A/N: 07/13/2017 Phew, I'm back!

Reader101: Aww thank you! Here's another chapter for you :)

TheFantasyRocker: I know, right?! Like it is SO hard to find BrahmsxGreta fics! Anyway I'm glad you're liking it so far! Hope you enjoy this next chapter as well :P

Disclaimer: I do not own The Boy.

I'm the boy with the ironed shirt

I'm the boy who watches you work

I'm the boy who's calling your house

I'm the boy who's freaking you out

Passenger – Night Vision Binoculars~

Chapter three: The Rules~

Greta continued with her plan of following the rules.

She took Brahms to the reading room, as she would normally do after eating breakfast and cleaning the traps, and moved to their usual places by the piano. She pulled out one of the chairs for him to sit down, waiting anxiously but expectantly. It was so hard not to glance at the broken shutters leading into the wall cavity, where she and Malcolm had almost escaped.

Almost, her mind emphasized.

Brahms ignored her invitation to sit, taking one look at the seat presented to him and walking right past it, as uninterested as a baby with a boring toy. Greta, shocked, stood rooted in her spot, watching as he walked clear to the other side of the room and sat down on the couch.

She looked down at the rickety wooden chair she was still holding, slightly offended by his refusal to sit but also understanding; neither chairs were comfortable to sit in for long periods of time (or even short periods, for that matter), and she had a feeling that Brahms would be especially uncomfortable due to his large size. It would be a wonder if they could get through a single reading session without the legs of the chair buckling from underneath him.

Setting the chair aside, Greta stepped towards the bookshelf and skimmed the various titles. She came across the one she had been reading to the doll-Brahms, before everything had gone to hell. If she remembered correctly, they were a little more than halfway through.

Figuring Brahms would most likely want to finish it, she grabbed the book and turned around, moving past the piano to join him on the couch. She noticed that he had strategically placed himself in the middle of the sofa, assuring she would be the same distance from him no matter where she sat.

Brahms rested his hand on the cushion to his left, and Greta took the hint. She cautiously sat down, her entire right side burning due to his body being so close to hers, and feebly attempted to make herself comfortable.

She opened up the book and began skimming the pages, searching for the chapter they had left off on. She found the desired page all too soon, and took the liberty of stalling for as long as possible before she actually had to read out loud.

It wasn't that she wasn't confident in her speaking abilities, or that she was embarrassed. It was just that she really, really didn't want to. The queasiness in her stomach had more or less subsided, but she still felt sick at the thought of playing nice and reading a book to a grown man, especially when that grown man was Brahms. Still, she would have to do it sooner or later, and it would be best for the both of them to just get it over with as soon as possible.

After a solid minute of silence, Greta focused her eyes on the first sentence of the page, finally opening her mouth to read.

Just as she made to speak, however, Brahms once again shocked her into silence; he bent down and grabbed hold of her ankles, pulling them up onto the couch and twisting her around so she was facing him. He then slid his hands up her calves, resting them atop her knees. His eyes locked with hers as he gently pried them apart, being deliberately slow as though he didn't want to startle her. It was too late for that, of course, but her mind greatly appreciated being given the time to absorb and predict his movements.

Greta stared with wide eyes as she watched Brahms twist around on the couch, turning until his back was to her, and she remained stock-still when he began to lower himself onto her. He leaned back until his head was resting against her chest, and every muscle in her body went painfully rigid as he relaxed against her. Panic shot through her, and she felt as lost and helpless as a rabbit in a trap.

Brahms crossed his hands against his chest and sighed, seemingly satisfied with their new positions. Seconds went by, and she decided that he must have been waiting for her to read.

Though his weight wasn't crushing, Greta felt as though she were suffocating, becoming inescapably engulfed until all she knew was him. She could see him, feel him, smell him, hear him...she could almost taste him, even. He took up all of her senses, and it took all of her concentration to keep her mind afloat in the midst of it all. She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing, trying to come down from the miniature panic attack she was having.

Brahms seemed to grow conscious of the effect he was having on her, because he brought his left hand to rest on the outside of her thigh, stroking her jeans with his thumb. She was sure it was meant to be a comforting gesture, but it hardly helped; if anything, it only made her feel worse. But he was being patient with her, she'd give him that. And given the circumstances, it was all she could ask for.

After a couple of minutes her panic subsided, and Greta was ready to once again try and read the book. She held it up so she could see, arms wrapping around Brahms as she did so, and stared at the first word on the page.

Her back rested uncomfortably against the armrest and her right leg was crushed between him and the back of the couch, but she didn't dare voice her discomfort. For all she knew, this was some strange fantasy he'd been dreaming of playing out with her, and she knew better than to express disapproval at something so (seemingly) innocent. She reminded herself that it could be much worse.

Clearing her throat, she began to read.

It felt like a lifetime before it was over, but somehow she was able to make it through an hour-and-a-half's worth of reading.

Though she had been dreadful of it at first, Greta found herself actually enjoying the book, even losing herself completely in it from time to time. Which, given her situation, was more than welcome. Brahms had been quiet as a mouse, too, not moving so much as a centimeter the entire time she read. Which was, again, more than welcome. She couldn't imagine a better way of things playing out.

Greta lowered the book and cleared her throat, pleased with herself for surviving a little longer. Brahms sighed, long and loud, and she had to fight the urge to follow suit. Reading aloud really was a tiresome thing. She couldn't imagine being a popular author or writer and having to do book tours and live readings. She cringed at the thought.

She set the book on the floor as Brahms began to stretch, and she bit her lip to keep from groaning in pain as his shifting weight jostled her bladder. She'd had to use the bathroom almost since they started reading, but she had kept her mouth shut because – at the time – she didn't have to go that bad. Now, however, as Brahms' weight pressed uncomfortably down on her, she was forced to acknowledge the direness of her situation.

Clearing her throat, Greta took a moment to sweeten her voice. "Brahms, you have to get up now. We're done."

There was a long, drawn out moment of silence, and she could tell that she had struck a nerve, no matter how small. Ultimately, however, she was met with compliance. Brahms slowly raised himself off of her (though with clear reluctance), and Greta immediately felt the pressure disappear from her bladder. She sat up, relishing the relief.

She watched as Brahms stood up from the couch, eyes widening when she realized that he was making his way towards the record player.

Oh no. She was not going to sit down for another hour, especially not for opera music.

She moved to get off the couch, eager to stop him- "Brahms, no!" -but quickly regretted her decision.

As she stood up, she put all of her weight onto her right foot, which had gone numb during the first half-hour of reading, and fell flat onto her face.

She cursed inwardly, deeply annoyed with her own stupidity.

She felt Brahms' pounding footsteps beneath her hands as she pushed herself up, and panic shot through her when he kneeled at her side and grabbed hold of her wrist. The feeling came and went as quickly as a bolt of lightning once she realized he was only trying to help her up, but unfortunately she couldn't accept his assistance; the millions of tiny pins and needles working their way through her leg weren't going to allow her to stand for at least another minute.

She stretched her hand past his hold and gave Brahms' wrist a meaningful squeeze to let him know that she couldn't get up yet, and he stayed dutifully by her side as she tried not to laugh from the overwhelmingly tingly feeling in her calve.

She squinted in puzzlement when he tilted her arm carefully and cocked his head from side to side, worriedly looking her over. It took her a moment to realize that he was searching for injuries, and a look of realization passed over her face as she hurried to reassure him.

"Oh...no, Brahms, I'm not hurt. It's just...my leg went numb. From when we were reading? I'm okay, really."

Brahms finally met her gaze, and the amount of worry in his eyes was staggering. She would never have expected such affection and care to come from someone as twisted as him, and yet she could feel it practically radiating off of him, beating against her subconscious like waves on a rocky shore. She almost had to look away from the sight.

"Um...hey." She said, getting his attention. "I really have to go to the bathroom. Do you think you could help me up the stairs? I'd really appreciate it."

Seemingly eager at the prospect of being useful, Brahms quickly nodded. She began to smile in return but stopped short when, instead of merely grabbing hold of her hand and heaving her to her feet, he engulfed her in his arms and scooped her up. He swept her off the floor with ease, and she let out a tiny squeak as he rose to his full height.

She felt as though she were hanging off the edge of a cliff being so high in the air, and she subconsciously gripped the fabric of Brahms' shirt in her hands as she peered down at the floor; if he dropped her, it would be a long way down.

Slightly adjusting his hold on her, Brahms proceeded to carry her out of the room and up the menacingly tall flights of stairs to the bathroom.

By the time he put her down, the feeling had returned to her leg, and she muttered a quick thank-you as she hurried to lock herself in the restroom and do her business.

She barely noticed the stench of her puke from earlier that morning as she undid the clasp around her pants and sat down, reveling in the peaceful quiet the tiled floors and walls provided her.

Happy that she finally had some time to herself, she decided to think.

Her plan was simple enough; just play along with Brahms' rules until he let his guard down, and then grab Malcolm and go. But how would she do that, exactly? She could hardly get Brahms to leave her alone long enough to use the bathroom, let alone creep through the wall cavities and see if Malcolm was still alive.

She might have felt a bit better about the whole thing if she just knew what Brahms was thinking. He was just so unpredictable, so hard to read. She couldn't grasp the idea of someone being so violently murderous one moment and then mildly gentle the next. And though he had protected her from Cole, there was no excuse for his behavior when it came to Malcolm. He had been nothing but kind to them (well, to she and the doll Brahms, at least) and though he had tried multiple times to get her to break the rules (succeeding on more than one occasion) he was still a good person. There was no need to hurt him like that.

Malcolm beat him over the head with a fire poker, her conscience reminded her.

Yeah, because he was dragging me off to God knows where, she thought back.

He basically tried to kill Brahms, Her mind countered. Of course he wouldn't be feeling friendly towards him after he practically betrayed him like that.

Well, her brain had a point there. Malcolm had known Brahms – in a sense, anyway – much longer and much better than she ever had, and she could only imagine having someone she knew and trusted come running at her with a hatchet (or in his case, fire poker). And as much as she didn't want to admit it, she supposed she might have reacted the same way as he did if someone had tried to kill her and take away the one human being she had any hope of having contact with...

Dammit, she thought. This isn't helping. I'm supposed to be coming up with a plan to rescue Malcolm and get the hell out of here, not finding reasons to sympathize with a psychopath!

Greta pursed her lips and grit her teeth, trying to hide her irritation with herself as she flushed the toilet and dried her hands off on a nearby towel.

Okay, think, she told herself. If what you just thought is true – if Brahms only hurt Cole and Malcolm because they had hurt him – then it's fairly safe to assume that you've got nothing to be afraid of, right? You haven't tried to hurt him yet. You've done nothing wrong that would cause you to lose his trust. Use that to your advantage.

She nodded to herself as she put the towel back in its place.

Yes. That was what she would do. She would use his blind trust in her to further her plans of escape.

It was underhanded and manipulative, but it was no worse than anything Brahms had done himself. All she had to do was follow the rules and pretend that everything was fine, and when the moment was right, she would take Malcolm and leave.

Greta looked at herself in the mirror, trying to put on a brave face before she had to face her captor again.

She didn't want to leave her little haven (after all, it was the one place she could be alone and think properly in this Godforsaken house) but if she took too long, Brahms would grow suspicious. And the last thing she wanted was for him to doubt her. She took a breath, calmed herself, and turned towards the door.

Brahms was waiting for her just outside, just as she knew he'd be, and she smiled as brightly and happily as possible when their eyes met.

She led him back down to the reading room and sat on the couch, watching as he made his way over to the music player. His fingers skimmed the various records on the shelf until he found the one he wanted, and Greta watched as he put it on the spindle.

Her ears pricked as the needle met the record, and she readied herself.

It was time for yet another endless hour of music appreciation.