The Commander's Wife
Chapter One
By
Lacadiva
Disclaimer: All rights belong exclusively to both White Collar and The Handmaid's Tale. I receive no financial profit or incentive to write this. It's just me, mulling around the idea of a mash up of two of my favorite shows until I found a story hiding in the mental clutter.
Fanfiction Rating: T for violence. Readers, please be assured there will be NO graphic depictions of assault, otherwise known as "the ceremony." However, there will be allusions to the threat, in keeping with the framework of Margaret Atwood's haunting novel and Hulu's award-winning adaptation. As always, this story will be smut-free, but there will be moments of forms of violence, which will be handled in a way that I hope reflects the tragedy and futility of this dark world of Gilead, but with respect to the readers, and not for shock sheer value.
Summary: White Collar/Handmaid's Tale AU/Crossover. Neal is an Eye who secretly helps Handmaids and Martha's on the run, alongside Diana. Things heat up when he's approached by Peter, who is wanted for crimes of apostacy. He needs Neal's help to get Elizabeth out before she's married off to a high-ranking Commander with a brutal reputation - Philip Kramer. Can they pull it off, or will they find themselves on The Wall?
~ WC/THT ~
"Blessed day, Commander."
The words felt strange the moment she uttered them. Like poison in her mouth. Like barbed wire wrapped tightly around her tongue. This was as far from a blessed day as anyone could get.
She had been standing outside the ornate door of the Commander's mansion for several minutes, waiting while one of his Martha's and her escort, Aunt Lydia, left to receive permission to bring her inside. It was cold, and her gray Martha's cloak did little to hold back the chill wind or the icy drizzle that was falling. Like needles on her face, she thought. A preferable pain to what was about to take place.
So many cold mornings, she remembered, walking the streets of Manhattan on her way to work. Yes, this is where her mind would go when things became complicated or dangerous in this new world. She longed for the time when she could share a real thought, about a book or a magazine article, about politics, or even a silly reality television show, or discuss deeper issues with co-workers or her husband. Now, she could only respond in a few parroted phrases that had the language of praise but the aroma of death.
She replayed as many old memories as she could when the work was too hard, when the world became more complicated than anything she'd ever imagined. What a privilege, what a relief it would be to complain about uncomfortable heels, gum on the sidewalk, being late for a meeting with a new client, or her struggle over menu plans and hiring extra help for events. She desperately longed for conversations with Peter that ran the gamut from vacation plans, to legal issues, or to why he always left his sweaty socks on the floor when the laundry basket was just outside the –
She was snapped back to her new reality when the door re-opened. And he was standing there.
She did not look him square in the face. Not yet, not until he'd given her permission. IF he gave her permission. Aunt Lydia made sure to "brief" her on all the protocols for meeting a new Commander – using a cattle prod to help El learn faster.
It didn't matter that she had known him from the life before. She couldn't stand him then, and she hated him even more now. But he must never know that. A Martha gets only a little more leeway than Handmaids, but not much. They could be hung on the wall just like everyone else, for the tiniest infractions. Under this particular circumstance, humility and obeisance, evenif faked, were her only choices.
Her eyes met the ground as she awaited the Commander's response.
"Well, blessed day to you, Elizabeth. Or can I still call you El?"
"Whatever pleases you, Commander."
He would not move. She loathed being that close to him as she stepped inside.
The first thing Elizabeth noticed was how hot and dark the place was. It smelled of ancient dust and mildew, and stale alcohol. Thick, ornate curtains, heavy shades and frosted glass windows made it impossible to tell the time of day. The old man seemed to have a fear of being seen. She shuddered, wondering what went on inside the house that he didn't want the outside world to see.
He offered to take her cloak, but Aunt Lydia quickly intercepted, making sure there was no contact between the two, in keeping with Gilead protocols.
"Let's step into my office, shall we?"
Elizabeth had become more accustomed to being lead to people's kitchens, but never a Commander's office. She's heard dark rumors of what went on with Handmaids after the wives had gone to bed, oblivious to their husbands' nocturnal activities. Or were they well aware of what was happening? How could any woman turn a blind eye?
Like this, she thought, when she noticed the Commander's wandering eyes and snake-like smile. The darkly insulting looks and remarks of Commanders and Guardians were supposed to be sinful acts. Apparently, the ones who make the rules are exempt from keeping them.
God, please save me from this place, from these people. From this mad man…
Aunt Lydia moved forward to go with her, but Commander Kramer held up a hand.
"Just her. You can wait in the foyer."
"Commander," the Aunt said, stuttering slightly, "it is my job to remain with …"
"I'll have one of my Martha's make you a hot cup of tea. Doesn't that sound nice?"
And then he shut the door in Aunt Lydia's face.
Kramer remained by the door for a beat. He could not believe his luck! He finally turned, smiling.
"It's okay for you to look at me. I won't bite."
Her eyes lingered on the worn rug on the floor. She did not want to meet his gaze. She did not want to be here.
But she had to obey.
Bright blue eyes looked up. They had already begun to water. Not with fear.
With seething anger.
"There's that beautiful face I remember," he said. "Elizabeth Burke, as I live and breathe. How've you been?"
How do you think I've been? That's what she wanted to say. Instead, she said, quite simply:
"Busy."
When she saw him raise an eyebrow, she quickly added, "…praise be. I have found grace in His work and purpose for me."
"Well, praise be, indeed," he said, but the words were empty.
Then he took a couple of steps closer.
She wanted to move back, but knew it would do her little good. Commanders were commanders because they loved to command people. They lived to be feared and obeyed. And he would punish her without hesitation if she refused him his joy.
"The McKenzies treating you all right?
"They have been kind and generous." The words were like ash in her mouth. Would God forgive her for all these lies?
Kramer laughed. "I find that a bit hard to believe. You ever miss the old days? Big time caterer, all those glossy, glamourous Burke Premiere events?"
So much, she wanted to say. Oh, so much. Instead, she said, "I have found contentment in my work, and I'm grateful to serve."
Kramer moved to the bar and pour Scotch into two ornate glasses.
"You've certainly got the patois down, El. I almost believed it. But I wasn't born yesterday." He held one out to Elizabeth. She did not take it.
"It's okay," he said.
"I am not allowed to imbibe…"
"Oh, come on. For old times' sake."
There was no old times' sake. Kramer was a stain on the bureau. He lied to Peter time after time. He tried to railroad Neal into working for him in D.C., threatening to put him behind bars indefinitely. He was not a man to trust under any circumstance.
She tentatively reached for the glass.
"For old times' sake," she repeated, and downed the entire glass in a single gulp. The warmth collided with the chill in her body and made her shudder again. She hoped he didn't see it. She hoped he'd pour her another – anything to dull the dark thoughts and fear winding around her gut. But she knew it was better to keep sharp, stay alert.
Commander Kramer sat in a throne-like antique chair and motioned for her to do the same. She sat primly in a dark leather chair and kept her back straight, hands folded in her lap. Aunt Lydia would have been so proud, and taken credit for it. Oh, the things El would say and do if only she were free…
"Do you know why you're here?"
"I assume you have need of a new Martha."
"I have all the Martha's I could possibly want."
She looked at him now. Her eyes seemed to darken a bit. "Then, what? If I may ask…"
He smiled, hesitating, like a school boy. He almost looked shy. And he almost looked younger.
Almost.
"I think it's no secret, El…I've always found you to be a rather…fetching woman."
Fetching? She wanted to ask. Fetching? Like a dog? She prayed quickly and silently that the bit of alcohol she's drank would not loosen her tongue too much.
He continued, sitting back comfortably. "I always admired Petey for finding you. I always knew you two were meant for each other…even if I was a little jealous. But that was then."
She felt a knot forming in her stomach. Please God, she prayed, don't let me be sick…
"Now," he continued, "things are a little different. Gilead has changed the game."
"The game?"
"Elizabeth, by Gilead law, your marriage to Peter Burke became null and void when we declared ourselves a sovereign nation. No matter what you might think, or refuse to believe, you are no longer a married woman. Which means, you are in a very vulnerable position. Y'see, I knew when your file came across my desk, that the last thing you'd want would be to become…a Handmaid. No matter how honored and sacred a position it is – so I'm told – it can be very unforgiving. Knowing your penchant for cooking and catering, pairing wines, and party things and such, I thought you'd be happier in a Commander's kitchen. No one even had to know that you were as ripe and fertile as a twenty-year-old. Oh, yes, I read your file completely. And I personally doctored your records so that you might be spared that…sacred…duty."
She wished she had a knife in her hand.
Kramer was always a snake. He was a natural born liar, and a traitor to his country. When Gilead began their war of terror, he personally helped them dismantle the bureau and other agencies, turning in agents as spies and labeling them apostates. Many of his own former partners and colleagues ended up on the wall.
When Elizabeth and Peter were caught trying to leave New York, he made sure they were separated. It's been more than a year since she last heard from her husband. She feared his silence meant he had either gone so far underground that he could never come out, or that he was dead. It galled her to see smug Kramer in his comfy chair, a man sitting at the top of this heap of filth and hypocrisy while Peter was probably…gone.
"Bottom line, El, I can't remain a single man and serve Gilead, at least, not according to a few of my more pious colleagues. They're pretty stiff-necked when it comes to that sort of thing. A man needs a wife, and children, to remain in right standing. I have an appropriate candidate on the hook, but, in all honesty, she just leaves me cold. When I saw how close you lived…I was hoping…I could persuade you to take the job."
"The job?"
"Okay, you don't like that? How about this: marry me. Marry me, and become a Commander's wife. There is no better role for a woman in Gilead than as a Commander's wife. You get all the perks – the best food, best homes, respect, and a household you can run. Not to mention all those cute little turquoise outfits. I know it's not the traditional stuff we were all so used to…courting, dating, and a ring in a glass of cheap champagne. And I realize that I'm a few years older…"
A few? She felt the words almost burst from her lips, but she held her tongue. His ire could be enough to send her to the Colonies immediately. Her rejection would be countered with a phone call, and in minutes a van would arrive to take her there. Everyone knew, the life expectancy of those banished to the Colonies was just short of three months.
And it was a horrible way to go, suffering from the effects of cleaning up toxic waste and irradiated soil and garbage. She wondered often if Peter had been sent there, and had died months ago. How he must have suffered…
Tears began forming again. She could stop herself from speaking, but she could not hold back her tears. This was terrifying.
"Am I allowed to think about it?"
"What's to think about?" he laughed disturbingly. "We're talking cake or death here."
She could tell, as he rose and went back to refresh his drink, that this was not the answer he wished to hear. He didn't offer her a second drink, so she already knew she was skating on very thin ice.
"But because of our past connection," he continued, "I will grant you a little time to think it over. But not long. This is a limited time offer. Let me be as plain as I can, El. Becoming my wife will save you. You may not look upon me as a man worthy of your affection, but I promise you this…your only other choices will be far less pleasant. There's always the Colonies. There's also Jezebel's. I know you, El. You won't last long in either of those places. But the real truth is, you'd do even worse as a Handmaid."
Her body stiffened at the very sound of that word. A tremor ran through her. Blood red dresses and white wings like blinders…walking two by two…
And the Ceremony.
Kramer took a long sip, savored it, then turned to face her.
"Like I said, I know you, El. I know what life as a Handmaid will do to you. And, I can go one better…"
His eyes became darker as he moved slowly toward her. She could smell the liquor on his breath.
"I could make you my Handmaid. And I'll still have you. And I'll be able to do whatever I want, whenever I want, with you. Your Aunt Lydia out there will be so pleased at how…fruitful…you will be."
Elizabeth fought not to let him see her hands trembling, or her lip begin to quiver.
"So, you can be the wife of a powerful Commander, or I'll marry someone else who looks just as good as you in aqua marine…and she'll be the one who'll hold you down. The first moment you give the least bit of trouble, I'll have you sent to a birthing colony."
Elizabeth could not hold herself still. She stood, hands clenching and unclenching.
"Commander Kramer…"
"Oh, you hadn't heard about that? Oh, yeah. That's relatively new. It's uh…it's like a…a people farm. All you do all day long is…aw, I think you get the picture. You'll spend the rest of your life knocked up. For the glory of Gilead, of course, yada, yada. And when you're all…used up…your body is shredded, and you mind is shot…well, there's no point in feeding you if you're no longer producing, is it?"
Kramer turned his back on her to pour himself another drink.
"Please…" was all she could say before her voice broke. She shouldn't have said anything. She knew how things ran in Gilead. It only took one wrong word. Kramer was already fuming because she didn't jump at the chance to accept his wretched proposal.
"Blessed be the fruit," he said bitterly, his back to her. "You can go now."
Elizabeth could barely move, but she pushed herself to the door, willing her rubbery legs to stop shaking.
"One more thing," Kramer said as he placed the glass stopper back atop the bottle. "You need to hear this…understand what it means to your survival. Peter's gone. I received word a few days ago that he was caught in the crossfire during a raid on insurgents. Guardians put every one of them down. So…you really are all alone in the world. Let me be there for you. Beats the hell out of the alternative. Wouldn't you agree?"
~ WC/THT ~
JEZEBEL'S
11:47 PM
It never mattered what time of day it was once you were inside Jezebels – any Jezebels for that matter. It always looked as if it was the middle of the night. The darkness within these walls was deeper than any starless night.
Everything was overly plush and grossly overdone. The very walls screamed cheap bordello. Every chandelier, painting, sculpture, overstuff chair and brass bedframe, was chosen specifically to suggest a very twisted idea of something akin to love.
But there wasn't anything like love in this place.
Neal sat at the bar, sipping a watered-down Malbec – sacrilege! – pretending to be interested in the working girls as they paraded by. He hated this place. He hated what these women had to do to stay alive, and hated the men who slapped him on the back and made crude jokes about them. Neal wasn't here for the women. Not in the way all the Commanders and Eyes thought.
His goal had to do with liberating the women. Getting them out of Gilead and to freedom in Canada, or as far away as possible. If things happened by the numbers tonight, three women will be on separate transports within the next few hours. If they made it past No Man's Land, he'd consider it a victory. If by chance or grace they ended up in Canada, he'd considered that a true miracle.
Right now, however, Neal had a deal to discuss.
Billy, the bartender, never let Neal's glass stay empty for more than a beat. He quickly poured him another. It helped get him closer to Neal, so they could talk.
"So..." Billy began when the coast was clear. His eyes darted around the room, making sure no one was close enough to see or hear him. "Can you get me that plane?"
"That depends on who's asking for it."
"I don't do names," Billy said. "You know that. Plausible deniability."
Billy made himself look busy by wiping the already clean and shiny bar top. "But Diana already gave the thumbs up. Said we just have to get you on board."
"Is she one of the women here?"
Billy shook his head. "She's a Handmaid."
"A Handmaid? A Handmaid wants a plane? What's her plan?"
"I didn't ask her. I didn't care. Look, I'm telling you because she's got an angle on a couple of Rembrandts and a few Van Gogh's, among others. That's right up your alley, right? Her Commander's the one who cleaned out all the big museums when it all hit the fan."
Neal almost choked trying to swallow the wine. He wiped his mouth and asked, "You serious?"
"She convinced me. She's not like any Handmaid I ever saw."
"Who's her Commander?"
"Lawrence."
"Joseph Lawrence?"
"Is there another I don't know about?"
Neal smiled.
"Okay, so she's connected. You tell her, whoever she is, she'll have her plane. But I'll want to verify the authenticity of those paintings before she does whatever it is she's gonna do with that plane. Are we clear?"
"Sure, Neal. Whatever you say."
"Put it on my tab," Neal said as he rose. He knew there was no tab. Commanders and Eyes got to drink or eat whatever they wanted, as much as they wanted, at any Jezebel's for nothing. That was one of the perks of Gilead leadership. But it sounded cool and always made the drunken Commanders around him laugh at the reference to the way things were.
Neal left quickly to start making arrangements. This was going to be a delicate operation. One false move at they'd clear an entire wall just to feature his dead and mangled body. One bad turn, or the tiniest leak of information, and his entire network of spies and rebels would crumble, and the Executioners would be making overtime.
Neal stepped outside, heading for his black Hummer.
The first thing he needed to do was send Diana a message. She ran the kitchen at Jezebel's, so when the next shipment of jumbo shrimp on ice or French wine was on its way to her, he'd send word to her. Following that, he and Diana would –
Neal stopped cold. His Driver was supposed to open the door before he got to the car. That was the artifice, the protocol they used to keep up appearances with Neal's high-ranking buddies with the Eyes. But the Driver remained inside the vehicle, behind the wheel, eyes forward, face in the shadows. Too much shadow for Neal to see if the Driver were alive or dead. Or if someone was setting him up. When the window slowly rolled down, Neal took a step back, reaching for his weapon on his side.
"Don't shoot."
The voice was familiar to Neal. He dropped his guard, put his gun away, smiling.
"You sound pretty good for a dead man. You're supposed to be keeping a low profile. That's how faking your death works."
"Get in, Neal. We have to go."
"What's going on, Peter? What's wrong?"
"I need your help. El's in deep trouble."
END CHAPTER ONE
Thank you for reading. Have a happy and safe New Year.