A/N: **Trigger warning***

So this came to be while I was doing a set of sketches, and really examining the relationship of hands in scenes with our favorite Downton couples (object relationships is my thing, let's just leave it at that), and this kind of happened...so...yeah...In case you didn't see, there is a trigger warning for rape here, because it is the attack, and I won't leave anything to chance.

Disclaimer: I don't own Downton, and I am very, deeply sorry for the violent nature of this piece, but the relationship of hands is something to look at, I think.

Hands tore at her, strong hands, hands that were like claws, strong, claw-like hands that were nothing like her husband's. John's hands were strong, but they were always gentle, nothing like the hands that belonged to her attacker.

There were no similarities between the hands of her husband and the hands of the man who now sought to ravage her body, to raze every inch of it until there was nothing left. The fact that both men were valets didn't change anything- two sets of hands weren't the same just because they shared a line of work- nor did the fact that they had both touched her body. John's touch was always gentle (everything about him, was gentle to her) and intimate in the most pure sense of the word, while Green grasped at her with what her panicked mind could only register as hunger and raw, untamed desire, which didn't seem to care that the object of his lust- her- belonged to another. Maybe that was why he'd established her as a prize to be won in the most vulgar way he could conceive of carrying out.

Without John by her side, she knew she was practically defenseless, being too petite to stand any real chance against an assailant. Yet she'd chosen to come down alone, all because she and John had quarreled earlier. She could have at least taken Daisy or Alfred down with her- safety in numbers, right?- but the thought of inconveniencing them was enough to make her head hurt even more than it already did. Or perhaps she ought to have taken a powder before the concert, so she wouldn't have had to come down in the first place.

But it was too late now, wasn't it?

Now, as she attempted to fight back, landing a good blow or two before Green could get in a few of his own and call her a bitch and a whore through gritted teeth, she found a glimmer of hope. It was small, almost barely there, but there nonetheless. She tore at him with her own hands, her fingers, always so nimble with a needle and thread, curled into what almost resembled claws.

And then, he stopped, dropping her to the floor and slinking away as if he'd suddenly lost interest in her, like a child who had found a new toy after breaking another. Even with him gone, she could still feel his hands all over her, phantoms that roamed her battered body as she scurried to the one place she knew she could hide until the concert was over, where she could calm herself and her shaking hands before having to face the day. Eyes closed or opened, it didn't matter to her, she was still stuck in those horrifying handful of minutes as she huddled in the far corner of Mrs. Hughes's sitting room, shattered behind the hutch, right where she could see the door.

A/N: So thank you for reading (I won't hope you enjoyed this...I didn't enjoy writing it, but my brain wouldn't stop), and reviews are always welcome.

Apologies and thank you~