Chapter 3

A/N: Go Spencer!

When you come home he is waiting for you. Sitting on the couch. A perfect picture of collectedness. You know it's only a matter of minutes until the heat makes the picture melt and crumble.

"Hey, wivey!" You yell and chuckle, imagining Ian in an apron.

"You are drunk." His voice rumbles dangerously.

"I'm not drunk. You're just blurry." You laugh at your own joke and walk into the kitchen. "I'm hungry. Do we have anything?"

You didn't even notice that he stood up and followed you. You didn't even see the picture's edges roll up. Of course if you were sober you would have noticed. If you were sober you wouldn't even need to look to notice. And you would do your bloody best to stop the picture from crumbling. But you're drunk as fuck so the hand grabbing you roughly at your shoulder comes out of nowhere.

You get whirled around and suddenly you look into cold grey eyes. You wait for the fear but there is only fury. How dare he grabbing you like that?

You look him straight in the eye and flip his hand off your shoulder.

"I'm trying to cook here, demosponge."

You branch off and start rummaging through the kitchen cabinets. Then you remember that you came here with the aim to finally put your foot down. You turn back around and wave the melon spoon in Ian's face very determinedly. He stares silently at you, disgust evident in his eyes.

"That reminds me, Spongebob." You slur. "I'm not gonna let you do this anymore. I earn more than you and you're a housewife."

Somewhere in the sober part of your mind, you know that you just kicked the bull in the balls and now you are going to feel it's rage. But the drunk part of you doesn't listen, because the drunk part of you is 10 feet tall and invulnerable.

Ian lifts his eyebrows. He stands in front of you. Posture completely relaxed. In his eyes you can just read something that looks like anticipation. Or you could read it, if you would just look.

"I think I'm gonna buy you an apron. One with -" BAM!

You don't really feel his fist, you just feel your head explode and see the floor coming closer. With a dull thud you hit the kitchen tiles.

"NOW YOU LISTEN TO ME, YOU BITCH!" His voice is so loud, that his vocal cords scratch, high tones mingling with his deep voice.

You try to lift your head, but it's too heavy. So you just let his voice rage over you.

"You don't FUCKING talk to me like that! No bitch talks to me like that! Do you understand?"

You know you are supposed to answer. But your tongue feels too thick and is glued to the back of your throat. You have a metallic taste in your mouth.

"I ASKED IF YOU UNDERSTOOD!"

You ask yourself if the neighbors can hear his voice. You think it's loud enough for the whole street to hear. But if they hear him, they decided to pretend otherwise.

A foot comes into your view. You see that it wears heavy working boots. The sick bastard changed his fucking shoes for you. How thoughtful. In foresight you roll your body together as tightly as you can. You hold your breath.

Then you feel his foot hit your ribs. You suppress a moan. Again. It's so fucking painful. Every fucking time. You curse your weak body, that it didn't build up some kind of stamina against Ian's treatment.

You fail to notice the kicks against your ribs subside. How stupid of you. You feel your head being yanked back at your ponytail. Reflexively you close your eyes.

"Look at me, Sweetheart." Ian whispers. His voice cold as ice but with an excited edge in it.

Reluctantly you open your eyes, just because you know he wouldn't care to take his sweet time to make you do it.

You look up to his face, you think he looks handsome. His features are sharp, his expression determined and hard. Then you ask yourself if you might develop some kind of Stockholm-Syndrome. If you would analyze your behavior in the slightest you would realize that you already suffer from it.

"Good girl." He all but snarls. "You earn more than me? You know why? Because I let you. I let you walk out this door every morning so you can play lawyer. So you can stroke your ego and tell yourself that you are worth something. But I know better. I know that it's just the illusion that keeps you upright and I know that you don't really believe it yourself. Because I am the only one who sees your real self, who sees what a weak piece of shit you really are."

The cold grey of the stainless steel that were his eyes seems to melt with each sentence. The coldness vanishes, banished by something resembling joy. He looks nearly kindhearted, as if he was gracious enough to share his wisdom with you.

For the first time since he hit you you dare to open your mouth and it is one single word that makes it through your swollen lips.

"Bullshit." You spit out. Stupid. Not only because you know the consequences of your word but because you know that it's a lie. Deep down you feel that he is right.

One single word that turns the warm grey fog into a raging storm of fury. BAM! He slaps you with the back of his left hand, his right hand still having a firm grip on your pony tail.

"DON'T YOU DARE TALKING BACK TO ME, YOU STUPID CUNT! I CAN DESTROY YOU! The only reason you can go out and get pissed with the slut-club is because I have the MERCY to let you!"

His voice becomes sweet and gentle. "But maybe I let the reins slack a bit. Don't you think, baby? Hm? I know it's my fault, but you seem to have forgotten who is rider and who is horse. Maybe I should remind you, huh love?"

He lifts his hand and strokes your blood-smeared cheek. That's the moment when cold, icy fear settles in your gut. He never was like that when he hit you. Sure he'd get mad, but he'd vent his anger on you and that was that. You'd lick your wounds, go to bed and everything would go back to normal. This display of affection makes you feel sick in a way that is totally new to you.

"I want to help you, my darling. Once I reminded you where your place is, we can stop with these ugly quarrels, don't you think?"

He smiles at you encouragingly. You let the meaning of his words sink in and feel your eyes go wide. No. Fuck. No. You try to crawl backwards but he still has your pony tail.

He shakes his head. "Ah-ah-ah. Don't do that, babe. I just want us to function again. To be how we used to be. I am the only one, who's trying to save this marriage."

He lifts his hand again to stroke your fear stricken face. This time his thumb lingers on your split lip and runs over it. His sweat burns in the wound when he touches the split. You jerk. You see the corners of his mouth twitch. Sick son of a bitch.

"Till death do us part, Mrs. Thomas." He whispers and then his mouth is on yours. You feel his tongue force it's way into your mouth and you are tempted to bite it. But you are still frozen in shock and you have to admit you simply don't have the guts. So you let him.

He loosens your hair tie and runs his fingers through your hair. He leans forward. You feel his body on yours. You feel your skin crawl. You think you might puke. No. This can't be happening. Not to you. Not to Spencer fucking Hastings. Do something you stupid bitch!

You touch his chest and push. "Ian. Stop." You say against his rough, demanding lips.

He doesn't react. So you turn your head and push harder. "Ian! What the fuck are you doing?"

This time he reacts. He pulls back and cocks his head. He looks at you with a bemused expression.

"Whatever the hell I want." He smiles and the scary thing is, that this time it reaches his eyes. It's a real smile. He looks – free.

Then it dawns on you that this is who he is. This is not Ian snapping. This is Ian being himself for once.

You realize that now would be the perfect moment to panic. But somewhere in your champagne and fear hazed brain you understand that you have to be smart about this. He can overpower you without a problem even when you're sober, so you can't work with strength. Cleverness is more your metier anyway. And what would be more suited than the trick women used for hundreds of years?

"Babe." you whisper. You force yourself to sound lovingly. "Babe. I can't."

"Yes you can and you will" He murmurs absently, while he bites your neck particularly hard.

You bite your tongue so you don't cry out of pain.

"Babe. I want to." He pulls back abruptly. You could swear that you see his eyes darkening disappointedly.

"But I can't. You know why."

He looks you over sceptically. His eyebrows scrunched together. He doesn't believe you. So you go all out. You stroke his cheek with a treacherously shaking hand and lift your head so your lips brush his ear. You shudder. You hope he thinks it's from arousal not disgust and loathing.

"Babe, I'd love to fuck your brain out. Believe me. But it's just an inconvenient time of month."

You feel your stomach heaving from your own words, but it's your only chance.

He stays silent. You see his jaw twitch.

"How about we go to bed and I give you a shoulder rub?"

Again silence. You wait. Then you see his shoulders sag a bit. You heart lifts with relief.

He stands up and walks out of the kitchen.

"Clean yourself up before."

A/N: Pheeew! That was close, Spence. How long will you be able to dodge the bullets I shoot at you? *diabolic laughter*

I know I'm a day late, but in my defence: I'm at a congress in Berlin. So I'm a busy bee.

Did you find the reference? What did you think? What should happen next? A loveball for your thoughts.