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alloftheimagines · 2 years

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david budd | the break-in

masterlist | ko-fi

words: 2.1k

warnings: 18+

reader struggles with sexual harassment in the workplace, reader is assaulted in a home invasion, violence, strong language and use of the words "bitch" and "slut", david coming to reader's rescue and taking care of you

prompt: I love bodyguard sm! How about David Budd & “I’m never going to let anyone hurt you.

Your apartment door is open. You know it wasn’t when you went to work this morning, but now the shadows pour into the hallway, the lock hanging off splintered wood. Somebody has broken in.

Fear turns you cold, and you scan the grey-walled corridor. It's quiet save for a baby crying somewhere upstairs and the blare of a television drifting through one of the many closed doors. You glance at the door behind you, where you know David Budd lives. A police sergeant. If you were smart, you’d knock on his door before entering your own flat, but you don’t want to bother a man who always seems to be wrapped up in work or his kids. It’s the last thing he needs. It's probably nothing, anyway. Break-ins happen every day in London.

Slowly, you take out your keys and separate them between your fingers, just in case. In the other hand, you get your phone out, ready. And then you nudge the door open with your foot.

Nothing looks touched inside, everything as you left it. Somehow, that makes it worse. It isn’t just a break-in, or else the laptop on the kitchen counter wouldn’t still be there. So what else would they want?

The question is answered by a pair of rough, bruising hands yanking you away from the light switch. You try to scream, but they cover your mouth, squeezing you against a flat, hard body. Something stabs into your hip. You look down and find a knife winking at you, pressing into your waistband. Tears slip down your cheeks as you try to struggle, but in your panic, you’ve dropped the keys and there’s no way out of their grip.

“Don’t move,” the intruder whispers in your ear. “Don’t scream or I promise, it won’t end well.”

You recognise the gravelly voice. John. A co-worker — ex-co-worker. He’d been harassing you in the office. Finding excuses to touch you, watching you too closely, making inappropriate comments. So you went to HR and they fired him yesterday.

Only, this morning, you found him loitering in the car park outside the office. You’d hoped he was just there to pick up his things, but…

He’s here for you. He shouldn’t even know where you live. He’s been watching you. Might have even followed you home before. A shiver crawls down your spine.

“What do you want?” you ask, voice trembling.

“What do I want?” He scoffs, throwing you to the floor. You whimper as he leans over you, pressing the knife to your neck this time. He looks… wrong. Tired. Bloodshot eyes. Shaking hands. Stubble where he usually kept clean-shaven. “I want my fucking job back, you bitch. What did you tell them?”

“The truth,” you whisper, though you know honesty isn’t a good idea. “I told them the truth.”

“You had them fire me.”

“They made the decision. I would have been happy just to have you work on another floor.”

“Why? Because I looked at you? Maybe you shouldn’t dress like such a slut.” He presses harder, making you wince. “You were begging for it. You wanted me.”

You shake your head. “No. No, I didn’t, John. Please, get off me. Go home. Nobody has to know about this as long as you leave me alone.”

“Or what? What are you going to do?” He snarls, eyes glittering wildly. And you see the fire there. The anger. The need to hurt. You feel sick, frozen in fear. It doesn’t matter what you say next, you know. He’s here for a reason. To punish you.

“Don’t,” you beg. “You’re not going to hurt me.”

“You’re wrong.” He moves quickly, but your reflexes are quicker. You knee him in the groin, twisting in an effort to crawl away while he yells out in pain — but you’re not quick enough, and he’s there in an instant, dragging you back by the hair. You scream out, and he stifles it with his hand again so it echoes in the silence.

“I’m going to make you pay,” he promises, the cold metal digging into your collarbone now. “I swear to god —”

The door swings open before he can finish. In the moonlight, you make out a broad figure. He launches himself at John in two strides, dragging him up by the collar and pinning him roughly against the wall. It isn’t until he speaks, Scottish accent making his voice like gravel, that you realise who it is. David. “PS David Budd. I am ordering you to drop your weapon.”

A sob falls from you as the knife drops to the carpet. David slams John into the wall again, pinning his wrists.

“You’re under arrest for assault.” Anger ripples through David as he reads John his rights. You stumble up, feeling as though you’re moving through quicksand. The kitchen counter is your only support.

David half-turns to you as he keeps John in his grip. “Are you hurt? Do you need an ambulance?”

“No… No,” you whisper weakly. You wouldn’t notice even if you were hurt. You’re too numb. Too shocked. To grateful that David got here when he did.

“I have officers on their way. Called them as soon as I heard you scream. Are you sure you’re okay, love?”

“I think so.” You swallow thickly, shaking when you hear the sirens.

“Do you know this man?” asks David.

“He was a co-worker.”

“She had me fucking fired,” John groused, but David silenced him, crushing him closer to the wall. You’d never seen him like this. So focused, so… furious. Like he wanted to do more than just arrest John. In the hallway, he always had a smile for you. He’d bring your parcels to your door if you had deliveries on the same day. Always asked you how you were, how work was. You don’t know this David.

David looks at you in question now, and you nod. “He was harassing me at work. I took it to HR.”

“If you were smart, you would have left it there, mate,” David hissed through clenched teeth. “We aren't nearly as nice as HR.”

The sound of footsteps rattles through the building, and then the on-duty officers are there. They cuff John and escort him under David’s orders. You can only stand and watch as he explains everything he knows, hearing talks of interviews and the station. You can only breathe when John is finally gone and it’s just the two of you.

“Is it alright if I turn a light on?”

You nod absently, crossing your arms over your chest. He chooses the floor lamp by the door, the one you’d been attempting to switch on when John had grabbed you.

“Are you sure you’re alright, love?” he repeats. His eyes search you, hands hovering awkwardly as though he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch you. You can only tremble, tipping your head in your attempt to convince him you are.

“We need a statement from you down at the station. Do you think you can do that for me?” His voice has none of the rough fury it had a few moments ago. Now, it’s soft, gentle, concerned, and it’s enough to make you want to sob, thank him, seek comfort in him. But you don’t.

“It can wait until tomorrow morning if you need a bit of time…”

“No. Now is okay.”

“Okay. I can take you. How’s that?” He extends his hand carefully as though expecting you to cower. But you never cowered for John, and you won’t now. Least of all with a man who’s only ever made you feel safe. It isn’t easy living in the centre of London, but knowing a sergeant lives across the hall has provided you with a sense of security you wouldn’t have had otherwise.

You take his hand now and let him lead you out. You look blankly at your door, the broken lock. “We’ll have it sorted tomorrow. Can I call anyone for you?”

Your stomach drops at the realisation that, no, there’s no one to call. Your family lives up north and you couldn’t bear to worry them. Your friends are all from work, and though supportive, you don’t want to tell them the story tonight. “No. There isn’t anyone.”

“Okay. You’re welcome to stay with me tonight. I have a pull-out couch.”

His kindness almost makes you want to break, but you force a smile instead. “Thank you, David.”

You drive to the station in silence. David guides you into an interview room to take your statement himself. You tell him the story shakily, and his eyebrows furrow with the same fear and pain you’ve felt for weeks. When you’re done and the recording is stopped, he reaches a hand across the table. You take it. “You did really good. He’ll get what he deserves. I promise.”

You don’t know what to say, so you only purse your lips and hope it's true.

“Ready to go home?” David asks.

The answer, of course, is yes.

***

David can’t stop watching you as he waits for the kettle to boil. You sit on his couch, makeup smeared as you stare out of the window into the night. When he notices you shiver, he grabs a zip-up hoodie from his pile of clean laundry and drapes it around your shoulders after offering you your tea. “Don’t want you getting cold. If you want, I can nip across the hall and grab some of your things.”

“I can go…” But your bottom lip wobbles, and he knows that soon, it’ll hit you. It always take a while for the shock to wear off for victims of assault. You’ve been holding up well for hours, chin set in determination, but it’s quiet now, and you look so small in his flat. He just wishes he’d known. Wishes he’d heard the lock being broken or seen the door open when he got home. He’d been exhausted after a long shift. Barely aware of his surroundings until he’d heard you scream. Dread had sharpened his world again, and when he’d walked in to find you at knifepoint, that bastard’s hand knotted in your hair… he’d wanted to kill him.

“You drink your tea,” he insists softly. “I can go. Just tell me where to look. I won’t go rooting. Promise.”

“In my bedroom. There are pyjamas in the second drawer of my dresser.”

“I’ll be back in a second.” He squeezes your hand before crossing the hall and grabbing your things, nausea churning in his gut as he looks at the ruined lock again. His hands ball into fists at the memory of you on the floor. If he hadn’t heard you scream…

He leaves the apartment before he can contemplate the end of that sentence, setting your pyjamas down on the coffee table and taking the armchair across from you. You chew your bottom lip, warming your hands around your mug of tea and staring at the string of the teabag.

“You don’t have to be so strong now, love,” he says. “It’s just you and me. If you want to talk about it…”

It’s all it takes for your chin to wobble. “I just felt so helpless. I thought… I didn’t know what he was going to do to me.”

David sighs, resting his elbows on his parted thighs and wishing he could do more, say more, be more. Wishing he could chase all your fears away. He shifts slowly towards you, waiting for you to protest, but you don’t. In fact, when he sits on the sofa beside you, you lean towards him as though welcoming him, tucking your hair behind your ear in that way he’s grown to love. He doesn’t know what it is about you; his days are just brighter if he catches you in the hallway or hears you singing in the shower through the paper-thin walls. And it helps that you’re beautiful and kind and funny. Helps that you always make him feel warm and, for once, at peace.

“You’re safe now.”

You close your eyes, tears slipping down your cheeks. He brushes them away tenderly, and you bow your head as more come. “Thank you for being there.”

“Of course. I’m…” He steels himself before his voice can crack with the sincerity it holds. “I’m never going to let anyone hurt you again, Y/N. I’m here, okay?”

You do something he hadn’t expected then. You nestle your face into his chest. His breaths turn ragged with the proximity as he slowly wraps his arms around you, stroking your hair. “You’re okay now, love.” He says it again and again, reminding himself as well as you. It’s been a long time since he’s felt this rattled, this invested. A long time since he’s felt anything at all.

He clings onto it for as long as you let him.

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