells her and I finally chance a glance at her just as she's leaving.
"I'll see you in two weeks." She calls over her shoulder. "Check your emails." And then she's gone.
A POV
A gush of air leaves my lungs as soon as I cross the threshold of the Washington State prison. A hand finds my chest and I can feel the rapid thump thump thump of my racing heartbeat against my hand.
And not from the series of catcalls I heard as I was guided through the facility, not because of all the obscene things that were shouted at me as I walked behind the guards, avoiding eye contact with the men that were borderline salivating at the sight of a woman.
No, my heart was racing because of one particular man that sat across from me at a metal table looking like sin wrapped up in an orange starburst wrapper.
And I could remove those wrappers with my tongue.
I can still feel the arousal pooling in my panties. I thought he could tell I was aroused when he noticed me squirming. He asked if he made me nervous and I wanted to tell him yes, but not for the reasons you're thinking.
But because I'm desperate to feel every inch of you wrapped around me.
Because I want to feel you buried inside of me.
Because I want you to rip me apart and then put me back together.
I'd almost asked to stop at the bathroom so that I could clean myself up and get myself off using the hand that he'd shook. The large warm hand that my hand felt perfect inside of. I begin to walk to my car, my clit throbbing with need for relief with every second that passes. I look down at my right hand. It shakes.
But I'm not scared. I'm invigorated.
I was going to help get that man out of prison.
And then I was going to fuck him.
