Author's Note:

Don't ever expect this frequent of updates of me ever again until summertime. Even then don't expect this frequent of updates. I am simply on a role and all I want to do is write about Amy and Stan, although I really should be writing more of Red Rain as well...

Monday, November 19th, 2012
Unknown

Amy woke slowly and in a lot of pain. Her head throbbed, her arm burned, her chest and torso felt like someone had stabbed many times, but that was all she felt. She moved her left hand to her forehead, only to find her right hand accompany it. Moving her hands in front of her, she discovered her wrists had been bound in duct tape. A quick examination of the tightness on her face told her she had more on her mouth, and she could only guess about the rest of her body from the waist down. She looked around her, finding it dark yet...warm and comfortable. She was laying down, yes, but on what? In what?

A blanket had been laid over her, so she carefully raised her arms to grasp the plush fleece material and pulled it away to peek out into the world. With one look around her, she knew she was in a car with cream leather seats. This wasn't the tan Camry, though, that much she was sure of. Stan was sitting in the driver's seat, fast asleep. Something about the way it appeared that Stan had simply fallen asleep in the car the way he did made Amy feel like he had simply given up on staying awake any longer, or he'd done something to make himself pass out.

Ever so carefully, Amy pushed herself to a seated position and looked around her. They were parked in a commuter lot somewhere farther away from any town in whatever state they were in. It was dark, and a hazy fog was settling in around them. From what Amy could see, thick forestation surrounded them. So...where were they?

Stan groaned and stirred, causing Amy to jump, turning her head in his direction fearfully. He grimaced, pressing his right hand behind his head as if he had a headache. Amy waited as he shook his head and downed the contents of the water bottle he had in the cupholder in the front of the car. Finally he turned around and his bloodshot grey-green eyes locked on to Amy's terrified brown ones. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Right. Now it's coming back to me," Stan said, but his voice was accented like an American. "Right."

Stan lowered his seat and slid over, sitting next to Amy, who tried to shift away as far as she could to the door, but it was no use: this was a two-door car, meaning she was going to hit a wall of paneling. She began to whimper, trying to tell Stan to come no further, but she couldn't.

Stan's soft voice whispered soothing things as he carefully rested his hand on her shoulder. "Shhh, it's going to be alright. I'm not going to hurt you anymore. I'm sorry. I've done too much, said too little. Shhh, it's going to be alright. You'll see. It'll all work out in the end."

Amy shook her head as Stan slid closer, no doubt sitting on her legs. She raised her hands up to her face, shying away from his touch. She shook her head at his lies. He had his own plan, and no matter what, she'd be getting hurt.

Stan reached for her hands and pulled them away from her face, causing her to yelp. The sound was muffled by the duct tape, but it was still clear to Stan he'd hurt her. "I'm sorry, Amy. I forgot your wrist was sprained."

Sprained?! Amy thought. What the hell happened while I was out?!

Stan sensed her confusion. He slowly and carefully removed the tape from her mouth. "There. That better?"

Amy chose to remain silent. Stan was beginning to scare her. This wasn't usual of him.

Stan's eyes suddenly widened. "Oh Lord, what have I done?!" His voice was back to his natural British accent. "Oh good God no! You-" He looked at Amy again, saw the hurt and confusion in her eyes, and slapped himself. "Stan, you idiot!"

Amy couldn't bear it any longer. "Stan, what's wrong?"

Stan shook his head. "Everything's all coming back to me now. Damn, I drank myself silly last night, didn't I?"

"You drink?" Amy had never seen him touch a glass of wine at family parties let alone anything stronger. He always was the one to abstain from the alcohol.

Stan sighed. "I wish I didn't, but unfortunately I do. And I betchya I left the bottle in the other car, too. So much evidence is in that vehicle...I have seriously tripped myself up."

"Bottle of what? Stan, what happened?" Amy asked, trying to assert herself again.

Stan sighed again. "Wine. A somewhat expensive Greek wine. What happened is Dr. Reid and Domonick escaped, we went on a wild chase, and then we crashed."

Amy nearly screamed. "You WHAT?"

"You were already unconscious and luckily in the back seat. If you weren't, I fear you might have lost your life."

"And what happened to Spencer and Dom?"

"No clue. I know I saw Spencer get out of the car, but I was busy."

"Busy? Doing what?!"

"Getting us the hell out of there."

Amy sighed angrily. "You know Stan, you should really turn yourself in."

"Really, and be shot immediately by Agent Morgan? No thank you!"

"Well, he may shoot you anyways eventually!"

Stan stopped. He closed his eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm being selfish. All I want is to be with you for as long as I can."

Amy narrowed her eyes and cocked her head. "You what?"

Stan sighed. "It's so weak of me, I know, but Amy, I need you. Now that Lucile and Samantha are both gone, I-"

"Lucile and Samantha, your wife and daughter, correct?"

"Yes."

"Just making sure I got everything right."

Stan sighed, and continued. "Amy, I love you. I will always love you. But the problem with this is, quite simply, you don't love me back, which makes everything that much harder. At least Samantha loved me. At least Lucile loved me. That was all I needed. Love is all I need. When you are loved, you have a purpose. Your purpose is to exist for that individual so that they never experience the pain you have endured for the majority of your life. So they never feel they are unwanted like you may have felt since your existence first was documented in the world. Your purpose is to love and to be loved, and hopefully to procreate. I'll never have that chance again, but it doesn't matter anymore. When someone loves you, especially if you love that someone back, the world is so much clearer and brighter and there isn't a darkness or haziness surrounding the world anymore."

There was a pause as Amy thought about what Stan had suggested: Stan was severely depressed. If he didn't have love, he'd rather have death. "So...then...why are you doing this?"

But Stan didn't seem to want to talk about it anymore. "Shut up, Amy."

Amy knew she'd have to pry. "I'd like an answer."

"Amy, please. Why don't you go back to sleep?"

"I wasn't sleeping last time, Stan. I was unconscious. And by the headache I have, I probably have a concussion, too."

Stan glared at Amy. "Amy: Shut. Up."

Amy winced slightly at his harsh tone, but recovered quickly, saying, "It won't hurt me if you tell me. For the first time, you wouldn't hurt me with your doings. I can't feel much pain."

Stan remained still and silent, as did Amy. Finally, after several minutes, Stan sighed. "I... I don't know. Not entirely, at least. I have this urge... this need to honor my father's dying wishes... my whole life is and has been ruled by that...that need to serve and obey my father or suffer the consequenses... and now I simply can't stop. I just can't. And even if I do... It would be like these last thirteen-fourteen years were wasted and my whole life is and was for nothing. Just like my father always told me."

Amy looked at her old friend and current captor and sighed. "Maybe it was. But you can't live in past. The present is what matters. And if they were his dying wishes... You can't really obey him if he isn't here to give you the orders."

Stan looked at Amy with a bittersweet anger, sadness, and affection in his eyes. "Just go to sleep already."

Amy frowned. "You and I both know that is impossible."

Stan sighed. "Some things never change, do they?"

Amy shook her head. "Nope."

Stan sighed again. "Then can you at least be quiet?"

Amy pursed her lips. "You don't want my company? Isn't that a first!"

"Not when you're asking questions about my personal life and everything, no!" Stan argued. "Now please, shut up!"

Amy felt hurt by Stan's tone and his not wanting her company. Deep down inside, she was beginning to need his company the way he needed hers, but she would never admit that, especially not to him. She didn't need his company in terms of love; she needed it in terms of friendship. Stan's friendship had been one of her most important and valuable friendships of her life, if not her most vital. He had been there for everything, including sleeping over whenever her mom was out late with her girlfriends. He'd been there on their vacations to the lakehouse in Michigan. He'd been the one that pushed her just a tad bit harder and therefore farther on the road to achieving her dreams. He'd introduced her to dance and been the one that taught her the harp, flute, and cello. He played violin and piano beautifully, but his voice and dancing ability were by far the best she knew. Stan's friendship meant everything to her because, as she realized it then and there, he had been the father she never had.

So, as she stared at him, slightly hurt by his building anger, she bit her lip and tried not to cry. And as per usual, she failed. The tears came anyway as she hung her head and brought her duct taped wrists to her face despite the pain in the one wrapped in the Ace bandage. She cried and cried, and eventually, Stan, realizing he had hurt her with his harsh tone, leaned over and pulled her closer, hugging her and holding her. He no longer asked her to be quiet or shut, he simply let her cry.

If anyone were to look at these two fragile beings from the outside of the car, they would instantly believe it was a father-daughter moment, no doubt the daughter crying over the loss of her mother. One would think that because Stan, normally stone-faced or laughing, was beginning to crack, several tears slipping down his face. However, he did not dare cry out loud, and when Amy finally pulled away, she never would have known he had cried.

Amy looked up at Stan, who began wiping away her tears with a gentle thumb, his soft, warm hand caressing her cold, wet cheeks. For once, Amy let him. It was futile to try to stop him now. He would always be faster and stronger, and Amy slower and weaker. However, he held one more advantage over her: the use of his legs. She'd never be able to kick him away or get up and run, so he'd always have the advantage.

Therefore, she let him caress her cheeks and brush his thumb against her lips. She let him lean forward and kiss her. She let him unbutton the red blouse no doubt he had changed her into. She let him slide her gently back to laying down. She let him unfasten her bra and slide it all the way to her wrists. She let him remove her skirt and panties. She let him remove his clothes (but that was a given, since she couldn't stop him from doing whatever he pleased with his own body besides hurting himself). She let him raise her arms and slip his head through them to avoid removing the duct tape on her wrists.

Just this once did she let him make love to her. She'd given up fighting him, because she knew he'd get what he wanted, one way or another.

And only once did she dare kiss back.