something something you call for your husband as you make tea in the kitchen and another man's voice answers. slowly you make your way to the living room, where a strange man is wearing your husband's clothes, reading your husband's book, sat in your husband's chair.
"somethin' wrong?" the stranger asks, peering over your husband's reading glasses. he has powder blue eyes, a dark, shaggy beard with flecks of silver glinting in the lamp light, and shoulders so broad they stretch the thin cotton of his everton fc shirt- and even sitting down, you can see that his joggers stop well above his ankles.
you don't think you've ever seen this man before in your life- but something about him is awfully familiar.
"where is my husband?" you ask quietly, voice shaking in obvious fear. the man's mild curiosity flips to deep concern as he puts the book down, not even bothering to mark his place.
"what are you- i'm right here." his brows furrow. "sweetheart? are you all right?"
"you're not my husband." on shaking legs you slowly back away towards the kitchen door. "you're not my david."
"of course i am, who else would i be?" he asks, sounding concerned- but not in the way david would be. david would be irritated, angry, annoyed with you for being 'hysterical'. this man isn't doing that- and what's more, he seems genuinely worried.
"i don't know you. get out of my house." it comes out barely above a whisper, terrified tears springing to your lashes. you can barely comprehend what's happening right now, but the way you see it, your options are one of two things:
one- there is a stranger in your home, pretending to be your (missing) husband and doing a rather poor job of it. your david is not near as gentle or sweet as this- if he was really your husband, he'dve told you to shut up by now. twice, probably.
two- you have suddenly undergone some sort of traumatic brain... thing... that you don't remember, and now your husband appears to you to be kinder, taller, wearing a different face, and speaking in a different voice. your brain is no longer to be trusted, and you're going to have to depend on david as reality's grip on you continues to loosen.
so you've either lost your mind, or you're in serious danger from an intruder. either way, your instinct is to get far away from the man whose presence is causing you so much confusion and distress.
"are you hurt, darling? did you hit your head? did you fall? do you remember?" he asks, brows creased in concern, arms out like he's trying to calm a nervous horse. he's fucking with you, he's got to be. david would've called you names by now- hurtful ones, cruel ones meant to belittle and break the spirit.
the worry in this stranger's voice and written on his face brings your tears spilling over your lashes and onto your cheek. fear and humiliation have you turning on your heel to run, but the stranger is on you faster than you'd expected, arms locking around your waist and reeling you in.
"it's all right. it's okay. just a bump to your head, sweetheart, we'll take you to see someone, get you fixed up. it's all right." he spins you in his arms, pulling you into a tight hug, one hand holding the back of your head as the other rubs up and down your spine. light kisses are peppered against your temple, and it brings another wave of tears to your eyes.
he's an imposter, you're certain of it- and it breaks your heart to realize that a stranger, someone who maybe even wishes to do you harm, is treating you with a gentleness and compassion that you actual husband hadn't shown you in years.
"what do you want?" you ask, voice croaking with emotion. the stranger coos sympathetically at you, petting at your back as he continues to nuzzle against the side of your face.
"i want my best girl t'be well. we'll get you well, love, don't worry. we'll see a doctor, and then maybe i'll take you up to scotland for a few days. i've heard of a place we can rent- out of the way, far from people, a quick walk to the sea. should do your nerves some good, i think." he murmurs softly, determination audible.
it's hard to think like this. you know he's lying, that you're not hallucinating, but parsing out what it is he's actually after seems to be nigh impossible without directly confronting him, and you're not sure that's the best idea. what if he drops the doting, attentive, and concerned charade that you can't help but relish in? on one hand, it would mean that he could decide to hurt you to get what he's after. on the other, well. with your cheek pressed against his shoulder and his broad, warm palm still rubbing comforting circles on your shoulders, it fills a need that your husband left unfulfilled for years.
the realization wrings a pained sob from you, and the man murmurs quiet assurances, sweet words to calm a hysterical woman, all with the patience and warmth you've been so severely lacking.
and you cry all the harder for it.
"i st-still don- don't know what you wa-want from me-hee-hee." the words rattle and shake their way from your mouth, uncertain and afraid- but they're met with more tenderness and gentle reassurance, which makes it all the worse. this is the most danger you've ever been in, and you've never felt more treasured in your life.
"i don't want you afraid, darling- especially not of me." he murmurs between gentle shushes, and god help you, but you really do believe him. you pull back a bit to look at him, and the soft way he looks at you is heartbreaking. when was the last time david looked at you like that? it's been years. you stare up at the stranger's face, still feeling that faint spark of recognition as you gaze up at his face. you remember those eyes and that little mole on the side of his nose- but not where you'd seen them before. it's infuriating, making you feel even crazier than his assertion that he's david.
"please don't hurt me." you plead, looking deep into those beautiful blue eyes. his visible shock almost makes you flinch, but his expression settles into a determined one as he gently cups your face in his hands, thumbs wiping away your tears.
"listen t'me: whatever else you might believe about me, know that i will not hurt you." he tells you, solemn as a funeral, eyes locked onto yours. he tilts his chin to his chest. "i think we'd better get that fresh scottish air in your lungs sooner rather than later. lets pack your bag, darling. come on."
he leads you towards the bedroom, but as you pass the window you notice something- despite the fact that they won't be picked up for another three days, the bins are out, and judging by the way the lid is tilted, stuffed full to the brim.
'david' watches you like a hawk as the two of you pack your bags, telling you to bring as much as you like, that he'll figure out arrangements with your work until this 'mental health crisis' is over- and you wonder if he means to kill you.
"you don't have to be here. you don't have to do this." you plead with him, throwing every clean pair of underwear you have into the bag petulantly. "you can just leave me. just go. live your life, leave me here, it'll be okay. you don't need me."
"yes, i do." the stranger murmurs, pulling you in for another hug and kissing your temple. "i've needed you since i first saw you. it's why i'm here, why i have this ring, isn't it?"
david's ring sits on the man's finger, and in your heart, you know you should grieve- but there's a blockage inside of you preventing it. it could be that fear and confusion have overridden it, it could be that david's callous and cruel behavior eroded away any possibility of it, or it could be that you've actually, factually, broken your brain during the course of this mindfuck of an evening.
the stranger presses a gentle kiss to your lips- and while still fairly chaste, you can feel something in it, a passion that's barely being held back.
"i'm gonna take care of you. we're gonna take care of each other. in sickness and health," he kisses your forehead, "-til death do us part, yeah?"
"yeah." you reply, without knowing why. the way you see it, he's huge, in your space, and either crazy or dangerous or both. fighting isn't an option, and you're not fast or wiley enough to run. freezing didn't work, so fawn it is, you suppose.
"my good girl. lets finish packing and get on our way." he presses another kiss to your mouth, and reaches back to full-handed grope your ass, winking as he lets go to finish looting your husband's closet. it doesn't escape your notice that none of the blue everton shirts get packed into his bag, nor any of the trousers that you suspect also cut off above his ankles.
soon he's got you buckled into the passenger seat, your luggage packed in the boot, and the backseat crammed with a few days worth of food, toilet paper, and general supplies. he reaches over and squeezes your thigh, fingers flexing on the inseam of your trousers, and it sparks a memory.
merseyside derby, a few years ago. david got drunk and started shouting at some liverpool fan who'd done nothing more grievous than breathe the same air as him. he'd ignored your husband entirely, giving you a once-over with powder-blue eyes, smirking slightly when he'd remarked that he thought you'd look even prettier in red.
it had been so long ago, but now here you are, receiving that same look in the front seat of your husband's car, and the memory leaves you breathless.
"we're really doing this?" you ask warily, voice shaking with nerves. how long was he waiting? watching? planning?
"we're really doing this." the stranger confirms warmly, unaware of your recognition and subsequent mental spinout, putting the key in the ignition. the engine turns over, and it feels like a death knell.
"who are you, really?" you ask, voice barely audible over the radio that's just come to life, volume last set by david to mask any 'chatter' you might engage in. the man clicks it off entirely.
"i'm your david, sweetheart. remember?" he asks, but there's a tone to it. a mild warning, and therefore, an acknowledgement of the farce. your blood runs even colder, and your posture stiffens. he pulls the car out, driving you both through the neighborhood in the dead of night, making your way north towards god-knows-what.
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