"Make no noise", she says, and Emily looks at the Martha puzzled. "The Commander is in his office". Oh. This, she understands. Those guys, they love it. They love to lock themselves always, as if freedom wasn't a frigging gift. Emily chokes, she needs oxygen. There is no air left in Gilead, her master's creation. Yet at the moment, she can't really hate her Commander because he's not high on the assholery scale. He secludes himself alone, not with an unwilling handmaid - heck, he doesn't even consumate the Ceremony.

This is risky. Very. He actually isn't fucking his wife either. Probably. Emily wonders if he is disgusted by the institutional rape or by sex, as a whole. Maybe he can't relate to humans. She reminds herself of the way he discussed and dissected torture devices, oblivious to her horror. Unless women are the problem. She wouldn't have asked before. Now? She would never accuse anyone of being an unman, a gender traitor. His interest in art, his refinement, she wonders if he jerks off to the artistic imagery of handsome boys telling himself it is nothing, just a bit of distraction, a bit of oxygen to go on. Maybe that's why he saved me. Maybe that's why he's so high ranking, hiding just where no one would expect as Resistants would establish headquarters near the Kommandantür. She assumes the next generation won't even hear of it, and thanks God for godless countries. She is so terribly bored.

It isn't that she would want to find out how he looks like when he comes. She knows that even if she did swing that way, he wouldn't be her style. Yet there's this kinship, this curiosity. How another one does in Gilead. She sighs. Through her boredom, she sometimes think her brain is turning to mush. She is so terribly bored. She heads for the garden for fresh air, and even there she isn't alone. There's a guard staring at whoever. There's the driver, actually washing the car. It used to be porn, she ponders. Except he's just taken off his jacket and is trying to salvage his shirt from the soapy water. She chuckles, wishing she could enjoy the… show.

There's this trouble, this fluttering in her stomach, as when you witness something sexual even if it's not your cuppa. Pitiful. This is nothing. Who would… On a hunch she looks up toward the Commander's window, and sure enough. He is standing there, pale, red high on his cheeks, unmoving, not even breathing, fiercely biting his lip as if needing it not to exclaim. He feels her gaze and their eyes meet for a moment. She wonders if it would work if the Ceremony was that night. She suddenly gasps. It burns and shames her, so she lowers her head. The Commander allows himself a last look at the driver, before he hums and draws the curtain. In Gilead, eyes are everywhere, along with Eyes.

It means nothing. But again, nothing does in Gilead.


Google IS COMMANDER LAWRENCE A CLOSETED GAY MAN?