A/N: I know I probably shouldn't be posting this, as I have plenty of other stories that need finishing, but I figure what the heck, if I don't post it now I probably never will. I loved The Boy and was disappointed in the lack of GretaxBrahms FanFictions (well, non-M ones that is) so I made this. Hope you enjoy. I'll try and post the next chapter as soon as possible.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Boy.

You wanted to play, the coldness follows

This isn't a game, your life I'll swallow

And I can't help but smile at your pain

You wanted to play but I already won

KoRn – Lullaby For A Sadist~

Chapter one: No Escape~

There was nothing she could do.

Greta watched in horror as Brahms locked his hands around Malcolm's throat and slammed him down, smacking his head into the ground. Brahms, whom she had thought was dead. Gone. Burned alive. A spirit inside a doll. The boy she had been tasked with taking care of was right in front of her, very much real, very much alive, choking the life out of the man she had come to consider a friend.

And there was nothing she could do to help him.

Greta squirmed in the tight crawlspace, frantically twisting around to face the trapdoor behind her. She pushed against it with all her might, ramming her elbow into the aged wood again and again as she tried to ignore Malcolm's screams and focus on getting away to find help. Seeing that her efforts were having no effect, she backed up onto her hands and kicked at it, adding more force each time she drew back. Still, it wouldn't budge. Panicking, she lurched forward and spread her jittery hands across the door, splinters poking at her skin as she tried to find an opening or latch of some sort-

And that's when the screaming stopped.

She froze, body going rigid as the breath seized in her lungs. She slowly pulled her hands away from the trapdoor, swallowing as she timidly turned around.

Brahms was crouched over Malcolm's unmoving body, a metal object in his hand. His harsh, angry breaths were amplified by his mask, and Greta could only stare at the horrifying scene before her. The sudden silence was deafening, and the only thing she could really hear was the sound of her own heart beating, terrified, in her chest.

Brahms dropped his weapon, a loud, scraping clang ringing out as it hit the floor. She jumped, a short, involuntary scream bursting from her lips, and she immediately wished she had stayed quiet; his head snapped towards her, eyes locking with hers through the set of thick pipes running across the skinny crawlspace – the only thing truly separating them - and any and all urges she had to make noise ceased to exist.

"...Greta?" He called, his child-like voice echoing through the crawlspace.

Tears pricked at her eyes and her lip began to tremble, her body shaking uncontrollably as the fear turned her muscles to lead.

"Greta, come back," he called again, leaning down past the pipes to crawl after her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing it all to just be a dream and go away, hoping that she would wake up and find herself safe in bed.

"Greta?"

Except that it wasn't a dream, and the danger she was in was very real.

Greta slowly opened her eyes and blinked away her tears, sniffling. Brahms was only a few feet away from her, staring curiously yet intently at her. His tall frame blocked her exit, her only means of escape with the door behind her being unwilling to open, and she tried to not completely break down right then and there.

"Greta, please come back," he coaxed. "I'll be good. I promise."

He held out his hand, and Greta instinctively shrank away from it. Seconds passed, and she half-expected him to lose his patience and come dragging her out of her hiding place. But more time went by, and nothing happened. She sat there, tense as a spring and ready to react at even the slightest movement, but nothing came. He just stared at her, unmoving, with his hand extended towards her.

"Please, Greta," he pleaded. "Don't run away."

His eyes looked almost sad, as if he would be heartbroken if she ran away, but she had seen enough of his true self to know better than to believe the facade he put on in front of her.

She took in a shaky breath, trying to weigh her options.

She supposed she could try to run, feign compliance and then bolt for the nearest exit at the first opportunity. But there was no guarantee she would actually be able to escape; Brahms was much stronger and faster than he looked, she had seen that, and in all likeliness her attempt would fail miserably. She would only cause him to become angry, maybe even hurt her, despite his obsession with her. And even if she did escape, even if she was able to get away and alert the authorities, there was no assurance that Malcolm would still be alive; Brahms could very well kill him in his anger if she left. Even the best-case scenario wasn't a good one.

Regardless of how many ways she tossed it, however, regardless of all the different angles she tried to work and scenarios she played out in her head, it all boiled down to two facts: if she agreed to go with him, there were at least a few different possibilities as to what she could do for herself and Malcolm. In this crawlspace, there were none.

Besides, she assured herself, Brahms wasn't like other boys. Or in her case, other men. He liked rules, structure, order. And if she followed the rules, complied with his wishes, he wouldn't hurt her...hopefully. Either way, if she ever hoped to get out of this alive, the smartest thing to do was play along.

Taking a deep breath, Greta slowly inched forward, keeping her legs in front of her as she crawled towards Brahms. He cocked his head to the side, as though puzzled as to why she chose to move that way, but didn't drop his hand. He waited, patient as a fox as she made her way toward him. She stopped when her legs were within touching distance, pausing for a moment to see if he would try to grab her and drag her out, and when he didn't, she pushed herself forward and hesitantly – ever so hesitantly – laid her hand in his.

A smug look of triumph passed over his eyes, and Brahms gently closed his fingers around hers, slowly backing up and leading her out of the small crawlspace. She fearfully followed, her movements jerky from the dying adrenaline running through her system.

Her eyes found Malcolm's body as she crawled out of her hiding place, relieved when she saw that he was still breathing. Nothing seemed to be wrong with him other than a nasty gash on his forehead, and with any luck, he would live. They both would.

Brahms stood up and, still holding her hand, tugged her to her feet.

She bowed her head, not wanting to look at him, and wordlessly allowed herself to be led back through the maze of the wall cavity.

They stepped out through the broken shutters Brahms had crashed through to get to she and Malcolm, emerging in the reading room.

She looked around at all of the books and shelves that lined the walls, at the chairs she used to sit herself and Brahms – the fake Brahms, she reminded herself – in to read, and felt an aching longing for the boy she had loved so much just hours before. She was broken from her reverie when Brahms dropped her hand, and she flinched back in surprise when she saw the way he was staring at her.

Though she could only see his eyes, it was obvious that he was admiring her. His gaze swept over her face, taking in every little detail, and she had to turn away from the intensity of it. It could almost be described as genuine affection, but she knew better than to confuse obsession with love.

She let out a shaky breath, trying to calm herself. Brahms lifted a hand to her face, and she jumped at the sudden contact. He weaved his fingers through her hair, stroking her cheek with his thumb. His touch was soft and gentle, but she didn't trust it for a second. She remained as still as possible as he inspected her.

He moved his masked nose to hover over her hair, and she could hear him as he inhaled deeply. He leaned closer and brought his other hand to her neck, and she couldn't help it when she took a tiny step back. She wanted nothing more than to put some space between them, unnerved with the direction things seemed to be headed, but he was having none of it; with every inch she backed away, he pushed forward with twice as much eagerness. Every step she took was matched with two of his own, and she gasped as he pushed her into the wall and dipped his head into the crook of her shoulder.

He slowly trailed his porcelain nose up her neck and past her jawline, taking up every inch of personal space she had as he breathed her in, and she remained completely frozen, unsure of what she should do. She didn't know how much farther she should allow her current situation to escalate; she didn't want to overreact and cause Brahms to get angry, but she also didn't want him to think he could just do whatever he wanted with her either. But she knew she had to do something.

She remained stock-still as Brahms continued his ministrations, running his masked face down the other side of her own as he played with the strands of her hair. She contemplated just suffering through it (after all, she supposed he wasn't really doing anything wrong) but when his left hand began to trail from her neck to her waist, she decided she'd had enough.

She timidly moved to grab the offending hand, but he paid her silent warning no mind as he pushed back the edge of her cardigan and slipped his fingers past the barrier of cloth. With no other options, she decided to resort to the only thing she could think of that would get him to stop.

"Brahms!"

It was a knee-jerk reaction, a panicking way for her to get his attention.

But it worked.

Brahms jerked back, startled at her shout of his name, and pulled away to stare at her with slightly wide eyes.

"It...it's time for bed now." She said, giving him a serious look.

Brahms seemed a bit shocked at her choice of words, but didn't make any sounds or movements to indicate that he was angry with her for it. Still, there was no sense in giving him time to think it over.

"Now, Brahms." She said, trying to sound authoritative. "You know the rules."

Brahms stared at her, motionless, and there was a single, heart-stopping moment of silence where she thought he might decide he had other plans for how the night should go, but in the end, her knowledge of his like for rules and order paid off. He shifted on his feet and slowly nodded his obedience, but she didn't allow herself to feel relieved until his fingers slipped out of her hair and he stepped away.

She walked past him to the edge of the room, where she turned and stood at the doorway, waiting for him. He stood watching her for a moment, seeming to consider whether or not he should listen to her, but ultimately moved to follow.

She led him up the stairs and down the hall to his room, turning on the lights and moving to pull back the covers of his bed.

She turned and waited for him to climb in, but he made no such move to do so. He just stood there by the doorframe, shifting uncertainly on his feet. She realized that the sudden change in behavior she had exhibited must have seemed suspicious if nothing else, and she quickly decided that reassurance was her best route to get him to let his guard down.

"Come on, Brahms," she said sweetly, smiling. "It's time to go to sleep now."

She felt as though she were coaxing a puppy into its cage. A very twisted, psychotic puppy, but a puppy nonetheless.

Seeming to decide that her intentions weren't harmful, Brahms idled by the doorway a few moments longer before walking over to his bed and getting in. Greta grabbed hold of the covers and tucked him in, trying to keep her happy disposition in place as she avoided staring at that porcelain face.

"Now you go straight to sleep, okay?" She said softly, looking down at him.

He said nothing in response, and she took that as her cue to leave.

"Kiss," he called suddenly, boyish voice cracking.

She froze, hands still at the hem of the covers, and made sure to keep her voice as soft and disarming as possible. "No, Brahms. Not tonight. It's your punishment, I'm sorry."

A beat of silence passed and she turned to leave, but a sudden hand on her wrist stopped her from going any further.

Her breath hitched and she cautiously turned to face him, looking first at the fingers wrapped firmly around her wrist and then to the face (or rather, mask) of its owner. She took in a sharp breath when she noticed the way his eyes had changed; they were darker, more malicious, dangerously determined. And she knew she was in real trouble.

"Kiss..." He said again, voice dropping to a low, masculine whisper.

Greta wasn't stupid. She knew that the hold he had on her – though fairly gentle – was a warning; if she didn't give him what he wanted, and right now, she could very well end up like Malcolm. There was no negotiating, no way out, no choice, though he may have tried to give her the illusion of it. No, there was only one thing she was allowed to do in that moment: follow the rules.

She turned to face him fully and stepped forward, slowly, hesitantly. The hold on her wrist loosened until it was nonexistent, and she comforted herself with the thought that it would all be over soon. Just a quick kiss, and she was out of there. She had to follow the rules.

Brahms laid back down when he was confident she wouldn't deny him what he wanted, and she mentally prepared herself for what she was about to do. Bracing her hands on the mattress on either side of his head, she slowly began to lean down towards his face.

The hand he had used to grab onto her wrist trailed up her arm and into her hair, fingers weaving up the back of her neck and sending unpleasant shivers down her spine. His other hand came to rest at her shoulder, gripping the fabric of her cardigan, and she tried desperately to keep herself from panicking at the close contact. Steeling herself, she continued to lean down.

Apparently she wasn't moving fast enough for him, because Brahms leaned up and met her more than halfway, his porcelain lips pressing into her own. She widened her eyes, shocked beyond words as he suddenly fisted his hands in her hair and clothes, eliciting a small squeak from her as he pulled her down onto the bed with him. She could feel his quickened breath against her skin as he kissed her, and she struggled to figure out what to do. Should she kick him? Hit him? Tear herself away and run? Scream? She had to do something! But just as she was deciding on which of those four options to take, Brahms stopped.

He let go of the fabric around her arm and let his hand slide from her hair, and she pulled away. Greta looked at him, speechless as she leaned over him. They both stared at one another, trying to regain their breath (though for very different reasons). It seemed like an eternity had passed between them, though it had only been a few seconds, and she blushed in embarrassment at what she had just allowed to occur.

Looking away, Greta slowly pushed herself off of the bed and stood up, still processing what had just happened. Numbly, she walked over to the doorway and rested her hand on the button for the lights, keeping her eyes on the floor as she angled her face towards Brahms.

"Goodnight," she whispered, not really knowing what else to say.

She pushed the button when she received no response, and once the room was bathed in darkness, she quickly moved to close the door. She hurried to her own room just across the hall, locking herself in the moment she was inside, and slumped against the door. Tears filled her eyes and she began hyperventilating, the stress and panic from the night's events finally catching up with her.

What was she going to do? How was she going to get Malcolm and leave the house without Brahms knowing? How could she possibly make things play out so they had a happy ending?

A loud, sudden sniffle escaped her, and she hastily covered her mouth, afraid that Brahms might hear her and decide to investigate.

She couldn't even cry in privacy. What made her think that she could do anything that would benefit her and Malcolm? What made her think she could do anything at all?

But there has to be something, she stubbornly thought. There has to be.

Wait, her mind told her. There's nothing you can do but wait.

Wait? As in, do nothing for an extended period of time? What good would that do? The longer she waited, the more likely it was that something else terrible would happen, either to her or Malcolm, or both. But...it was also too soon for Brahms to be caught off guard. Though he acted meek and simple-minded in front of her (when they were alone, that was), she knew there was a storm of intricate thoughts and calculations and ill-intended manipulation going on inside his head, and that wasn't something to be trifled with so soon.

She shakily sighed, knowing that her gut was right.

She would wait.

She would stay up, wait until Brahms fell asleep, then get Malcolm and go.

Yes. That was what she would do.

Greta scooted over and propped her head against her dresser, huddling up in a little ball as she made to carry out her plan.

She would wait just until he fell asleep.

Just until he fell asleep...