A/N: 11/09/2018 FINALLY BACK WITH A NEW CHAPTER. GEEZ. I am so sorry this took so long, I wanted to upload this for Halloween but as you can see I'm a little late. Hope you enjoy this chapter anyways, hopefully I haven't lost my touch X(

Thank you to Nicole, Ichigoblossom23, Guest, Brahmsy, cat105, GenderbentQueen, Emma White, OneViruz, SKYSPRITE, Ponyboy18, Jennifer, fanfic authoress, watchermostcharmed, HappyHime, Lemon Biscuit, and redxcanary for your reviews. You guys are freaking amazing and the support you give me for my writing is just awesome. Honestly I may never have updated if not for you guys :)

DarknessAndDeath: Yes, I totally ship GretaxBrahms romantically. Though I can't really see a happy future for the two of them realistically, I do think that with the right mental help Brahms could learn to be a normal, decent human being that would be allowed out in public (I mean Brahms is pretty intelligent so it's not like his mind is lost). I do plan on writing a happy ending for these two though, hopefully it doesn't disappoint :)

Disclaimer: I do not own The Boy.


Show me how it ends, it's alright

Show me how defenseless you really are

Satisfied and empty inside

Well that's alright, let's give this another try

Breaking Benjamin - So Cold~


Chapter nine: Encounter~


When Malcolm had offered to let her stay with him until things were sorted out with the police and the Heelshire's will, Greta hadn't expected there to be other occupants. She had always perceived Malcolm to be a sort of bachelor or loner, and so was very surprised to find a mother and two very young siblings waiting on the other side of the door as he opened it for her to go inside. Wide eyes on little faces stared her down, strangely awed at having such a pretty stranger in the house. And then the inevitable barrage of questions came.

"Are you the one everyone's been talking about?"

"How did you escape?"

"You're so pretty."

"Who was that other bloke they said went missing?"

"Wha- hey- it's just until she gets properly settled," Malcolm kindly but firmly told his siblings, interrupting their ridiculously loud chatter.

"Is she the one that's been on the telly?" One of them - the middle child, she guessed - asked.

Greta looked questioningly at Malcolm, who gave his younger brother a correcting look. As if to prove the validity of their question, the children led them into the living room of their tiny flat and switched on the television, flicking a couple of channels over to the news station.

"Authorities are currently still investigating the case of American nanny Greta Evans and the sudden death of Mr. and Mrs. Heelshire, who were found two weeks prior drowned in a lake, apparently by suicide. The sole living heir to the Heelshire fortune and estate, Brahms Heelshire, previously thought dead, is currently being held in an asylum for the criminally insane. It is currently unclear what will happen to the remaining fortune left behind by the late Heelshires, but we will keep you up to date the moment we get more information."

Greta looked to Malcolm, an odd look of shock decorating her features. Malcolm only looked at her apologetically, as though to say he was sorry but there was nothing he could do. She supposed she should have expected to see herself on the news, but she hadn't thought much of it since waking in the hospital. It had been the last thing on her mind up to this point, and she wondered how much the story had been twisted in her home country, or if it had even made it that far. Watching it on the news, though, it almost felt as if it wasn't her at all, but someone else's story to feel sorry about.

It's like something from a horror movie, she thought, not quite believing it herself.

How often did things like this happen? Let alone in the quiet British countryside? She should have known better than to think anyone would respect her privacy after the experience.

"Okay," Malcolm's mother cheered abruptly, clapping her hands and making everyone jump. "Who's ready for supper?"


"My God, Greta, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Sandy."

After dinner, Greta had asked very kindly if she could use the house phone, a luxury which Malcolm's mother graciously granted. She had a feeling that under normal circumstances she wouldn't have been allowed (and she knew international calls weren't cheap) but Malcolm's mother was kind, and therefore understood her need to touch base with her sister back in America, if only for a few minutes.

"God, I can't believe what they're saying on the news. They haven't really told us much over here, though. It's like your story is being overlooked by all the other crazy stuff that's going on...it makes me mad."

"Don't be," Greta consoled. "I'm perfectly fine, so it's not like my story needs justice."

In all honesty, Greta was glad they weren't focusing much on what had happened to her back home. It would mean less shame and embarrassment for her once she returned. The last thing she wanted was to be known as that girl who had been held hostage by a British psycho.

Her sister sighed. "You're right. I guess I can't expect anything different. I'm glad you're okay, Greta."

Greta smiled even though her sibling couldn't see it. "Me too. Tell Morgan I said hi."

"I will. Love you."

"Love you too."

She gently set the phone back on its receiver, mixed emotions swirling inside her.


Greta's eyes drifted open, darkness meeting her.

Malcolm had put her up in their only spare guest room, which had been converted into a crafting room some odd years ago, and it would be polite to say the space was a little cramped. Things had to be moved around and dug through just to get to the pull-out bed, and it was so small Greta doubted another person could even fit onto it properly. Though in all honesty she was glad for it; she knew he would never hurt her, or try to put her in an uncomfortable situation, but Malcolm still clearly cared for her, and in a way she knew now she didn't reciprocate. After Brahms, she didn't think she could handle being intimate with anyone for a very long time, and the bed merely gave her an easy excuse for Malcolm.

Pale, shadow-covered cement greeted her vision, and she was so tired she felt nothing but exhaustion and irritation at having woken up. She closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the cold wall, trying to get back to sleep, when she felt a mild buzzing at the back of her skull. The kind you get when you feel like you're being watched. Slowly, Greta opened her eyes, and shifted onto her back.

She nearly screamed when her eyes landed on a tall figure hulking over the edge of her bed, their black silhouette like a void ready to suck her soul from her body. She reigned in the sound rising from her throat and turned it into a strangled gasp, her hand rushing to her mouth in hopes none of the other occupants in the flat overheard. Several very long seconds passed before she decided that no one else had been roused from their sleep, and she gradually dropped her hand with trembling movements.

Rustling curtains by an open window beyond the intruder told her of their means of entry, and upon looking closer, she could see the edges of a mask on their face. Her muscles immediately relaxed at knowing who her visitor was, but she wasn't sure if that was a good thing.

"Brahms?"

A dream.

This had to be a dream.

There was no way-

He raised his head at the sound of his name, and as he stepped closer and the light hit him, she saw that she was right.

Except it wasn't Brahms, not like she remembered.

His mask was wrinkled and misshapen, and there were carefully painted brows and lashes around the eye openings. It looked to be paper mache, and she remembered Dr. Bonham telling her that they had confiscated his mask. He must have made himself a new one.

"Brahms..." she said again, cautiously. "You shouldn't be here. If anyone finds out you're here it'll mean big trouble for everyone."

Her mind whirled; how had he found her? How did he know where she was? How had he gotten here? She bit her tongue to stop herself from saying more; she hated that she still felt the instinct to speak to him as though he were a child. This was a man - a dangerous man - and she had to treat him as such.

"Did you mean it, Greta?" He asked suddenly, and she couldn't help but furrow her brows in confusion as he tilted his head and stepped closer. "Did you mean what you said?"

Puzzled and slightly panicked, Greta racked her brain for what he was referring to.

No...you...you can't...see me like this.

Brahms, I don't care what you look like. I just want to see you. Please.

You need to leave. You can't see me like this, no one can see me like this!

Her lips parted as the memories of their last conversation drifted back to her, and Greta stared up at him, so close now, with as comforting and honest of an expression as she could muster.

"Of course I meant it, Brahms. Have I ever lied to you?"

Had she? She had deceived him, yes, many a time. But lied? She couldn't think of a time she had flat out lied. Not to him.

She knew she was going out on a limb as Brahms began to seriously consider her question, and Greta sincerely hoped for both of their sakes that he wasn't able to recall a time when she had been dishonest with him. She waited, the seconds passed, and ultimately Brahms shook his head 'no'. She breathed a sigh of relief, and instantly felt more at ease. That ease was quickly crushed, however, when Brahms slowly came to sit down beside her and gently took her hands in his own, placing her fingers on either side of his mask.

Greta's mouth fell open in shock, not quite believing what was happening. The one thing she'd resisted doing, the source of the curiosity she felt burning behind her eyes every time she looked at him, the thing she'd once used to remind herself how dangerous he was, was being offered freely to her right now. She blinked, pursing her lips and thinking. Considering.

She knew what she was going to do. They both did. But that didn't mean she felt comfortable with it.

Unable to control herself any longer, Greta gently closed her fingers around the edges of the mask, and slowly, carefully pulled it off. She tried to control the gasp that escaped her lips but was unsuccessful; nothing could have prepared her for the sight of his true face.

In all honesty, it wasn't as bad as she had originally pictured; she had conjured up this twisted, vomit-inducing, god-awful Freddy Krueger type face that even a mother couldn't love. She knew it was cruel, and that Brahms wasn't a terrible person for his looks alone (albeit a misguided one), but when you wonder about something long enough your imagination simply starts to run wild. And she had figured it best to assume the worst in case she ever did get the chance to see his face, as she was now.

Brahms had grown rigid as she stared and said nothing, and Greta quickly made to make light of it. She didn't want him assuming the worst.

"This is what you were worried about?"

She smiled and raised a hand to his face, keeping her movements slow so as not to startle him. The tips of her fingers brushed against the leathery texture of the burnt skin beside his eye; it really wasn't all that bad, only a portion of his face had been burned. And judging from the scorch marks she remembered seeing on the side of the Heelshire home, it could have been much, much worse.

She stroked his face in a loving manner, her thumb brushing over his lips. "You're beautiful, Brahms. Very handsome."

And he was. Without the burns, he would have been rather attractive. Hell, even with them, he looked alright. It was strange how an injury could boost or degrade one's appearance in the eyes of others. Scars, especially.

She smiled gently at him as she ran her hand over his face, memorizing every dip and curve as best she could; she might not get the chance again. It wasn't until their lips brushed that she realized how close they were, and beyond her better judgment, Greta found herself closing her eyes and allowing herself to be kissed, to kiss him back. Brahms' lips were soft and gentle, only the corner of his mouth being burnt and slightly warped, and Greta found that while she was extremely uncomfortable, she didn't feel even the slightest hint of disgust at being so close to him. She would be lying to herself if she said she hadn't thought about it, wondered what it would be like to kiss him at some point; but they were merely passing thoughts she hadn't considered could ever become a reality the way they were now.

Brahms kissed her with a bit more fervor, backing her into the wall as an audible 'thump' vibrated through the room. Normally, she would have been concerned as to whether or not Malcolm or anyone else had heard her (did Brahms realize whose house this was?), but at the moment it was the least of her worries. He drifted from her mouth to her jaw, making his way down her neck as she wrapped her arms around him and threaded her fingers through his hair.

The sudden sound of sirens broke them apart, and Brahms hurried to the window to see what the commotion was. It sounded like an ambulance, but it may just as well have been police cars.

He looked back to her, and she could tell leaving her side was the last thing he wanted, but Greta was far more concerned with his safety than anything else.

"You need to get out of here," she warned. "Now."

His body language told her he was torn - he didn't want to go but he knew he couldn't stay, either - but she knew him; fact and logic would win out over all else. As the sirens sounded closer, Brahms locked eyes with her one final time before taking his mask and putting it back in place, climbing out the window and disappearing into the night. Greta instinctively kicked off her sheets and ran after him, but to her dismay he was nowhere to be seen. The sirens came blaring around the corner - they were police - and she felt her blood run cold as they came closer.

They were here for her. She knew it. She-

But she watched, frozen in place as the police cars sped toward her flat...and right past her.

She stared, feeling a little foolish and more than a little paranoid as they disappeared around the next block. So they weren't here for her. For Brahms. But if that was the case, then that could only mean-

"They don't know he's here," she whispered to herself.

And if they didn't know he was there, that could only mean they didn't know he had escaped yet. Her head hurt to think of how he had even maneuvered his way to where she was, let alone escape. When she thought about it, she supposed the mental institute wasn't that far away from where she was staying with Malcolm, but how could he even know of her location? Or how to get there? As far as she knew, he had never left the Heelshire home. It really didn't make any sense, but she also knew that Brahms was far more intelligent than he let on. If he wanted to know how to get to her, he would find a way.

The sirens faded and Greta reluctantly shut the window, drew the curtains and got back into bed, feelings of restlessness overtaking her even in sleep.


"So what have you decided?"

Greta's head shot up, attention swayed from her eggs and toast. "Hm?"

"About the will," Malcolm's mother asked, handing her a cup of tea. Greta didn't like tea, but accepted it out of respect for Malcolm and all his family had done for her. "That's quite a hefty fortune you've inherited. Should you accept it."

She could tell that Malcolm's mother was just curious and not trying to intentionally be nosy, but she herself didn't really know what she was going to do. She hadn't really thought about it all that much, only what she was going to do about Brahms. But the sudden question emitted an automatic response that even she hadn't been prepared for.

"Oh. Um...I- I think I'm gonna keep it."

The clattering of utensils against plates ceased around her and everyone was suddenly staring.

"...Really?" Malcolm asked, shocked but trying to hide it. "After all you've been through in that house you want to...keep it?"

Controlling the amount of blood rushing to her face, Greta nodded and tried to make light of the subject. "Uh...yeah. I mean, the only thing that made it a bad experience was Brahms, and...he's gone now. And it's a nice house. I'd hate to see it crumble away. Or worse; get bought out by some rich snob that only stays there on 'holiday'."

The kids chuckled at her attempt at a British accent, and Malcolm and his mother tried to hide their smiles. They were so similar, she noticed. It was obvious who Malcolm took after.

"Uh...well, I...guess we better head to the police station after breakfast, yeah?"

Greta nodded, albeit reluctantly; even she couldn't believe what she had just said.

Oh, well. Can't go back on it now.

"Yeah. Yeah, sounds great."

The kids left to get ready for school and the grownups continued eating, and Greta finished her eggs and toast with a nauseous feeling in her stomach.


A/N: I actually wanted this chapter to be longer, but I thought this was a good cutoff point. I had planned on ending the story with this chapter, but I think we have at least one or two more to go before that can happen. Much thanks to anyone still reading this, I know it's been a while and thank you for your patience ;^;

'Til next time!