He rounded the corner and it was like a flash back in time. It may as well have been three months ago, if it weren't for the pit in his stomach at the sight of her. Intellectually, Nick understood what it meant for their escape plan when they told him the handmaid had been found, knew the event he was preparing for was a baby shower, but seeing her sitting at the same kitchen table, that same barely perceptible smile she only shared with him when she thought nobody was looking… it made him feel sick. He had done everything possible to get her out of this hellhole, and now here she was, right back where they had started. Schooling his features was easy enough for him –years of practiced control kept his expression neutral when he saw her, neither wanting to give away the panic he felt at the sight of her, nor the small, guilty sense of relief he felt seeing her within his grasp again.
Mrs. Waterford was asking him something – make sure the house is ready—and even with everything he was feeling, the response came out rote, polite, "yes, ma'am." Inertia took him around the corner and away. Inertia had long been a guiding force in his life. It's what had led him to the Sons of Jacob. It's the reason he was still alive. Just one foot in front of another. An object in motion stays in motion. She had changed that for him. Forced him to make moves, take control of his life. And to some degree, he was grateful to her. But over the last five years or so, since before Gilead, when the Sons of Jacob were running meetings out of church basements, he'd learned how much better it was to keep your head down and not get attached… What was that June had said? "Better never means better for everyone." Sounded like something he had heard the Commander say before, but he never pushed her when it came to their meetings. He knew they met – he was the one to set up the meetings. And he knew what Jezebels was like. Not to mention, he had been the one to cut the hanging corpse of the previous Offred off the ceiling. He could only imagine what June had endured. He swallowed sharply, biting back the bile that was threatening to build up at the thought of it, but he had made a decision early on. This was not about him. Whatever she needed from him, he would do his best to grant. He was skilled enough in holding back his own feelings for the sake of others. He at least had his apartment. A record player. Books. Means of escape. So he would be hers.
He stayed out of the way once the party started. Standing in the back behind the Commanders as they shot clay pigeons and bitched about an upcoming envoy to Canada. He stood silent, trying to blend into the background as he processed the day. He didn't know much about her escape attempt, but he had done his best to keep tabs. She had been found on a puddle jumper, near the Canadian border. She had almost made it. Part of him knew he should be listening – a spy on a spy on a spy—that was how he came to think of himself. He should always be listening. For the Eyes, for Mayday, for Commander Waterford. But despite the cold exterior, he had always been too emotional. He had learned to shut it down, to play by the rules, but it was always just below the surface. His feelings, his fears and anxieties, would have to wait though. Like closing a trunk and locking it, he snapped his attention away from his internal world. Took five steadying breathes, using each one to anchor himself back in his body - inhale… notice the smell of grass and gunpowder… exhale. Inhale…. Feel the way his perfectly broken-in leather boots wrap around his feet, laces just slightly too tight…. Exhale. Inhale… see the streak of red spray across the sky as the terra cotta clay shatters…. It looks like blood…. Exhale. It was an anti-anxiety trick, a way to ward off panic attacks he had seen somewhere in the time before. Nick didn't have panic attacks, per say… but the trick still worked. He shifted his focus to catch the logistics of the upcoming trip. Which of his masters this information would serve, he wasn't sure yet. But he had learned long ago- always have information to trade.
As the party drew down and he started to help the Marthas with cleanup, he kept his eyes open for June but couldn't seem to find her anywhere. How the fuck had this become his life anyway? There were days, weeks even, after her escape that he found himself overcome with anger – with himself, for being complicit in the creation of Gilead, with June, for playing the rebel, with Waterford, for not being able to keep his fucking hands to himself. He retreated to his apartment, lowering himself onto the steps leading up to his front door and pulled out a cigarette. Maybe she's in her room. He used to see her from here, looking out her window at him. But the curtains were drawn and the room seemed empty, so he continued inside. He put on a record and eased himself onto his bed. Torture was common in Gilead, and by all measures, he got off light. His position as a Guardian, as an Eye, lightened suspicion, but the Waterfords also knew he was close to the handmaid. Serena had even walked in on them once, immediately after finding out June was pregnant. After her escape, he had been thrown in a pool, weights secured around his ankles as the water filled his lungs and he tried not to inhale. Over and over, he was tossed into the pool, left until the edges of his vision became blurry and his lungs felt like they were on fire, before being removed for questioning. And over and over, all he could do was deny knowing anything. Good lies are rooted in reality, so it got easier after she left the Boston Globe office. But at least when she was there, he could find reprieve. He was lucky – this kind of torture, unlike so much of what Gilead does, didn't leave a mark. So she had no reason to ask, and he certainly wasn't going to volunteer the information. What could she have done anyway? He himself had stood idly by while she was cattle prodded, beaten, and choked. Provided her an ice pack for a bullet wound – that wasn't quite the expression from the time before, but close enough. But there were still days like this one, when his fear got the better of him, leaving his every movement tight, his every muscle ready, and it made his entire body ache. He stayed in his garage apartment, listening to records and trying to steady his nerves, until the evening when he was summoned back down to the Waterford's sitting room.
The reflection of the flames in the fireplace made the room look like the gateway to hell, and for her it genuinely must have felt that way. But as he stood there staring straight ahead, listening to her grovel, he almost believed despite himself that she wanted to be back. He had heard her lie before of course, to Serena about how sorry she was; to Fred as she flirted with him. Her tone was different this time—contrite, polite. She lacked the fire she had had even earlier in the day, in that small look she gave him in the kitchen. Jesus… what had they done to her while he had just sat in his bedroom? He tried to catch her eye as everyone left, but couldn't find an opening. It almost felt like she was avoiding him. Not wanting to create more trouble, he decided against trying to sneak into her bedroom on her first night back. He half expected her to come to him – she had always been the reckless one. He had so much he wanted to say to her, but breathed easier nonetheless that she didn't show up.
Instead, he positioned himself to intercept her the next morning, when she was to leave for her shopping trip. He parked the car in the driveway strategically so that it could provide some cover for their conversation, and as she rounded the corner, he looked up. "Hey…" God, that sounded stupid, even to him. He'd never been much for words – for years, quicker to throw a punch than have a conversation, and lately just shut down. His tongue felt thick as he tried to force the words out of his mouth. "Look, I'm sorry." His breath hitched. "I tried everything to get you out." She walked past, like he wasn't even there.
"We've been sent good weather."
"June…" She continued to move toward the gate, and he hadn't been able to reach her at all. Abandoning caution, he called to her a little bit louder, "June!" He wanted to snap her out of it – he wanted eye contact, even anger from her. Anything was better than the pre-approved Gilead soundbites. His heart began to race just watching her walk away. How had he felt calmer in her escape attempt than here with her in front of him? He tried to catch her gaze as she shut the gate behind her, but her eyes were glassy and unfocused. Fuck. He'd seen this look before. The previous Offred had it sometimes. (It made him feel sick that he could only conceptualize her that way—"the previous Offred"—but he'd never asked her name. Never tried to get close). He wanted to run after June. Grab her by the shoulders, shake her, force her to look at him. But there were Guardians just on the other side of the fence and he knew it would never be allowed. He also knew he needed to do something to reach her, and fast. He turned and slammed a flat palm against the car, trying his best to reign in his emotions before doing any real damage. Flashes of a hanging corpse kept showing up in his mind, transposed with June's face. Inhale… exhale…. Focus on the task at hand. She's shopping. She's with a companion. She's fine. Tonight, he would go see her.
But as darkness fell, the house settled in, and Nick prepared to sneak up to her room, he glanced inside and felt his heart skip a beat. There was a flicker of flames coming from the kitchen. He didn't even bother to pull on his shoes, skipping stairs two at a time as he rushed into the house. And there she was, with that same vacant stare, burning… something. He grabbed her wrist, "Hey. What are you doing?" His voice came out slightly tighter than he meant it to.
"I'm not allowed to have these."
He lowered his head, trying desperately to reconnect with her, but she stared past him. "June." At that, she looked up, made eye contact. He had a half second of relief before –"I'm not supposed to be out of my room at night." She pulled herself out of his grasp, and he deliberately made no attempt to grab for her again. He hadn't even meant to do it the first time. He tried to be conscientious of how he touched her, and was careful never to grab or touch her without her express permission. "Please don't tell me what to do…" her plea from months before came back to him, and he sighed as he let her walk away. He turned on the faucet and put out the flames. He rinsed all of the ash down the drain and ensured there was no evidence of anything amiss before picking up the remaining bundle of papers and taking them back to his apartment.
He opened the bundle and pulled out each paper at a time—letters, from women just like June. Trying desperately to be remembered. He read as many as he could, memorizing as many details as possible. What was it that June had said before? "At least someone would care that I was gone"? He'd done so little. He'd done so much harm. He'd stood idly by for so long. And done so much more than he'd ever admitted to June in allowing this society to take hold. This felt like atonement. Memorizing the words on these letters. He knew it wasn't enough, but it felt important anyway. Nick's eyelids grew heavy and he packed up the bundle of letters, knowing better than to ever think he had real privacy, and tucked them into the bottom of his trunk. Tomorrow…. He would finish reading them tomorrow.
But of course, though his workload was lighter than the women's, he wasn't without things to do. He saw Aunt Lydia pulling in, knowing it was for the baby's checkup. The doctors had already said everything was okay, Rita had told him in hushed tones over morning coffee. He thought he caught a hint of a knowing glance on her face, but she too had learned the art of keeping her expression blank when needed, and it was gone in a flash. He kept busy reorganizing the garage, until he heard the front door shut and Aunt Lydia and Waterford's voices approaching. He came out of the garage and saw an opening to overhear part of the conversation. Aunt Lydia had with her a large, heavy bag. The perfect opportunity to hear something firsthand for a change. "I'll take that for you, sir," Nick was there with bag in hand without missing a beat. A small smile touched his lips as he turned toward the car, grateful for the opportunity this interaction provided. They were talking about the sex of June's baby. Of their baby. He had tried not to give too much thought to the baby. He already knew how it was going to turn out. But the idea of a little girl or a little boy…somehow that made it more real for him. "I have a feeling he'll be a fine boy, just like his father," Aunt Lydia was saying, and he felt a slight tremor run through him. Pride, fear, anger, grief, excitement, all carefully suppressed. "Yes, what man doesn't want a son?" He overheard Waterford ask. Aunt Lydia's response caught him off-guard. Just another small way the baby was becoming real. A boy, perhaps, just like him. "Did you know your baby is the size of a papaya now?" she asked as she descended the brick stairwell. Waterford responded, but his eyes were no longer on Aunt Lydia. "A papaya, is that right?" as his eyes drilled into Nick. Nick ignored it. He had too much practice acting natural to be too shaken, but the idea that Waterford knew the baby was his put him in danger as well. Fuck you, Waterford… Nick gave himself just a beat to stare back directly. He was reminded of watching dogs determine dominance. But there was no surprise who was dominant here, and Nick looked away quickly.
Between washing and polishing the car and doing small jobs around the house, Nick spent his time in his apartment, devouring the letters. Reading the same passages over and over again, especially where he found himself flinching. Someone needed to bear witness. He may be the last person to ever read these letters, so he gave each one the time and attention it deserved. It was so easy for him to focus only on June – her struggles, her pain, her needs. But reading these letters forced him to acknowledge a deeper and more painful truth. It wasn't just June. It was thousands of women like her, with family and loved ones they were ripped away from. Nick glanced at his watch and saw that June and Serena would be coming back from their walk shortly – a new addition to the morning schedule... ensuring that the baby learned Serena's voice and that June got exercise. He headed down to the kitchen, continuously looking for small ways to reconnect and engage June. This new, shut-down version of her terrified him. He heard them come in and stood up in the kitchen, but once again as she walked past, he saw no sign of recognition in her. His jaw tightened as the unbidden image of June hanging from her ceiling flashed again through his mind. "Mrs. Waterford." Nick began, knowing he needed to choose his words extremely carefully. "Has Offred uhh…." He trailed off, and tried a different tack "I'm worried about the handmaid." He said bluntly.
"The doctor says that she's in perfect health."
Fuck. Serena. Don't make me say it… "I mean her mental state." All in now.
"Her mental state?" Serena's expression changed very slightly, but he could sense fury and just the finest layer of concern under the surface. Serena was a lot like him in some ways. All emotion under an ice cold exterior. She didn't often fool him. But this was more important than keeping her happy.
He softened his tone slightly. It was important Serena heard this. "Maybe you should take her to see a different kind of doctor." He said the words quickly, but he held eye contact well past.
Serena took a few paces toward him, but he held steady. "Did Offred ask you to talk to me?"
"No ma'am."
"Well I don't know what to tell you." She tried to walk past him, but he slipped up. Once again, he let his emotions get the better of him, and he reached out and physically stopped her. "She doesn't have anyone to look out for her."
Ice cold. "It appears that she does." He pulled back and dropped his head, demonstrating his subservience within the household. "The handmaid is not your concern." Serena said as she walked away. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. That could barely have gone worse. He stood in the kitchen taking a few deep breathes before turning to go, when he heard his name. Serena's voice carried slightly from the kitchen. "Nick was waiting for Offred and me when we got back. Just making sure that we got home safe. It's very sweet how concerned he is about her." Inhale….. the smell of fresh coffee…. Exhale. Back out to the car. It was time to go to the new Rachel and Leah Center. A bigger, shinier model of the shitty Red Center out of a converted high school June had alluded to from time to time. Waterford was in charge of the building schedule, and it seemed to be on a tight deadline. The ride was quiet, aside from a couple of questions from Waterford. "How long have you been my driver now, Nick?" "Three years, sir. Officially, that is. I think we've known each other closer to five years now." "Five years…." Waterford mused. "And look all we've accomplished together in that time."
Together… there's that self-hatred again. Complicit is too weak a word. He wasn't just complicit. He was right there when they came up with the idea for "the ceremony." Still remembered just letting it go. He was an accomplice. He had blood on his hands. "My name is Ashleigh. My name is Jenna. My name is Ann." The letters he had been working to memorize came back to him as he let the commander out of the car, and he felt momentarily dizzy. This was his fault. This one time, he couldn't quite keep his feelings in check, and he moved back toward the driver's side door and emptied the contents of his stomach onto the street. Gagging and coughing, he wiped the saliva off with his sleeve, sat down, slammed the door shut, and rested his head on the cool leather of the steering wheel while he waited.
Back at the house, he smoked another cigarette. He knew he was smoking too much right now, but he couldn't find another way to calm his nerves. On the drive home, the commander had informed him about an upcoming event he was to attend. To honor his work as a Guardian. Some stupid name – what was it? Prayvaganza? He was reminded of high school – the pep rallies he had tried to skip out on and school dances he didn't attend. But this one was not optional. Attendance was mandatory. It was for him after all.
He was brought backstage, and took his place in the two single-file, military style lines being formed. This ceremony was a waste of time, but every moment he knew where June was, and knew that she was not alone with her thoughts, was another moment he could breathe easily. He knew she was in the audience, so he willed the ceremony to be long. The ceremony started and as Commander Pryce droned on about sacrifice, a small boy came around and handed each Guardian a wooden box. Nick wasn't sure it was allowed, but he opened the box ever so slightly, expecting to see a metal of some kind inside. He was nauseated that there was still some part of him that liked the idea of it. Of recognition, of rank, of status. Even in this fucked up system. But what he saw instead caused his heart to race. Immediately his eyes searched the crowd for June. Come on, look at me, he thought desperately. I love you. I don't think I've told you that before, but I love you. I'm sorry for what's about to happen. He had always been a man of few words, so June had learned to read his facial expressions, and it was all he could hope that she would be engaged enough now to see that something was wrong. That he needed her right now to give him strength, but she wasn't looking. Inhale….. the sound of church bells…. Exhale. He looked away, unable to stand the heartbreak of needing her in this one moment and seeing her so unwilling to engage. The ceremony started, and Nick stared straight ahead. He thought he could feel the exact moment she realized what was going on and searched for his eyes, but the opportunity was lost. He was focused on the event at hand. At getting through this. He watched the women come in, veiled in white, and held his breath as one stopped in front of him. Grimly, he reflected on the wedding he had imagined for himself - him, June, in another time and place. Once more, he glanced up to where she was sitting, and this time he saw her looking directly back at him, tears in her eyes. It was the first time they had made eye contact since her first day back, and it had to be under these circumstances. He held her gaze a bit too long and found himself missing his prompt. "I do," he muttered a half step too late, and with effort, pulled his gaze back to the woman standing in front of him. He'd always been good at tasks. Just focus on the task at hand. Give and receive rings. Lift the veil. He glanced around as his fellow Guardians began lifting the veils of their new brides, and one after another, there wasn't a single one over 15. He held his breath as he lifted the veil of his new bride. She was young. Incredibly young. He looked down and away, as though making eye contact somehow would make this more real. But it was real, and it was happening, and he felt sick. He lifted his gaze once more to June, who was now fully alert and staring back at him, breathing deliberately and holding a small smile intentionally on her face, even as her eyes welled up with tears. His hearing started to fade in and out, the way sound changes when you're in a tunnel. Jesus Christ, she's a fucking child. What was he supposed to do now? His breathing quickened, and he struggled to bring it back under control. The ceremony ended and they walked out one at a time. He looked up one last time as he rounded the bend out of the church, and saw June staring outward, detached again, clapping politely. She was doing what she had to in order to survive. Exactly what he'd told her to do countless times, he reminded himself. And yet, there was this small voice inside of him, one that he hated, who suddenly hated her. Every time you've needed me, I've been there for you. Fuck you, June. Look at me. I need you right now, okay? One time, I need one thing from you right now. God dammit.
The rest of the night passed in a horrifying blur. The whole night, Nick felt like he had a gun to his head. A ceremony at the Waterford's house, drinks with the commander. All he really wanted was a moment alone. His apartment. A cigarette. A moment to process what was happening to him. But it hit him like a ton of bricks that he would never have that moment again. Just smile a little, he told himself as he threw back a sip of whiskey across from the Commander. Seem happy. Do what you need to do to survive. But even as he tried, he felt his face twist into a grimace. Not like that. Okay, just say something, anything. "I've been truly blessed," he mumbled in response to some comment from the commander. He was barely listening, barely focused. Hyper-aware of the child who had been sitting next to him less than an hour earlier. He was going to have to sleep with her tonight. The thought made him feel ill and he excused himself to the bathroom. The nausea faded before he threw up, but he splashed cold water on his face just in case. He looked in the mirror and took a few deep breathes. Made sure that his face didn't betray the way he was feeling. Held his hand up in front of him to make sure it wasn't trembling. Nick returned to the study, sat down, and picked up his drink. The commander was going on about family values, and Nick did his part – piety and gratitude. That was the name of the game. But Nick wasn't above stabbing the knife in just a little when the opportunity presented itself. "By God's grace, I'll have a child of my own someday, sir." He kept his tone polite, cordial, but he remembered the look the commander had given him that day with Aunt Lydia. If, as Nick suspected, the commander knew the baby might be his, it allowed for the smallest moment of revenge. If not, it was a completely innocuous, pleasant statement. By the time Nick excused himself from drinks, the rain was pouring down, but he couldn't bring himself to go spend time in his apartment. His one sanctuary from the rest of the world, the one place where he could let down his guard, was gone now. He ran in just long enough to grab a pack of cigarettes, and ducked back outside. He lit up in spite of the rain and stood outside getting soaked, walking down the stairs and glancing toward June's bedroom window. All those times she'd come over before, those days were over. He smoked frantically, furrowed brow, trying to calm his nerves with nicotine. As bad as things had been in Gilead over the years, this was the worst he'd ever felt. He ran his fingers through his hair, trying desperately to find a reason for hope, when he heard something through the rain.
When he found June in the garden, she was soaked, laying on her stomach and not moving. He grabbed her to turn her over and his heart sank as he realized she was covered in blood. He didn't even realize that he was screaming for help, tears intermingling with the rain, until the commander and his wife arrived. He helped the commander lift her into the car, and was surprised by the steadiness in his voice when he said, "Mrs. Waterford, get in. We're going to the hospital immediately." He snapped into work mode, shut his brain off, blocked out the images of June soaked in blood. Blocked out the fact that the source of the blood seemed to be between her legs. Blocked out how pale she looked, how weak she felt in his arms, that something might be wrong with the baby. His baby. Their baby. He just drove. Fast, yes, but controlled. His hands didn't shake on the steering wheel. Serena Joy and June were rushed to a hospital room, and Nick leaned against the wall outside, smoking. He saw Serena step out for a smoke of her own, and quietly slipped back around the corner and into the hospital. He didn't want to see her. Didn't want to hear news of their baby from the woman who wanted to steal her. Didn't want to hear news of the woman he loved from her abuser. He'd always been good at disappearing into the background when needed, so he simply slipped down the hospital hallway, and, with a glance around to make sure nobody was looking, into her room. The blanket was up over her head, and she was whispering something to the baby. He couldn't make out the words but felt like she needed the moment, and so just as silently left the room and headed toward the waiting room.
The drive back from the hospital was silent. Mrs. Waterford was sitting next to June, and there was no way for Nick and June to do more than exchange a couple of looks. It was better anyway, until he gathered his thoughts. He had so much to say, but he could never seem to find the right words. He let her get settled in, and unpacked the car, before heading into the house. He tried to look casual as he looked around the kitchen. Eden and Rita were in there chopping vegetables, but June was nowhere to be seen. Rita made eye contact over Eden's head, briefly jerking her head in the direction of Mrs. Waterford's sitting room. He slipped out of the room unnoticed by Eden and into the sitting room. June was on her feet when he entered, and that on its own was relief enough. She was looking out the window at the sunlight, the way he'd seen her do so many times before from her own bedroom window. She heard him approaching and turned to face him.
"June.."
"I'm fine." Fine? How long had she been bleeding? Why didn't she tell someone? Ask for help? Was it a suicide attempt of some kind? "We're fine," she said, gesturing ever so slightly at her stomach.
"You scared me." He stepped closer and almost reached for her, but held back. This was the Waterford's sitting room, not his apartment.
"I scared myself."
He was relieved at her honesty. At her full sentences and direct eye contact. "They've got you sleeping in here?"
"Mhmm… she made me an offer I couldn't refuse." Her tone somehow contained both frustration and humor.
"Okay, I'll come see you tonight." Sneaking in would be harder now, but not impossible. He stepped closer to her, and she offered up a sad smile and turned away.
"What about Mrs. Blaine?" she asked, humor masking the tiniest bit of venom in her voice. "What is her bedtime, anyway?" This time the joke was clear, with no hint of anger. She couldn't possibly be jealous of that child, could she? She was still smiling, but something had shifted and her eyes looked wet.
Nick sighed and shifted his weight uncomfortably. "You know I didn't have a choice." Of course she knows that, idiot. Their conversation from after her first night in Jezebels echoed in his ears. "You know I didn't have a choice. I don't have any choice." And somehow, maybe because it's the same conversation all over again, just with the roles reversed, he realized she was about to leave him. He started to move closer to her, trying to head it off.
"I know. But…" she looked down.
He took a step closer. "What?" His tone soft.
"We can't keep sneaking around anymore. We have to be smart." "We're being stupid. You know we're being stupid. It's too dangerous."
The last time they had had this conversation, he was the one trying to walk away. He was also holding back, giving some paltry amount of personal information and acting like it was some great act of vulnerability. If he wanted to do better this time, he had to allow himself to actually be vulnerable. "Yeah… you know, I think about us. The three of us, what we could be. I think about it all the time." He closed the gap between them as he spoke.
"Don't."
"Okay, I'll stop." Humor over sadness and a hint of frustration. This was supposed to go differently. But then she smiled a little, rolled her eyes, and he stepped closer to her. He took a deep steadying breath, fighting back tears. He searched her eyes. Had she been suicidal? Was she trying to come to him for help? Is she okay now? She seemed okay, but he'd seen this pattern before.
"I think about it too." She locked eyes with him, smiling sadly and nodding. He wasn't sure if she meant it, or if she was just trying to soften the blow. She grabbed his hand though, and he allowed himself to draw comfort and strength from that simple movement. They were so caught up in each other that they didn't hear the footsteps approaching. Rita stepped a little louder when she saw them, clanked the dishes a bit more, and cleared her throat. Nick took a step back, let go of June's hand, and pulled his arms behind his back in a more formal stance. She was right. They had to be smart. Rita was one thing, but that could have been anyone.
"Smells good, where's mine?" he joked, indicating toward the soup Rita had just brought.
"Ask your wife." Great. Thanks for the reminder. He glanced at June and couldn't believe he saw a smile on her face. And not just a smile. She was holding back a laugh. Her eyes were still sad, but Rita's snark perfectly matched her sense of humor, and despite herself, despite both of their pain, she looked like she was about to laugh.
"Nick, are you ready to go?" The commander came around the corner. It was back to the Rachel and Leah Center. Some days he thought the routine in Gilead will kill him. Other days, he realized it was the only thing that got him through. His routine was changing now though. He used to bring Waterford home in the evenings, and have a quiet, empty apartment to return back to, a plate left out by Rita for him. This evening, he returned home to find dinner already on the table, and Eden eagerly awaiting him. While out today running the usual errands, he almost managed to convince himself that it was all a bad dream. That he would return home this evening and she wouldn't be there. That June was fine. She hadn't lost the will to live. The baby was fine. Because he had spent the previous night at the hospital, he hadn't yet spent any real time with Eden one on one. He already felt stretched to the breaking point, and was unsure of how to act around her.
"Do you like your potatoes roasted that way?"
"They were good."
"I can make them different.."
"No, they're fine. Delicious." He offers her a small smile. Polite and kind, that was the most important thing. He kept reminding himself that she was a victim in all of this. A child. She was brainwashed into thinking this was normal. She must have been terrified.
"Do you want to know the secret?"
"…Sure."
"Rosemary. Mrs. Waterford gave me some from her garden. I got the recipe from my mother." And there it was, an opening. A way to help Eden.
"It must be hard. To leave your family." He wanted her to know that it was okay to talk about.
"You're my family now." She reached out her hand to take his. "This is everything I prayed for." She stroked his fingers gently, and his skin crawled. Her touch left him feeling dirty. Like he was responsible for taking advantage of this child.
"Well, let me know if you need anything." His tone was cooler. His show of kindness had backfired. He meant to show her that he understood, knew that Eden might be afraid, and to step into a sort of big brotherly role for her. Instead, it caused her to stroke his hand. Even that small gesture left him feeling violated. It reminded him of the first time he had intercourse with June. "Intercourse" was the only word that fit in his mind. After all, who is the rapist when both parties are being forced? He knew he felt like the rapist. And June felt raped. But she had also grabbed his arm at the end. A small nod to let him know it was as close to okay as this fucked up situation could be. That she knew it wasn't his choice either, and she didn't hold him nearly as accountable as he held himself. And he felt the same way now.
Nick's cold tone wasn't lost on Eden and she pulled her hand back. He tried to soften the blow by thanking her for dinner, and moved to clean up after himself as he had for countless nights before this one, but Eden ushers him back to his seat, reminding him this was her job, and reminding him of all of the other jobs she knew were expected of her. He felt a metallic taste in his mouth and suddenly he needed to get out of the kitchen, away from her, immediately. He grabbed cigarettes and headed toward the door, telling her he doesn't smoke inside. When is her bedtime? He remembered June's question, but this time contemplated it seriously. Maybe he could just stay out until she had gone to bed. That didn't seem like a bad option. He could even go and sleep in the car for a couple of hours. She would have no way of knowing.
Heading back in for the night when he knew she would be asleep, he glanced over to the kitchen of the Waterford house and briefly contemplated trying to sneak in, despite what June had said earlier about being smart. But he saw the silhouette of the commander and June in the kitchen, and he knew he couldn't go in without making things worse for both of them. He slid into bed, fully clothed, and tried to lay as still as possible on the far edge of the bed so that he didn't wake Eden. He set his alarm for 5am, knowing he probably wouldn't need it to wake up, but wanting to be sure to slip out before Eden woke up. He wondered how long he could go on like this. Weeks, maybe? Just tell her work is busy. That he won't be around much. She didn't have any real reason to speak directly to the commander so there was nobody to contradict him, and she was so brainwashed it probably wouldn't even occur to her to verify anyway. As the husband of the house, his word was the word of God.
Two days pass like this, and other than a slight burn in the back of Nick's throat from the uptick in cigarettes he was burning through to stay out of the house, he thought he may be able to make this work. It wasn't even completely a lie – the commander was so busy getting ready for the upcoming event at the Rachel and Leah Center – one that will bring commanders in from across Gilead, Nick heard – that he really was spending most of his time out of the house, not returning until late. He'd managed to put together a short list of names of the commanders who would be attending from out of town. Waterford had suggested home stays for them, and Nick took mental notes every time a new name was mentioned. He scribbled the names onto a small scrap of paper, hollowed out a cigarette, and repacked it, with the names rolled into a tight scroll near the filter. For good measure, he took his fingernail and marked the filter with an X, so he didn't accidentally smoke it himself. He knew the drill, and the day before the event while waiting for the commander, he heard a knock at the car window. Rolling down the window, he knew the question before it was asked, but played along anyway.
"Yeah?"
"Blessed day, Guardian." Another Guardian, one of the other commanders' drivers, was standing on the other side of the car window.
"Under his Eye."
"Sorry to disturb you. Just wondering if I could bum a smoke."
"Oh… Uhh… Sure, hold on just a moment." Nick fumbled with the pack of cigarettes. He knew smoking was common in Gilead, but also knew it was frowned upon, so it was important to get this interaction perfectly right. If he seemed too comfortable being approached for a cigarette, it may have looked rehearsed. If he looked too nervous, it may have drawn suspicion. He pulled out the cigarette marked with the x, and handed it to the Guardian. "Need a light?"
"No thanks, I've got one in the car." And with that, he was walking away. No names exchanged. Cigarette in hand, but not lit. Nick would probably never see him again. Even if he did, the uniforms ensure that everyone looks pretty similar, so he may not have even recognized him. Nick tried not to focus on the faces of Mayday operatives. Less risk if he didn't remember details. He didn't know what Mayday wanted the names for, but it was a small piece of information. One unlikely to put him at risk, and he still owed them.
This had always been his relationship with Mayday. Small bits of information traded for small favors here and there. Getting June out had been a breach of their relationship. It had put him in debt to them. Nick chuckled dryly to himself as he thought about himself in the early days of Gilead. What had been his rules for survival? Don't get attached, don't owe anyone anything. He'd broken both in a big way. But then, no one here gets out alive. He'd certainly let go of any illusions.
Nick headed home for lunch while the commander stayed to put finishing touches on the building. He still preferred Rita's cooking, but knew he had to make some concessions, so he skipped up the stairs to the apartment two at a time, shoveled leftover rosemary potatoes in his mouth, and headed back down, breathing a sigh of relief that he didn't see Eden. He headed into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of Rita's strong, black coffee, and leaned against the counter while he savored the taste. Finally, he found a moment of quiet. He focused on the smell of the coffee, the spiral of the steam coming off the cup, and tried to let his mind go blank. Just for a moment, he wanted to let go of being a Guardian, an Eye, a Mayday informant. He wanted to let go of Eden, of June, of Serena Joy's house of tortures. He wanted to let go of the idea that he will never get to acknowledge his child as his own. Some small, twisted part of his brain thought it may even be easier for June. She'd leave after the baby was weaned, but he would have to stay and watch these monsters raise his child.
Stomping feet down the stairs startled him from his reverie, and he knew instinctively that it was June. He'd memorized her gait by now. In fact, he had memorized her gait before there was anything between them. It helped him anticipate who was coming around the corner if he could get a sense of how everyone walked. Rita shuffled, the commander stomped, Serena clicked. This could only be June. But her pace was fast and heavy. "What's going on?" He rounded the corner to see her rushing into the sitting room, not even bothering to turn and face him. "What happened?" He followed her into the sitting room. No response. Softer this time, "June?"
"I thought she could be decent." She began frantically packing up her things. "I asked about Hannah."
Jesus Christ, June. "You know she'd never do that."
"She is my daughter. I want to see my own daughter." Behind the rage, he heard her choking back tears. And suddenly he realized how wrong he was. How much luckier he would be, to get to stay in the same household, to see their child. And he knew he needed to do more. Hannah had always been a thought he shoved away. Not because she was June's from her life before… with her husband who she loved. He saw that and recognized the relationship between the two of them for the survival mechanism it was for her. But because he was terrified that he didn't have enough pull to get Hannah out, and he was even more afraid that June would do something reckless to get to her.
"We'll find a way." He knew it sounded placating, but he had nothing better to offer. She turned around abruptly, unexpectedly.
"Not if you're on the wall. So you have to sleep with Eden. Uh huh." She was rocking back and forth slightly, looking almost hysterical. Nick couldn't bring himself to look at her. "She's gonna report you; she will make trouble." He forced his eyes upward, willing her to understand where he was coming from.
"She's 15 years old." I'm twice her age.
"What, you have to fuck somebody you don't want to? Poor thing." Anger cut her words and he realized how badly he had misstepped. He didn't know how to explain that he didn't want to subject Eden to the same trauma June had gone through. He didn't want to see Waterford in himself.
"That's not fair.." he starts, but she cut him off.
"Fair?" Shit. Of course that was a stupid thing to say.
"I can't" He tried again, gently this time. He took the bite out of his tone in hopes of helping her to understand. He could barely look at himself these days, could barely keep all of the plates spinning, and Eden may have just been the one thing too far. Everybody breaks. No one here gets out alive.
"Yes you can, because I can't lose you, do you hear me?" How could he tell her that she may have to? How could he tell her that even if he couldn't stay with her, he would do everything in his power to keep June and their baby together, to get her to Hannah, and to get them all out. He got it now. He'd been an idiot, thinking about the future between the two of them. Her future was with her children, maybe with Luke. His future, if he had one, was here.
"I love you." He knew it was selfish, but it was all he could say. She was already walking away anyway. He hoped she understood. He just wanted to say it once.
"She is your wife." He stared after her, feeling sick.
He knew June was right. After everything, for him to die on the wall as a gender traitor wouldn't just leave her alone. It would prevent him from helping her get out of here safely, and that was the most important thing. The only thing that mattered, really. So if that meant he had to sleep with Eden, so be it.
He spent that evening trying to reconcile the growing sense of self-hate with what he knew June needed from him. When the time came, he swallowed hard and led Eden in prayer. Sex in Gilead was, in moments like these, blissfully impersonal. He turned away to undress just enough and thought of June, of the promise he had now made to himself to stay alive long enough to reunite her with Hannah and get them out or die trying, of the feel of her, of her lips. He tried to ignore the sound of Eden climbing under the sheet – issued to them on their wedding day. A consummation sheet with an embroidered hole to ensure that the sex was pious and passionless, for procreation only. He focused on retracing June's body in his mind's eye, and felt himself become aroused at the thought. He held onto that image, knowing he would need it for the act ahead of him, but pushed away the fear that his lack of interest in Eden could get them both killed. He remembered June pulling his hair, yanking his head back in total control in the Boston Globe building. He waivered one last time before turning back to Eden, who was now lying still under the sheet. At the very least, he could be gentle with her. She looked so young and so scared, and he feared for a moment that he wouldn't be able to go through with it. "You're going to be a great father, Nick," Eden tells him, and he's reminded again of that little arm touch June had given him. If they were both the victims here, all he could do was aim to minimize the damage he was to do. He heard her gasp slightly as he entered her, and felt her nails digging into him—not from pleasure the way June's usually did, but from apprehension, fear, and perhaps a bit of pain. He was as gentle as he could be, and focused his mind intently on June, aiming to get this over with as quickly as possible. When he finally finished – it felt like it took forever to him – he is quick to check in. "Are you okay?" He feared the damage he may have done to her, and hated himself for it.
"Yeah." He breathed a sigh of relief. She didn't sound afraid of him, at least. He swallowed back fear as she went on to say that if it didn't work, they'd have to try again. In this moment, he wasn't sure if he was more afraid that it would work, and he would be responsible for a child with her, or that it wouldn't, and that they would have to try again.
He remembered the look June got in her eye that first night, with Serena there. A sort of disassociated look, completely disconnecting her mind from her body. He felt the same way now. He laid down next to Eden and stared vacantly at the ceiling. He could feel his heart pounding, quickly and irregularly, and felt a band tighten around his chest. His breathing got shallow and his vision started to blur and he realized, after all this time, after everything in Gilead that he had endured, he was finally broken. He sat up, willing himself not to pass out, and did his best to maintain his icy exterior. He didn't want to scare Eden, or to raise suspicion, so he walked as steadily as he could toward the door, picked up his cigarettes, shook them vaguely toward Eden to indicate where he was going, and stepped outside. He barely caught himself as his weight gave out beneath him on the staircase, and he prayed he didn't make enough of a sound to draw Eden out of the apartment. What is going on? He could barely catch his breath, and the tightness in his chest wouldn't subside. His first thought was that he was dying, that this was some kind of karmic retribution for what he had just done. But the calm, quiet, carefully regimented and detached part of his brain that he had cultivated in the last several years reminded him that this was not death. It'd been years, but this feeling wasn't completely foreign. Inhale… focus on the wind in your face… exhale. Breathe deeply, evenly. His mind wrestled for control over his nervous system, and with effort he pulled his breathing back under control. He noticed the smell of damp grass in the lawn, the sight of the lights dim in the Waterford's house, the sound of cars down the street. His hands were still trembling as he pulled out a cigarette and lit it, relishing the rush of nicotine and the taste of smoke rolling past his tongue to fill his lungs. He couldn't stay in this house anymore. What was he thinking? He already tried, and failed, to get June out, and he was no closer to finding Hannah now than he was then. June had already ended things with him. She was right, they needed to be smart. And the smartest thing for him was to get out of this house before it killed him. He couldn't survive if he was having panic attacks. Tomorrow was the big event at the Rachel and Leah Center. He would see Commander Pryce there. He could get him out.
Nick stood at his post the next day waiting and watching until he saw him. "Commander Pryce?" He chased after him.
"Nick! Blessed Day, very exciting!"
Nick glanced behind him to make sure that Waterford was out of earshot. "Sir I need your help. Reassign me. A new post- I'll go to the front, wherever." He could hear the slightest tinge of desperation in his voice, something Pryce wouldn't have heard since the time before.
"Nick, slow down."
"I can't stay in that house anymore." Nick drew himself to a stop and turned to look at Commander Pryce. This man knew him as well as almost anyone in Gilead, and some part of Nick still saw him as a savior of sorts.
"Well you've just been issued a woman. Is there a problem?"
"It's not her." The last thing he wanted was Eden to get in trouble. She did nothing wrong, after all. "There's a lot I haven't told you about him. Reassign me." Impulsively, he tacked on a dangerous afterthought. "Promise me you'll protect the handmaid." Nick looked at Commander Pryce and mentally begged him to understand. Since they had started working together, Nick had never asked for anything like this. Pryce seems to be considering the same.
"You have my word."
Nick nodded slightly, trying not to reveal his immense gratitude, and turned to leave the Center. He was not needed as a guard, so he was to return after the event to pick up Waterford. He was ashamed that he'd let himself fall apart so thoroughly, that his fear and anxiety had officially outweighed his love for June or their baby. He felt out of control, dangerous, cowardly. No good to anyone. The front would be perfect for him. The outer edges of Gilead's borders were still kill or be killed, and right now, he was beyond caring which he would rather face. June would be safe. In spite of it all, he trusted Pryce. And Eden would be safe. He registered a flicker of surprise that that mattered to him, but it did. He wanted her safe – just away from him. He couldn't live with himself as long as she was around, and couldn't live with Waterford as long as he saw so much of him in himself. He straightened and buttoned his jacket in a self-soothing reminder to keep it together.
He was already back at the apartment when his radio went off. A terrorist attack at the Rachel and Leah Center. Dead handmaids and commanders. He thought of the list of names he had passed on to Mayday. Was that what this was used for? Dead. Handmaids. June was there. He was already halfway out the door, keys in hand, when the second message came through. Survivors were already transported to the nearest hospital. He was already walking to the car when he ran into Serena Joy. He had completely forgotten that his obligation was first and foremost to the Waterfords, and that he couldn't just rush to the hospital for June's sake. He briefly filled in Mrs. Waterford, and for the second time in far too short a time, he was rushing to the hospital, not sure if June was alive or dead. Serena was quiet. Whether she was worried about the commander, the baby, or both, Nick wasn't sure. He could never quite get a pulse on their relationship. They had seemed happy together when he first started working for them. Traffic in the city was crawling as news spread about the terrorist attack, and the normally relatively fast drive to the hospital was taking nearly an hour.
The longer the drive was taking, the tighter Nick held in his emotions. One misplaced word or action would indicate how deeply afraid he was, and technically, he had no reason to be reeling right now. Serena could be volatile and who knows how she might act out in grief, and on whom. When they finally parked, Nick felt almost like himself again. Steely and steady. Almost dissociative. He had braced himself for the news of June's death, if that's what was to come. Serena immediately headed for reception for news of the commander, but Nick knew where to get information faster. Facts take time to corroborate. Gossip spreads quickly. He headed into the waiting room, where he knew Aunt Lydia would be waiting with the uninjured handmaids. He rounded the corner and scanned the room. A sea of red dresses and white bonnets and the sound of tears filled the room. How was he to find June in this? As if on cue, one of the handmaids stepped aside and he was taken aback at the sight of her tear-streaked face and shining bright blue eyes. Across the room, and given the circumstances, there was little comfort he could offer, but they locked eyes and he offered her a small, tight smile. She returned it, but there was something wary in her eyes. She glanced down the hallway toward the recovery rooms, and he understood the question. Is Waterford still alive? He gave an almost imperceptible nod, indicating that he would find out, and turned on his heel and walked over to reception. "Waterford, please?" He handed over his ID badge, identifying him as a Guardian assigned to the Waterford house. Normally, this level of scrutiny may have been ignored, but in the wake of a terrorist attack, Nick had no doubt that security would be on high alert. The Martha assigned to the front desk scrutinized his ID before showing him down the hallway. "Mrs. Waterford is already in with him. He's in rough shape." She explained.
Serena was sitting next to the hospital bed when he entered. Even by Nick's uninformed standards, the commander looked grim.
"Mrs. Waterford?"
The commander appeared to be semi-conscious and fighting to move. Serena sat next to him, speaking in soft tones and trying to calm him "Fred. Fred, Nick is here."
Waterford settled somewhat at the sound of her voice, but continued to breathe heavily.
"He's been in and out all morning. The office sent those for him to sign but he needs to focus on getting better." Serena gestured to a stack of papers that she seemed overwhelmed with.
"Of course. I can take care of this," Nick took the paperwork from her. "Why don't I drive you home? Get some sleep, a change of clothes." He expected that Serena would be spending a lot of time in the next few weeks in the hospital, and had been here before. Even considering his feelings toward the Waterfords, there was nothing worse than sitting helpless in a hospital.
"Thank you. Maybe later." Nick knew better than to argue.
Commanders Cushing and Putnim pushed open the door. Both of them made Nick feel a little bit nauseous, but Cushing in particular. He had always seemed like a slimeball, even when everyone else was masking their every word in scripture.
"I pray we aren't intruding?"
"No of course not. Blessed day."
"Mrs. Waterford how are you holding up? Do you need anything?"
"Just your prayers, thank you"
"Well you have those, of course." Cushing reached out and touched Serena's hand, and Nick suppressed a shudder.
"We need to pass along some news." Nick stood at attention. "Commander Pryce has gone home to God." No. What? Nick was supposed to be transferred. Was he even an Eye anymore? Nick had always reported to Pryce. He had been undercover the entire time he'd been an Eye, and had never asked about the reporting structure beyond Pryce. Was his name in a file somewhere? He barely heard Serena's rote response of sympathy.
"May God grant him eternal rest." And his transfer. Shit. What about his transfer? What about June? Would she still be protected? And Pryce.. Nick had known Pryce for years now. He could feel tears welling up in his eyes, and turned away from the group to collect himself.
"Yes by his hand…." Commander Putnim glanced at Nick, "Did you know him well?"
"Not really, no." Nick kept his response short. His vocal cords felt tight.
"He was a true man of God."
Nick nodded in response, not sure what else to say. A man of God, maybe. A good man, questionably. But a friend of sorts, or at least an ally? Relationships were complicated in Gilead, but at least he could trust Pryce to a degree.
"Commander Cushing will be taking on Pryce's security duties," Nick's eyes darted to Cushing. He had never liked him. Did he work for Cushing now? Nick didn't think so. It was more likely that he was just not an Eye anymore. Shedding one layer of subterfuge, maybe, but also a layer of protection. He remembered June's accusing tone, "You're an Eye. You're untouchable." Not anymore.
"God saves his most difficult tests for the truly faithful," Nick watches as Cushing leans almost comically close to Waterford laying on his hospital bed. "I will find every person involved in this barbaric attack and they will be punished. I promise you that."
"May God bless your work," Serena muttered, as the two commanders headed back out the door. Uncharacteristically uncomfortable and unsure of what to do with himself, Nick picked up a metal water bottle sitting on a side table and starts to fidget with it.
"Just let me know when you're ready to go, Mrs. Waterford. Take your time."