heads up guys: if you've followed my Fillmore fics up to this point, you should recognize a certain scene/turn of events from the chapter of Influential that inspired this fic… lemme know if you recognize it. you'll get brownie points ;P

READ ON. I'm sure the suspense is killing both of us.

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CRACKS IN HER ARMOR

CHAPTER FIVE: FEEDING FURY

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Friday afternoon, 12:52 P.M.

His head throbbed in his skull. Fillmore hadn't taken a hit like that in a while. Not since the summer he spent at the Krav Maga studio. He groaned and peeled his eyes open, stars littering his blurry vision.

"Fillmore?" Ingrid's hushed voice met his ears.

He sniffed, rapidly blinking to clear his sight. Where was she? Where were they? It was clear they weren't in the greenhouse anymore. They were somewhere darker, colder. He shivered, then shook his head to reorient himself.

"The hell'd he hit me with?" Fillmore muttered as the room spun. "A fuckin' anvil?" He tried to bring his hand up to put pressure against his pounding head but realized his hands were bound behind his back.

"Flowerpot," Ingrid's hoarse voice answered through an exhale. She was relieved that Fillmore was finally awake. Ingrid was far from a panicky person, but he'd been unconscious for a long time… which left her alone with their captors for much longer than she'd like to be. Once the two partners were subdued and no longer deemed a threat, they hadn't paid her much attention, (which she was thankful for) but she knew it wouldn't last. They'd stepped out to sweep the perimeter and find out "just how fucked" they were (Marvin's words, not hers) and she knew they'd come back with a plan; either to turn themselves in, or make the two officers' days much, much worse.

And now that Fillmore's awake, she no longer had to face them alone.

Fillmore's eyes shot open at her answer and he yanked at his restraints, which didn't budge an inch. The stainless steel cuffs around his wrists clanged against the metal pole sandwiched between his and his partners' backs. "I've been trying that for the last twenty minutes," she told him. "It's no use. They're real cuffs."

"Since when did perps start using actual handcuffs?" he whispered and continued to struggle behind her. "We don't even use actual handcuffs. How is that fair?" Ingrid sighed but it came out more like a wheeze. At this, Fillmore paused, recalling the moments that led them here. The last thing he remembered was seeing her in the clutches of a guy twice her size, his meaty hand squeezing her throat. He grimaced – did he hurt her after he lost consciousness? He turned his head as far as he could to try and catch a glimpse of her. "You okay?"

"Peachy," Ingrid answered, but she was clearly lying. She cleared her throat, but didn't do much – her voice remained scratchy, like she'd been coughing a lot. She turned her head, their temples briefly touching. "You?"

He scoffed before refocusing on the task at hand. If he worried too much about Ingrid, he'd never be able to get them outta here. "Never better," he answered.

Ingrid tsked. "So, we're both liars?"

"And not very good ones." He felt around for the bobby pin at his belt, more thankful than ever for his paranoid tendencies. After a few moments of feeling around for it, he located it at the small of his back and pulled it out. Maneuvering it between his fingers, he pushed himself up and pressed his back flat against the pole to give himself more leverage. "Where are we?" he asked, unaware of the fact he'd accidentally pinned Ingrid's hands beneath his backside and the post.

"The garden shed," she answered. Her face flushed, her brows furrowing as she tried to pull her hands out from underneath him. "Do you mind?"

"Shit, sorry." But he didn't free her hands.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"I'm trying to get us out of here. What are you doing?" he asked, his voice dripping sarcasm. His fingers were fumbling. He pushed himself further up the pole and off the floor, finally getting off her hands. He swore with frustration. "I can't reach the lock on my cuffs."

"With what? Your nonexistent fingernails?"

"Nah, I keep a bobby pin in my belt in case of emergencies," he explained with a grunt of effort.

Ingrid blinked. How hadn't she thought of that? "Fillmore, that's genius."

She could practically feel the smug look on his face. "You can thank me later." He went quiet for a moment before he swore again, and something bounced off her back.

"Please don't tell me you just dropped it."

"I didn't just drop it," he lied. "It… kinda sprung."

"When we get out of here, I'm going to kill you."

"Wait, I got it."

The door to the shed swung open and Ingrid inadvertently jumped while Fillmore dropped back to the floor to avoid suspicion. Ingrid stifled a groan as the three perps filed in, her heart pumping. Here we go, she thought, forcing all the intrusive and unhelpful worries from her mind. Now that Fillmore was conscious and alert, it was time to focus on getting out of here.

"There are belts everywhere, Nate," Marvin Hurst said shutting the door behind them. "We should've just turned ourselves in."

"I don't know about you, but I'd rather go down fighting the belts than bend over for them," Nathan retorted, swiping at the dried blood under his now-crooked nose and glaring at the officers on the floor. Fillmore shot him an ice cold glare in return. The perp's glare deepened. "What're you looking at?"

"A couple of idiots," Fillmore quipped.

Adrenaline racing through her veins, Ingrid tapped his hand with the back of her fingers. "Don't," she warned under her breath.

Fillmore gulped down a follow-up insult. She's right, he thought bitterly, don't make this any worse than it already is. So, he bit his tongue to keep from engaging further and returned his attention to the handcuffs.

"You guys, this wasn't the plan." Sorin, the smallest of the three, cowered in the corner cleaning his glasses. "We were supposed to air all their dirty laundry, not take officers hostage. This has gotten way out of hand."

"No," Nathan shouted at him. The smaller student flinched, as did Ingrid. She prayed none of them noticed. "Those 'officers' were supposed to do their jobs and dig it all up themselves so those assholes pay for what they did. We led them right to the real bad guys and they're still not chasing after them!" He turned to glare at Ingrid. "It's notright!"

The unmitigated malice in his dark eyes unsettled her. She gulped, heart pounding harder against her chest as he stomped towards her.

"Maybe we oughta show 'em what it feels like," he growled, closing the short space between them and pulling Ingrid up by the collar. She cried out in a mixture of surprise and pain as her back scraped against the rusty metal. He ripped her orange belt off with one hard jerk and discarded it on the floor. "Maybe take some pictures of our own. I know a few guys who'd love to get their hands on pictures of a pretty belt in distress. Or rather, undress." He took two fistfuls of her shirt and ripped it down the middle in one fluid motion.

Ingrid's breath caught as long-buried memories flashed before her eyes, shivering as the cool air hit her freshly exposed skin. His hands all over her, lips traveling down her body. The pictures, everywhere—

Ingrid bit the inside of her cheek to bring herself back to the here-and-now. You cannot show him fear, she reminded herself, matching his salacious gaze with a bold glare. She set her jaw to keep it from trembling. Nathan grinned down at her and said, "Maybe that'll make 'em do something about it."

"Don't fucking touch her!" Fillmore bellowed, rabidly fighting his restraints. But all he could do was listen to Nathan's threats and try to break free in time to stop him. His protests mixed with those of the other two, all begging him to stop.

But Ingrid Third doesn't beg.

"Go ahead," she snapped, squaring her shoulders in spite of her trembling hands. She balled them into fists to make it less noticeable. "Stoop to Maverick's level. You'll get all the justice reserved for both of you, and he'll get away scot-free."

Nathan snarled, looming over her. "Don't you dare compare me to that prick."

She angled her chin up and matched his malicious scowl with her own. "Then don't become him." He huffed in response, his nostrils flaring. A silent stare-down ensued. She was acutely aware of how closely her almost-bare chest was to his; with every controlled breath she took to keep her steel resolve intact, her breasts brushed against his. But she refused to break eye contact, no matter how pungent the musty aroma of sweat mixed with his cologne was. She would not gag, would not shake. Would not falter. Not even when he pressed himself flat against her and the tips of their noses brushed against each other.

Ingrid Third doesn't break.

She could headbutt him. She could put her combat boots to good use and stomp on his toes, or knee him in the groin. But it would only make him angrier, and he was angry enough. She needed to deescalate the situation and gain his trust, not feed is fury (however righteous it may be). As much as she would rather establish dominanceover him in the moment, it would prove counterproductive in the long term. Hewas the aggressor.

She needed to be smarter.

Marvin stepped closer to them. "This isn't what Eden wanted, man. She just wanted someone to listen. She doesn't want it happening to anyone else, not even a belt."

Nathan snapped on him. "Who's side are you on?"

"Eden's," Ingrid interjected. When his steely gaze flew back down to her, she continued before he could get a word in. "We have proof, Nathan. We have the texts. We have the pictures." His bottom lip twitched with the ghost of a frown. "She's in there talking to the principal and the Safety Patrol Commissioner right now."

He scoffed. "And what the hell are they gonna do? Suspend her for taking matters into her own hands? Expel her? She's been punished enough!"

Ingrid couldn't agree more. "Not if I can do anything about it," she answered with a shake of her head. "But I can't do that without your help." At that, his eyes flickered with something akin to confusion and hope. She was getting through to him. "What he did was a crime, a real crime. With your help, Appleton won't just expel him. Maverick could be looking at prison time."

Nathan was taken aback – so much so, he took an actual step back from her.

She turned to Marvin. "And we know Candace sabotaged your campaign for Aero-Club President. If you can give us the proof, we can dethrone her." Marvin's eyes lit up, and she looked over at Sorin, still cowering in the corner. "And Sorin, if you can help us prove that you had nothing to do with Ezra's plagiarism, we can put in a good word for you at the University. Maybe get your internship back."

His mouth formed a small 'o'. "Y-You can do that?"

She nodded. "But not without your help," she repeated.

Fillmore's lock-picking process was taking far too long. From the angle he was sitting at, he couldn't see what Nathan was doing to Ingrid behind him. He could feel her clenched hands trembling against the metal just above his head and it was making focusing on getting free much more difficult. All he wanted to do was get up and wring that asshole's neck.

"And you have to let us go, man," Fillmore blurted, unable to keep his mouth shut. From his aggravated tone, Ingrid could tell he was still struggling with the cuffs. She needed to buy him more time.

"He's right," she agreed. "Holding safety patrol officers hostage doesn't look good on you. No matter the circumstances."

Nathan shook his head. "Nah. Nah, no deal," he argued, wagging a finger in her face. "Before I let you belts go—" He pressed two hard fingers into the center of her exposed chest, right above her racing heart. "—I need a guarantee."

Marvin threw his hands up. "Are you serious, man? Weren't you listening? They wanna help us. Help Eden!"

"Bullshit. They're not gonna go up against such 'highly regarded members' of the student government." Nathan pinched Ingrid's chin and moved in close, his lips brushing hers with every word that left them. She gulped at their proximity, her mouth bone dry and her heart plunging into her stomach. "They're just trying to save their own sorry asses."

Finally free of the cuffs, Fillmore shot up from the ground and rushed Nathan, shoving him against the nearest wall. Ingrid jumped with a gasp at the abrupt explosion of activity. Objects clattered from the shelves Fillmore shoved the boy into and fell to the ground around them.

But the commotion was over in seconds. Fillmore let the teen drop to the floor in a heap – with one well-placed punch, he'd fallen unconscious. He stood over him, panting, fists clenched, waiting for a sign that the boy was faking it. The teen remained still.

Fillmore looked over at the other two boys who were frozen in place. Would he go after one of them next? "Which one of you has the keys?" he asked between haggard breaths. Sorin pointed at Hurst, who immediately pulled the keys out of his pocket and tossed them to the officer. Fillmore caught them with ease, then pointed to the door. "You say this area's crawling with belts?" Hurst nodded, to which Fillmore jerked his head to the side. "Go find one. And if you're thinking about running from 'em? Take some friendly advice—" Fillmore shook his head, "—don't."

The two perps scurried out, not needing to be told twice. And by the time Fillmore had turned around to his partner, she'd visibly deflated with relief. A thousand terrifying scenarios had crossed her mind throughout the entirety of their captivity. With Fillmore unconscious, she had plenty of time to agonize over what the boys planned to do to them. The partners had been through a lot during their time on the patrol, but they'd never been held against their will like that.

And with Fillmore unconscious, she was at their mercy.

She thanked her lucky stars that the boys had been otherwise occupied until Fillmore woke up. It hadn't seemed possible that they'd do anything more than keep them locked up for a while, not until Nathan had ripped her shirt open. She shuddered at the prospect. "That could've been worse," she thought aloud, wary of Fillmore's quiet behavior. She'd expected him to shout, to fight some more.

But after ridding his other wrist of its dangling cuff, he rushed over to free her, his tone and demeanor both deceptively calm. "I'd rather not think about how," he said, making a fast job of unlocking her restraints. She'd rather not, either. He tossed them to the floor before facing her. "You okay?"

"Peachy," she repeated, although her body was wracked with chills. They both knew it wasn't that cold, as it was only early September and autumn hadn't fully set in yet. But unlike Fillmore, clad in his favorite jacket, all she had on was a thin black-and-grey raglan with sleeves that hardly reached past her elbows. And now, with the front ripped open down well-past her chest, it offered no protection from the elements – or from wandering eyes.

Her cheeks flushed and, with her eyes now involuntarily watering, she refused to meet his concerned gaze. Instead, she turned her focus to her throbbing wrists, rubbed raw from pulling against the too-tight handcuffs. She brought her shaking hands up to cover herself as intrusive pictures from the past flickered through her mind – crumpled blankets, greedy hands, clammy skin, the flash of a camera. The rush of fear. Fillmore unzipped his jacket and draped it over her shoulders as she shook the memories away.

Ingrid mumbled her thanks, eternally grateful for their excellent silent communication skills as she pulled her arms through the sleeves with a shiver. It was soaked with his body heat, something she didn't seem to have enough of at the moment. All of her own had rushed to her cheeks when Nathan exposed her to the cold, stuffy room.

Fillmore lifted her chin up with his index finger, tilting her head to get a better look at the bruise forming on her cheekbone. "You sure?" he murmured, his thumb tracing her jaw.

She gulped at the tenderness in which he looked after her, wincing at the soreness in her throat as she did so. "Yeah," she reassured him, zipping up the jacket. To lighten the dismal mood, she added, "I'm not the one who fainted." Palm flat against his bicep, she playfully shoved him out of her personal space. As thankful as she was for the rescue, the physical contact and proximity made her skin crawl.

"Whoa, 'fainted'?" Fillmore scoffed and he flattened his hand against his chest. "Girls faint. Guys get knocked out."

"By flowers? Not hardly," Ingrid teased, to which he chuckled. She ran an unsteady hand through her raven hair before gesturing outside. "You really trust them to get help?"

He shrugged nonchalantly. "It's not like we don't know where they live." He eyed her up and down once more. "Are you sure you're—"

Just outside the shed, they heard Anza's voice calling out their names, effectively interrupting him. Seconds later, he and Tehama flung open the door and rushed inside with worried looks on their faces. "Are you guys okay?" Karen asked, bewildered at their surroundings.

"We are," Fillmore answered, then pointed down to Nathan, still unconscious on the floor. "But he might need an ice pack."

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I kinda wanted to go a little longer, but I figured that's enough for now. I'll let you digest all these events before piling more angsty/dramatic shit on ya xD let me know what you guys think!

see you next time, folks!

ellameno