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universitypenguin · 2 months

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Chapter 28

Summary: Princess confronts Court about his investigation and is shocked by what he's uncovered. After their trap fails, she takes the hunt for evidence into her own hands and comes face-to-face with the stalker.

Word Count: 8,029

Warnings: Includes scenes with gun violence, hostage situations, and car accidents. Discussion of stalking behaviors, general violence, computer hacking, and spy/intelligence agencies. Minor foul language. Only appropriate for 18+ readers. No minors.

Author's Note: Thank you all for you patient with me these past few months. Your encouragement made a huge difference and really motivated me to get it done.

Masterlist

Court stationed himself behind the desk in Lloyd’s office and used the laptop to pull up livestream footage from the cameras in the patent department. He leaned back, looking relaxed, other than his eyes. That cool blue gaze locked on the screen, gleaming with an intensity usually seen in carnivorous birds before they descended upon unsuspecting prey.

Nausea curled unpleasantly in your stomach, a sign that the rush of adrenaline that had propelled you through the evening had run out. You folded yourself into the chair across from Court, rubbing your temples to ease the dull throb of a headache. The overly bright fluorescent lights stabbed at your retinas. Though you were completely stationary, your head was spinning, as if you were on a high-speed carousel. Your thoughts whirled in a chaotic vortex that intensified the dizziness. Everything in your mind was colliding, tipping you off balance.

Yet despite the over stimulation, you were bubbling with excitement, because for the first time in months, you could see the fragments of the puzzle that had upended your life. Some of the edge pieces had been sorted out tonight. You’d been able to assemble the corners and from there, a complex mural of overlapping details took shape. For instance, your breakup with Aiden. He’d used his promotion as a pretext for the split, and in July, you’d had no reason to doubt him. After all, he’d been out that night celebrating with his friends at Song-Li’s restaurant.

In hindsight, it was appalling that you’d missed such a glaring inconsistency, one that had been right in front of you.

Song-Li’s was outside of Aiden’s usual orbit–so far out of it that you wondered how he’d known the place existed. You knew you hadn’t mentioned it to him and the business didn’t have much of an online presence. They catered primarily to the office dwellers native to the neighborhood and charged exorbitant delivery fees to anyone who lived outside of a two-mile radius. If you knew anything about Aiden, it was that he was a netizen to the core, with annoyingly high standards for bars and restaurants. He wouldn’t step foot in a venue that had less than fifty reviews, and Song-Li’s only had nine last time you’d checked.

It made no sense for him to pick an unfamiliar place for such an important event, especially one with all his friends in attendance. Yet you’d seen the crowded table and watched the gifts exchange hands with your own eyes. That meant the party Friday evening hadn’t been his first visit to Song-Li’s, and that demonstrated a much deeper familiarity with the neighborhood around your office than Aiden should have had.

Like a record scratch, your mind froze, the engine of your train of thought stalling mid-cognition as something else that should’ve been obvious to you long before now unveiled itself. In retrospect, it was as blatant as a neon sign in a dark alley: Aiden hadn’t seen the dismissal coming. He’d told all his friends about the promotion, thrown himself a party, and ended things with you. Those weren’t the actions of someone who anticipated an abrupt change in their fates. He’d been blindsided.

Another event that made no sense was Aiden’s confrontation with Lloyd. You’d assumed it stemmed from jealousy, but reflecting on it now you realized that most of Aiden’s effort had been directed towards peacocking in front of Lloyd. He’d barely even interacted with you. The aim seemed to be the preservation of his ego, driven by the need to look tough in front of his friends. Between breaking up with you in a text message and his priorities at the restaurant, it was evident that Aiden had no lingering romantic interest in you.

The deduction was sound, except for one tiny wrinkle: Aiden had shown up at your apartment a few hours later and made a scene so loud it had woken your neighbors. His behavior wasn’t logical. Neither were his later efforts to break into your apartment. That first attempt had been inelegant, but the second was meticulously plotted. The math didn’t add up, but reviewing the equation seemed to shade in the contours of the missing variable: Aiden’s motivation. Between the confrontation with Lloyd and Aiden’s appearance at your place, something had made him do a complete one-eighty, from callous to desperate.

While much of the puzzle remained incomplete, enough had come together that it revealed the blank space. That space had taken on a distinct shape, and the dimensions of it seemed to outline Court Gentry perfectly.

There was no doubt Court knew more about your ex-boyfriend than he was letting on. He’d claimed the spy had recruited Aiden to crack the patent department’s upgraded cybersecurity, which rang true, especially since you’d already confirmed it through Landon’s source at the FBI — he’d been terminated for “suspicion of espionage.” An allegation like that from a major IT industry conglomerate wasn’t common. No competent HR department would’ve signed off on such an action without hard evidence to back their claim.

Given that Aiden had been expecting a promotion instead of a termination, you figured the company hadn’t obtained the evidence on their own. If that was the case, the only plausible explanation for his abrupt dismissal was that an outside source had provided them with proof. Everything seemed to loop back to a single point of origin with Court Gentry at the center. He had to be the company’s source.

From that revelation, it wasn’t much of a leap to conclude that he’d been investigating the spy for a lot longer than he’d let on. You tried to recall if you’d bumped into him at the casino bar or if it had been the other way around. The exact order of events escaped you, but the timing of Court’s appearance in Singapore was damning by itself—he’d shown up just days after Aiden had been fired. Lloyd had once told you there was no such thing as a coincidence with spies, and that seemed especially true in this instance.

You wondered how long it had taken Court to gather enough proof for Aiden’s company to take one look at it and dismiss him immediately. Weeks? Months? He’d produced the evidence at the end of July, and it was now the middle of September. The timeframe begged the question of how much more he’d gathered since then. Perhaps the origin of the entire investigation had been Aiden. It tracked, because accounting for their personal history, who else would’ve drawn Court’s suspicions other than Lloyd?

The thought of Court already knowing the spy was your stalker made your stomach clench. If he had investigated you, he would have been aware of the stalking. If he’d been on Lloyd’s trail in Singapore, surely he would have dug into Lloyd’s close associates, too. That he’d read you in on the details of the investigation tonight hinted that he’d already vetted you. The odds of him knowing the stalker’s identity and holding it back lit a smoldering fury in the pit of your stomach.

“You deliberately gave me a false impression of how long you’ve been investigating the spy, didn’t you?”

Court looked up from the laptop. “Excuse me?”

“You knew the spy was my stalker. How long have you known?”

He arched an eyebrow. A too-innocent expression lit his face.

“Don’t try me,” you warned.

To your surprise, he dropped the ruse. “I’ve suspected for a while, but only found proof a few days ago.”

“You were investigating Lloyd in Singapore, weren’t you?”

Court tilted his head. “Did you just put that together?”

You ignored the sarcastic tone. “By extension, you must’ve been investigating me, too. That you’d tell me so much about the spy’s activities proves it.”

“The spy made a transmission while you were abroad, which cleared Lloyd and you, but I kept digging through Lloyd’s contacts, searching for a connection. Eventually, I found one.”

“So you know who the spy is?”

“I said I found a connection to the spy, not that I’d found him,” Court said.

“Aiden was the connection.”

“Clever. Give the girl a gold star.”

He was trying to throw you off topic by starting a fight. You recognized the maneuver almost immediately–it was exactly how Lloyd tried to dodge questions when you first worked together.

“You got Aiden fired almost instantly, which means you gave his company irrefutable proof he’d coordinated with the spy. What was it?”

“He made an extra copy of the decrypted program and left it… lying around, so to speak. I turned it over to the company’s security officer.”

“Lying around? Where?”

Court’s lips twitched. “Right under your nose.”

You stared at him for a moment. “He hid it in my apartment, didn’t he?”

“It was in your kitchen pantry, buried in a bag of rice.”

“Son of a bitch!”

“I also had proof of the payments he accepted from a bank in Hong Kong. It was more than enough to get him fired, especially after his company proved that his fingerprint unlocked the phone I retrieved from your rice.”

“If you had that kind of evidence, why didn’t you just report it to the police?”

“Because Aiden was just a symptom of a much bigger problem–a problem I didn’t have proof existed at that point.”

“Weren’t you worried that reporting Aiden would tip off the spy?”

“I was counting on it. Sacrificing the spy’s pawn was a shot across the bow, and it worked.”

“What else did you do?”

"I kept Aiden under surveillance, hoping he’d lead me to the spy, but the only place he kept returning to was your apartment. Eventually, I realized he was after something there.”

“The phone hidden in my pantry, which I assume you’d already broken in and stolen.”

Court smirked. “Better me than Aiden, right? The phone proved Aiden’s involvement, but it didn’t reveal the spy’s identity. At least, not until I saw the pictures in Detective Diskant’s file.”

“You had the entire file? Including the photos? How?!”

“I blackmailed a dirty cop.”

“Which is how you knew the spy’s IP address matched the one the stalker tried to hack my computer from.”

“No. That only came to light yesterday. What caught my interest was a picture the stalker sent while you were in Qatar.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t read those messages.”

“Good choice. They were creepy,” Court said. “It was the one he took at your apartment building on July 18th.”

“What about it?”

“The metadata proves when and where it was taken.”

“… and?”

“Aiden’s messages with the spy revealed that he’d threatened the spy, saying he had an insurance policy hidden somewhere safe. If the spy tipped off his company, Aiden would use it. The spy waited a few days to respond and then texted Aiden an image of your apartment building.”

“Walk me through that slower, I’m not getting it,” you said.

“The spy was at your apartment building on Tuesday, July 18th. The metadata proves the exact date, time, and location of the photo. He waited until Friday night to send it. When I saw the same picture in Diskant’s file that I’d seen on Aiden’s phone—”

“You cloned Aiden’s phone?!”

Court shot you a sardonic look.

“Right. Never mind, of course you did. Continue.”

“I knew exactly where the spy was on that day and time. The security footage from your apartment didn’t show much, but after you were almost run down a few weeks later, I had a second chance to figure out what kind of car the suspect was driving.”

“The police tried that,” you said.

“I have a lot more time on my hands than a metro police detective and considerably fewer restrictions — both moral and legal. With a lot of legwork, I narrowed it down to a specific make and model.”

“Why would the spy take so long to send the picture to Aiden? And even longer to send it to me? By my count, he waited—”

“Three days before sending it to Aiden and ten days before sending it to you. With Aiden he timed it to coincide with his party, presumably for dramatic effect. With you, your lack of reaction annoyed him and he needed to up the ante.”

“Why did a picture of my apartment freak Aiden out? I don’t get it.”

“Think. What was at your apartment building that would’ve drawn the spy’s interest?”

“The phone. Damn it! What did Aiden do, tell him where it was?!”

“No. But he said he’d hidden it somewhere safe, which ruled out his home or work. Your place was relatively secure yet also accessible to Aiden, so it came under suspicion quickly.”

You were struggling to follow. “Aiden kept proof of his own wrongdoing… as an insurance policy?”

“Yeah, not sure what he was thinking there. It only seemed to irritate the spy.”

“I don’t imagine it took him long to figure out where it was,” you said.

“Nope.”

“That’s what triggered the stalking, isn’t it? He came after me because of Aiden.”

“At first,” Court said. “But based on the escalation in August…”

“Right. Yeah. I know, I just…”

“Get over the denial, Princess. If anything’s clear from the police reports, it’s that this guy is insane, but he’s also patient and calculating.”

“He even set up a red herring for me to chase.”

Court nodded. “He knew about the breakup and the attempt to break into your apartment; he took advantage of Aiden’s erratic behavior to drive your suspicions in that direction.”

“What else did you uncover?”

“Diskant’s file gave me a lot more angles to work from. There are several events involving the stalker that tell me where he was and when.”

“You even got his height and build.”

“The security footage from Lloyd’s backyard was very helpful. It eliminated most my suspects,” Court said.

“Who do you think the spy is?”

“Someone who’s been hiding their talent with computers.”

“Talent? He had to get Aiden to crack the security for him.”

“He was good enough to beat the first version in May and bypass the safeguards intended to stop the transmission of classified files. He was good enough to hack your work computer, at least for a few minutes, and he knew who to reach out to when he couldn’t get through the upgraded encryption.”

“So he’s good, but not excellent.”

“Pretty much,” Court said.

“I know you have a theory.”

“Are you sure you want to hear it?”

“I’ve been chasing answers for months. Just tell me.”

“Clayton Bishop.”

Your breath caught in your throat. The name reverberated through your mind.

“Bishop?”

“I’ve been analyzing his movements and the timing of certain events aligns suspiciously with activities undertaken by the spy and the stalker.”

“But Bishop...” You couldn’t form a coherent sentence. “He wouldn’t do something like this. He's nothing like… He’s not my stalker!”

“All the evidence points to him.”

“There has to be another explanation.”

“Everything keeps coming back to him.”

You fell back in the chair, stunned. Your thoughts raced as you tried to reconcile the idea of Bishop and the sadistic stalker as the same entity.

“It can’t be him.”

“Why not?”

“He isn’t a computer expert!”

“You’re right, but he’s good with them. He learned how to code in high school and took computer science classes in college.”

“In coding languages that no longer exist, I’m sure. And computer science classes in, what, 1972? Come on, Court. Bishop isn’t my stalker.”

“I investigated everyone in the company between five-foot-seven and five-foot-nine who had the correct build, particularly those with technical backgrounds. Guess whose cell phone data puts him in your neighborhood on July 18th? Who missed a meeting on August 16th, when you were almost strangled? Think about it. He knew you were staying at Lloyd’s place and exactly when he was supposed to get home. He even recommended you go to Detective Diskant.”

“Bishop doesn’t drive at night. He couldn’t have tried to run me down in the parking lot.”

“He claims not to drive at night, but didn’t we just walk by him in the lobby on his way out? It’s night time, isn’t it?”

You sucked in a breath between your teeth.

Court continued. “Accounting for locations, availability, knowing the spy’s approximate height and weight, it’s a process of elimination.”

“But Bishop is the one who bought the firm’s cybersecurity programs.”

“That’s not a point in his favor,” he said dryly.

You considered that and stiffened. “Oh… shit.”

“You know I’m right.”

“I don’t know if you’re right, but I know Bishop has access to any computer with high-level security from the desktop in his office.”

“What?” Court asked.

“Remember how we assumed the spy would have to use the computer in the patent department?”

“Yeah.”

“Bishop wouldn’t need to be in the patent department at all.”

“Doesn’t that defeat the entire purpose of cybersecurity programs?”

“Look, all I know is that I’ve seen him use it before. A few months ago, when Westin wouldn’t put in my hours, Bishop remoted into his computer and accessed my timecard. I forget the explanation, but the gist is that he can get into any computer, as long as they have certain types of security programs. It’s like a master key to the firm’s network. The trap we set is useless.”

Court’s jaw flexed as he returned his attention to the laptop in front of him. He punched keys and typed in commands. You circled the desk to look over his shoulder and saw the security camera footage from the hallway.

“You had access to this all along? Why didn’t you—?”

“The spy’s been scrubbing the footage,” Court said, cutting you off as he flipped between windows. He stopped on a live shot of the parking garage. “Look. Recognize anyone?”

“There’s no one in the frame.”

“Any of the cars?”

You leaned closer. There was a black car parked near the far exit.

“That’s Bishop’s car,” you said.

“That’s what I thought.”

Court expanded the window to fill the screen with the image of Bishop’s Lincoln sedan. It sat idling with its headlights on. Then the driver’s side door swung open and the familiar figure stepped out. He walked toward the sky bridge that connected the parking garage to the third floor of the law firm.

Your heart sank. Bishop had only been pretending to leave. “Damn it. What do we do?”

“Stay here. I’ll go have a chat with our friend.”

- - -

It wasn’t without protest, but after he threatened to tie you to the chair, you stayed behind while Court went to confront Bishop.

You called Lloyd again, a knee-jerk reaction, like a child seeking their favorite blanket during a thunderstorm. The call went straight to voicemail. You groaned and buried your nose in the collar of Lloyd’s quarter-zip, inhaling the faint traces of his cologne. The scent calmed the roaring panic in your head and helped you organize your thoughts.

You dialed Zach’s number, to the same result, and then tried Detective Roth. It rang and rang, eventually going to voicemail. Really? Even Roth was out of touch? He was in the middle of a search operation–his phone, at least, should be on.

The laptop on Lloyd’s desk showed the live video feed from the patent department. You moved it to split screen and looked up the number for the Harmony Police Department. A desk sergeant picked up, and you requested to be transferred to Detective Roth.

“I’m sorry, he’s not in right now. Can I take a message, or would you like to be transferred to his office voicemail?”

“No, thanks. I’ll just try him again later.”

You hung up and tilted your head back and stared at the ceiling. What now?

There was another option, one closer than any of the others you’d considered thus far. An armed guard was right downstairs, and the other was circulating around the building. Just a quick walk down to the lobby would greatly improve your circumstances. The idea drew you out of your seat and saw you halfway to the door before reality hit. Bishop had hired those guards. He was the founding partner in the law firm. Even if you could convince them there was a spy in the building, it was unlikely that they’d be willing to turn on their boss.

You slumped onto the sofa. No Lloyd, no Zach, even Detective Roth wasn’t answering your calls, and the guards weren’t likely to be a help. If there was evidence you would’ve called Detective Diskant. The thought of him sparked another unpleasant realization that made your skin crawl. Bishop had pushed you to report the stalking. He’d even given you Diskant’s contact information. As a former prosecutor and someone politically well connected in the D.C. area, there were a dozen strings he could’ve pulled to have your complaint buried without your knowledge.

On the laptop, the video feed from the patent department was stubbornly blank. Two more minutes until midnight, and the trap was still empty.

Evidence. You needed evidence. There was nothing to tie Bishop to the stalking or the spying. Weighing the odds, you decided it would be more prudent to try and prove the spying allegations since treason carried a longer prison sentence than stalking. Also, the spying had been going on longer than the stalking, so it was more likely he’d left behind evidence of those activities. This short period, while Bishop was distracted, might be the only chance to gather that proof. Bishop was a brilliant lawyer, and unless the case against him was airtight, he’d evade the allegations like an eel slipping through a net.

What would Lloyd do if he were here?

The question brought to mind images of Lloyd with his hands around Bishop’s throat. That wasn’t exactly something you were comfortable attempting on your own. Despite his advanced age he’d probably do more harm to you than you would to him. You amended the question: What would Lloyd tell you to do if he was here? The memory of being tailed in Singapore came back, along with Lloyd’s advice: call Jake.

This time the phone was answered almost immediately.

“Hey, Princess, change your mind about that ride home?” Jake asked in lieu of greeting.

“Sort of. Don’t freak out, but I have something to tell you.”

“Uh, sure…”

“Bishop is my stalker. He’s also been stealing government secrets from the patent department and selling them to the Chinese.”

“What?!”

“There’s no solid evidence to prove either claim, but there has to be something. Also, I need the combination to Lloyd’s safe.”

“Princess, where are you?”

“In Lloyd’s office.”

Jake launched a volley of questions. You answered them, explaining how Court had shown up, the spying allegations, and the discovery of the IP address. As you talked, you crossed to the wall and swung open the painting to reveal the wall-safe hidden behind it.

“And you went with him? With Court Gentry? Just like that? What were you thinking?!”

“We can get into it later. Right now, I need the passcode to the safe. I think Lloyd said it was his favorite Super Bowls by year.”

“Stay where you are and don’t touch anything. Landon and I are on our way.”

“How far out are you?”

“About forty minutes,” Jake said.

“This can’t wait. I don’t know what Court’s doing or how much evidence he has, but we wouldn’t be here if he had enough. I need the laptop you gave Lloyd, the one with all the hacking programs. You can walk me through the rest.”

There was a murmur from the background, presumably Landon. You only caught a few clipped words of Jake’s response before he returned to the phone.

“The code is 917889.”

The door popped open and there, sitting on top of the pile of cash, was the laptop. You powered it up and sighed in relief when you saw it was fully charged.

“Alright. I have the laptop. We need to get something that’ll give a prosecutor reason to press charges against Bishop. I think I can get to the server room. Court said the spy’s been scrubbing the surveillance footage, but maybe there’s a backup copy? Access logs, record of key card entries… there must be something he didn’t think of.”

Jake sighed. “Fine. Go into the safe again and grab an encrypted USB stick.”

“Got it. Why do I need this?” you asked.

“For backup. You always backup evidence, Princess. You’re going to need to get down to the second floor’s server room. Landon wants to talk to you, let me put you on speaker.”

“Princess, under the organizer tray in Lloyd’s top desk drawer there’s a ring of keys. You’ll need them to get into the server room.”

“Okay, I have them.”

“Also, there’s a square key. It’s to the skywalk between our building and the employee garage. Stop on the third floor and lock it.”

“Why?”

“If Bishop makes a break for it, it’ll slow him down. Jake is on his tablet, hacking the security cameras as we speak. He’ll be watching your back every step of the way,” Landon said.

You tucked the keys into your pocket and secured the laptop under your arm.

“Alright. I’m going downstairs now,” you said, slipping in one earbud and switching the call to Bluetooth.

You moved cautiously, every little noise amplified in the stillness. Jake and Landon's voices murmured in your ear as they talked quietly between themselves. Hypervigilant, you navigated the stairwell, stopping on the third floor to lock the bridge to the garage. It felt hot on the second floor, despite the thermometer in the hallway reading 71 degrees.

“I’m at the server room.”

Jake guided you to the correct key on Lloyd’s ring for the deadbolt and gave you the door code. Inside, the server room was cool and dimly lit, with a pale blue strip of LED lights along the perimeter of the ceiling providing just enough visibility. You found the computer tower in the cabinet under the desk and disconnected its HDMI and USB cables, and plugged them to the laptop, which automatically brought up a new window.

“Okay, I connected the laptop to the computer station in the server room. What now?”

“Hold on. I’m piggybacking onto your connection for a second. Let me…”

Jake trailed off, but you saw evidence of his presence on the laptop screen. Windows opened and closed, then a terminal popped up, and lines of code began appearing at a rate faster than any normal human could type.

“There. I took care of the firewalls. You shouldn’t have a problem now.”

“Wait. If you can piggyback off the laptop, why can’t you do this part, too?”

“Princess, looking through these files requires a much larger screen than I have on my tablet, and an actual keyboard. Not to mention that the tower is connected to a dozen different servers. It’s like a maze to navigate and the interface isn’t user-friendly. I can’t even get it to display on my tablet.”

Landon’s voice came over the line. “Jake, get a bead on where Bishop is.”

“I already did. He went into his office a few minutes ago and Court Gentry followed just after. Princess, I’m going to need you to get into the keycard logs. It’ll tell us who opened what doors and when.”

You followed Jake’s instructions to access the keycard database.

“Start with the patent department last week at 11:49 P.M.—that’s just before the stalker tried to hack your work laptop.”

“I’ve got a list of dates and times. The keycards are listed under employee numbers, though.”

“Give me the numbers, I can look them up.”

“There’s two that look suspicious. One is from a guard and the other is registered to number #000.”

“Wait. What? It’s a guest user?”

“I don’t know, but their employee number is just three zeros,” you said.

“That’s a guest pass user. Scroll over to the far right column and check their permissions.”

“It’s blank.”

“It can’t be blank,” Jake said.

“This one is.”

“How far back do the logs go?”

“Only a couple weeks. Let me check where Bishop’s keycard has been used… Huh. He’s been here late at night a lot lately. Like, around midnight. That’s unusual.”

The silence on the other end of the line was palpable.

“We're only a mile away,” Landon said.

That would’ve made you feel better, but even at this time of night, traffic would be congested the closer they got to the city center. Soon they’d be slowed to a crawl. You turned back to the computer.

“I cross-checked Bishop’s key card with the patent department door. For the past few weeks he’s gone in and out almost every morning at around 7:40 AM.”

“How long are the visits?” Jake asked.

“A little over twenty minutes each. What about the surveillance footage? Court said the spy’s been scrubbing it, but there must be a backup.”

Jake directed you on how to get into the video storage server. After the connection finally loaded, you scrolled through the frames, tapping your nails on the counter as you examined the images.

There was footage showing Bishop coming and going from the patent department, his office, and through the lobby. None of it looked suspicious. Finally, you found the video of the patent department last week during the hacker’s attempt.

“The video’s just a black screen.”

Jake groaned. “Damn it. He’s literally been scrubbing the footage, hasn’t he? I know that program. It sends a damaged file to the backup server which interprets it as blank.”

“What else? We track computer logins, right?”

“That’s on a different server.”

Getting into the computer records server was another ordeal, which resulted in you getting kicked out of the system twice when it suddenly recognized you as an intruder. Jake had to remote in again and take down another firewall. Finally, you opened the database screen.

“Start by looking at Bishop’s logins, then check for the ghost guest card,” Jake instructed.

You searched the database and waited as the results filtered, dumping out into a clunky excel spreadsheet. “Yikes, this is a lot. It goes back almost to January. Everything is listed as his own computer, though.”

“Find out who was using the patent department’s computer during the attempted hack.”

The computer produced the results of your inquiry at a sluggish, belligerent pace.

“Okay. The ghost guest pass is on this list. It’s the only one with blank permissions, so I can easily identify it. Also, there’s this random account that’s been accessing the computer remotely. It shows up several times a day.”

After a brief analysis, he clucked his tongue. “Ah, I know that account. It’s just the IT department’s keystroke logger.”

“Excuse me? Keystroke logger? I did not consent to a keystroke logger on my computer.”

“You only have to consent if it's monitoring you. This doesn’t save any official data–it identifies users by their typing patterns. The program’s being trained right now. They’re planning to introduce it in next year’s security update.”

“Doesn’t everyone type the same?”

“Actually, typing is surprisingly unique. It’s almost like handwriting. People press keys differently, move from one key to the next with certain patterns, and use different rhythms. They’re subtle differences but taken together it’s enough for keystroke dynamic programs to create unique profiles for each user.”

“Mmmhh. Delightful,” you muttered.

“Give me a second, I don’t have access to that database, but…”

“–but you can fix that,” you said, finishing Jake’s sentence.

“I just did and guess what? We’re in luck. The keystroke logger went into beta-testing on the first of August.”

“Which helps us… how?”

“We need to identify the owner of the ghost guest pass and the keystroke logger can do just that. Download the login spreadsheet and save it. Then I want you to run a search for any other activity under that pass.”

“I have to access a different part of the server to do that, don’t I?”

“Sorry, Princess. You’re going to get back into the keycard access logs.”

“Great.”

You wove your way back through the maze to find the correct server and followed Jake’s directions. The search of the keycard logs only brought up one result.

“There was one instance when the guest pass was used. It unlocked the elevators last week, on the night of the hacking attempt.”

“Pull up the surveillance footage, if there is any. You need to–”

“I’ve got it. There’s a video file.”

You fast-forwarded through the file to the timestamp where the keycard logger recorded its use. A figure entered the car, but he kept his head down and stood close to the cameras. All that was visible in the frame was some gray hair.

“Jake, I’ve got something. Whoever used that pass knew where the camera was. They’re standing too close for it to capture their face, but the top of his head is visible. I can see silver hair, and that’s it.”

“I’m seeing it too,” Jake confirmed. “Is that the right color? I thought Bishop’s hair was more white than silver.”

“You’re right. The hair on camera is dark gray and wavy. Bishop’s is silver and fine.”

“Is there any footage of him getting off the elevator?” Jake asked.

“Kind of. It's grainy, and I can’t make out much more than a shadow.”

“Send it over. I have a program that might clear it up.”

“Done,” you said, tapping a key.

After a few minutes, Jake spoke again. “Got it. You’re right. The person using the elevator wasn’t Bishop. The restored footage isn’t great, but even with the artifacts, you can tell the figure it captured is about fifty pounds lighter than Bishop.”

You let your head fall back, inhaling through your nose. Relief surged along with frustration. You were glad Bishop wasn’t your stalker, but the setback was still disappointing.

“Are you still there Princess?”

“Yeah.”

“I got into the keystroke logger database, but I need you to do something for me.”

“Okay.”

Under Jake’s direction, you navigated to a file storage area. “Uh… what am I even looking at?”

“Screen recordings.”

“Of what?”

“Guest pass users. There’s a counter security measure where anyone using a guest pass on a workstation outside of regular hours is subject to random screen recordings.”

“Wouldn’t Bishop know that?” you asked.

“Yes. That’s why I doubted he was the stalker after you found the guest pass. Search for any screen recordings created on Thursday of last week, originating from the patent department computer. Check around the time your computer was hacked. If there’s a recording, we’ve got the spy’s identity for sure.”

You scanned through the records. “I have several files from 11 P.M. and 1 A.M., but there’s nothing that shows what computer they’re from.”

“Download all of them to the laptop and copy the file to the USB,” Jake said.

“Alright.”

“Now I want you to check something on the VPN server. Look up Bishop’s logins the night of your hit and run. August 13th, I think.”

With a sigh, you went through the tedious process of changing servers again. It was a lot more fun to watch Jake hack than doing it yourself.

“There’s a couple logins in the afternoon,” you said. “What am I looking for?”

“How long was the last login that day?”

“Four hours.”

“What device was it from?”

“His home computer. When I click into the file, it shows me his location. He was miles away when that car tried to hit me.”

“It doesn’t prove that he was actually there, but it's something.”

Landon’s voice came over the line. “Princess, check if there are emails mentioning cybersecurity updates during June or July.”

“Right. That’s a good idea. The update forced the spy to seek Aiden’s help. Princess–”

“What do you mean ‘good idea’?” you interrupted.

“Cybersecurity updates usually only happen in the first quarter. However, someone threw a roadblock in front of the spy by installing those programs. I want to know who it was.”

“You think someone knew there was a spy,” Jake said.

“Yeah, I do,” Landon replied.

Jake walked you through how to query the emails and scan their content with a series of SQL commands. You then let the computer scan through the labyrinth of messages for mentions of security upgrades in June and July.

A few minutes later you announced the results. “Bishop made the request. He emailed the head of the IT department on July 2nd asking for a meeting. Their later emails discuss when to implement the upgrade. Also, security didn’t get upgraded everywhere–it was only in the patent department.”

“That might explain why his keycard was used at their door so much over the last month,” Landon said.

“And it clears him of being our spy. If he was spying, he wouldn’t make it harder on himself to transmit.”

“I have a two-minute screen recording from the guest user,” Jake announced. “Guess what? Bishop’s keystroke logger signature doesn’t match the spy’s. Gentry was wrong–Bishop’s definitely not the stalker, or the spy.”

You sat back, the weight of the revelation sinking in. Like Aiden, Bishop had been another red herring.

“So who is it?” you asked Jake.

“I don’t know, but there’s plenty of evidence. We’ll figure everything out soon. Jake and I are only five minutes away. Go to Lloyd’s office and lock the door. We’ll be there before you know it.”

- - -

The call with Jake and Landon broke up as they went through the 3rd Street Tunnel. You shoved the earbud into your pocket with the USB drive and ascended the stairs to the fourth floor. Your heart pounded in a mix of excitement and dread. The laptop was hard to grip with your sweaty palms, so you hugged it to your chest. Reaching Lloyd’s office felt like stepping onto dry land after a month at sea. You pushed open the door, surprised to find the lights had been turned off, leaving the desk lamp as the room’s sole source of illumination. You paused, letting your eyes adjust, when a movement in the shadows caught your attention.

A figure stepped out from behind the desk. As soon as the light hit his face, you recognized the intruder.

Westin Tafferty. The man who’d spent the last six months making your life miserable, micromanaging and nagging you at every turn.

“Westin,” you whispered.

An icy smile spread over his face. “Hello, Princess.”

“What are you doing here?”

“What do you think?” Westin asked, stepping closer.

He’d always been a thorn in your side, but you’d never imagined he could be behind the stalking, the espionage.

“It was you all along.”

Westin laughed, but there was no warmth in it. “Very good, Princess. Such a clever girl.”

You needed to buy time. Landon and Jake were on their way. You had to keep him talking.

“You coward. You spend months harassing me from behind a screen and then hide in the dark? You’re pathetic.”

He smiled, a glint of malice in his eyes. “Such harsh words. You don’t understand anything.”

“Then explain it.”

Something dangerous flashed in his eyes, but his expression cleared just as quickly. A placid smile settled over his face like a mask.

“I’d rather not,” Westin said.

“You’re afraid of confrontation, aren’t you? If you expressed yourself, everyone would see all that bottled-up rage. So you used me as an emotional punching bag.”

Westin’s smile faded into a cold stare. “You’ve become a problem for me, Princess. And problems need to be dealt with.”

You gripped the laptop tighter, suddenly remembering how it had felt to have his hands around your neck a month ago. He wanted to kill you. Where were the guys? Shouldn’t they be here by now? It felt like an eternity had passed. You scrambled to think of a diversion but blurted out the truth instead.

“Jake and Landon are on their way. They’ll be here any minute. You won’t get away with this.”

“Then I guess I don’t have much time,” Westin said.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a gun, pointing it at you. With the gun he gestured toward the door. “Drop the laptop on the sofa. You’re coming with me.”

With the weapon trained on you, there was no other choice but to comply. You set the laptop down and stepped back. Westin kept his eyes on you as he moved to the sofa and snatched it. Your heart sank at the prospect of what was about to become of the device, but you still had the USB hidden in your pocket. Jake and Landon would be here soon. You just had to stay alive until they got here.

Carrying the laptop under his arm, Westin led you out of the office and down the hall to the elevator. On the ride down, your mind raced with potential escape plans, but the cold metal of the gun pressed against your back kept you in check.

The elevator descended to the third floor, opening in front of the exit to the skywalk to the employee parking garage. You tugged on the door. It didn’t budge. Westin cursed and dug in his pocket for keys.

As he fumbled with the lock, you saw your chance. Right outside the door, in the breezeway there was a trash can with an ashtray fixed atop the lid. While Westin’s attention was on the lock, you slipped the USB drive between your first and middle fingers. The lock clicked open and when Westin turned to you, expectantly you didn’t move. He seized your elbow and yanked you forward. Your stumble wasn’t entirely pretend as the momentum propelled you through the doorway. You grabbed the trash can lid for balance, shoving your fingers into the tray of cigarette butts and burying the USB drive under the ashes. Westin grabbed your arm and shoved the gun in your ribs. His grip tightened like a vise and he held you against his side for the rest of the walk to the parking garage.

In the garage, he led you to his car, a sleek Lincoln sedan. “Get in. You’re driving.”

You slid behind the wheel, hands trembling as you fastened your seat belt. Keeping the gun trained on you, Westin climbed into the passenger seat.

“Where are we going?” you asked.

“Just drive. I’ll tell you where to go.”

You navigated out of the parking garage, the weight of the situation setting in. From the corner of your eye, you glanced at Westin.

“Why me, Westin?”

He laughed, a bitter sound. “You were just an annoyance at first. But then I realized you were close to Lloyd; that made you the perfect target.”

“Lloyd? What does Lloyd have to do with this?”

“I’m not actually a paralegal. My entire resume is a government sanctioned lie. It was part of the separation package when the National Security Agency kicked me to the curb.”

“You worked with Lloyd.”

“He made my life hell for five years, then didn’t even remember me. That kind of disrespect demands a response.”

“So harassing me is your twisted idea of revenge?” you asked, incredulous.

“No. Killing you will be my revenge. Making you miserable was just the build up. I had a front-row seat to watch as Lloyd got more and more wound up, chasing shadows, never really getting anywhere. He doesn’t give a damn about anything or anyone other than you — you’re his Achilles heel. And of course, I’ve enjoyed this little game immensely.”

The car made the last turn down the ramp. In the dash, the clock read 1:00 A.M. Jake and Landon must be close

“You won’t get away with this.”

Westin snorted. “We’ll see about that.”

Letting him take you out of the building hadn’t been smart, but if you went with him to a secondary location, you were as good as dead.

“Turn right,” Westin said.

You hit the blinker and turned onto the street. At the intersection the light was red. You rolled to a stop. It was the same light you’d been stuck at with Court a couple hours ago, though on the opposite side. The flood lights in the median where the underground work was being done were off now. You stared at the empty work site, surrounded by concrete K-rails that barricaded the construction workers from passing vehicles.

Going through the light would be another step down a slippery slope. If you drove through it, how much further would you keep going? Out of the neighborhood? Past the city limits? Each meter he took you further away from the firm lowered your chances of survival.

Your fingers squeezed the steering wheel as you debated tossing open the door and booking it. You’d have to undo your seatbelt first. That would give Westin reaction time. He could easily shoot you in a nonlethal spot and force you to keep driving. It would never work; running was out of the question.

“Why is this damn light so slow,” Westin complained.

His comment drew your eyes back to the stoplight, then down, to the construction site in the median. Your heart thudded. Suddenly it raced in triple time. Nervous saliva flooded your mouth. Oh, this was a bad idea, even worse than trying to run.

It was a game of chance, like rock, paper, scissors. At the moment there was no other option. You had to risk it.

Rock, paper, scissors…

Rock.

The light turned green. You hit the gas pedal, shoving it to the floor and turning the wheel to the right–straight toward the K-rails in the median.

The car slammed into the concrete pony walls and the steering wheel lurched as Westin tried to grab it.

Your head snapped back. After a dazed moment you registered that the airbag had gone off. Your ears were ringing. You didn’t know why your ears were ringing. Were airbags loud?

You felt something wet on the side of your face and hoped you hadn’t hit a fire hydrant. When you touched the wetness, your fingers came away bloody. That was surprising, because your head didn’t hurt. As soon as the thought crossed your mind your head began to hurt. It stung and sizzled with discomfort. You winced, then suddenly remembered Westin. You whirled to face him but the movement made your neck seize. Pain whipped down your spine, triggering a spasm that rippled through your whole body.

Maybe wrecking head-on into a K-rail hadn’t been the best idea.

You took a deep breath and turned slower to avoid another spasm. Westin was slumped in the passenger seat, his head resting on the dashboard. He wasn’t moving. You yanked the door handle. It was stuck. You pulled harder, shoving against the door with your thigh, then slamming your body into it. The movement hurt, but adrenaline covered the pain well enough that you kept fighting with the twisted frame until it groaned, metal grinding against metal as it finally yielded. You swung your legs out, exhilarated by the success–only for the seat belt to clamp down, jerking you back into the car.

Damn it. You fumbled for the release.

Westin groaned. You groped for the button, trying to trace the belt back to the clasp, but it was buried between the console and the seat. With blood in your eyes and the darkness of the construction site, you couldn’t see anything.

From the corner of your eye, you glimpsed movement and jerked back. Without your body blocking them, the street lamps illuminated the seat, revealing Westin clearly. He was still slumped over, but he’d shifted to face you, positioning himself with his back against the passenger door.

Blood streamed from a large gash on his forehead. In his hands was the gun. There was a flash of light from the muzzle. It was the last thing you saw.

After that, everything was dark.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Coming Soon - XXIX

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Masterlist

#series: the princess and the lawyer #series: the princess & the lawyer #lloyd hansen x reader #lloyd hansen x you #lloyd hansen x female reader #lloyd hansen x fem!reader #lloyd hansen x y/n #lloyd hansen fanfic #lloyd hansen fanfiction #lloyd hansen au #lloyd hansen fic #chris evans characters #chris evans character fanfic #tw: guns #tw: hostage situation #tw: car accident #tw: car crash #minors dni

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sucrosette · 9 months

Text

★— ⋆｡˚ [Things Missed]

For Day 26 of Carry on Countdown 23, Angst @carryon-countdown

Basil's finally ready to talk about the accident and Simon's there to listen, of course he is, he's not about to walk away.

Rated T for themes, language, & trauma talk.

This is part four of the Nurse/Lawyer AU. Just one more to go - I hope you enjoy. 🖤 [Part 1][Part 2][Part 3]

⋆｡˚ BAZ

Some days, I really miss the hours spent feeling my fingers stretched over the neck of my violin, plucking swiftly over the strings. I miss the feeling of the bowstrings reverberating noise under my strokes, the effortful, emotive playing that pushed me to sweat with effort. I even miss sitting my chin over the chinrest and just holding position in anticipation of playing.

I can still play, beautifully even, but I’m not the soloist I once was. I might have been playing sonatas in music halls across all of Europe at one point. I was good enough, I was more than good enough. I can’t do that now.

I usually manage ten to fifteen minutes before my bow hand starts shaking and my neck’s screaming for relief. Oh, there are workarounds, sure. I’ve tried the extended neck braces that eliminate the need for the chin rest. I’ve used the mobility bows that have the wrist straps, removing the need for my grip entirely. It’s just not the same though.

I had fifteen years of playing before the accident happened. It was a lifetime of habits I had needed to unlearn and repackage and… it’s not that I couldn’t have gotten to my old skill level with enough time, enough practice, but… I started to hate playing. I don’t want to hate playing, but every time I’d fuck up a simple chord progression or hit a note wrong or fumble due to relearning, that feeling would surge up inside of me. My body still wanted to play the way it knew best, and I still wanted to let it, and every time that urge clashed with the need to relearn it would put me back a whole day, sometimes more.

It hit a point where even just thinking about practicing would make me nauseous and angry, so I just stopped. I don’t want to hate playing. I love my violin. I focused on my physical therapy instead. I went to therapy. I got to the point where I am now and I changed course.

I switched to law school.

I cried a week over the decision and I had to speedrun undergrad but overall I’m better for it. I don’t hate my grandfather’s violin every time I look at it. I don’t feel frustrated just existing in a room with it. I don’t get jealous of other violinists who play half as well as I do for having just the slightest mobility advantage over me.

I can hold my bow again, position my violin and play my heart out for a full ten minutes without dropping anything or shaking and botching my play. I might not be able to do some of the more complicated pieces I once did, but what I can play, I play perfectly, just the way I remember, just the way I like. For ten whole minutes, it’s like I’m no different than I ever was, and I find that beauty I make in music and let my violin sing for me. She’s my oldest friend. I can’t hate her.

When Simon first hears me play, it’s a bit of an accident. I don’t really play for people anymore, since I can’t play long and sometimes I have to conclude a piece early when I start to feel my body react, so of course it’s a bit of an accident. It’s just my sisters I play for when I play for people now. Otherwise, it’s just me. I play alone and let myself have my memories of what once was and I put her down to reminisce another day. We share a peaceful relationship, an old friendship, but it’s not something I feel most people particularly need to witness. I aim to play alone.

It’s not that Simon doesn’t know I still play, he does, I’ve told him. Besides, she’s seen the violin, she’s seen me rosin the bow and tune my instrument. She got me a custom rosin case for it for my birthday, the very first we’d spent together— Simon is more than aware that I still play.

it just feels intimate in a way I haven’t quite been ready to share. Fifty-fifty odds I’ll cry at the end, or even halfway through. I like Simon seeing me strong, confident, and maybe a little cocky. I’ve been vulnerable, of course, I met him freshly stabbed and all, but this is a different thing.

So it’s a bit of an accident. Simon's been stateside for a friend’s wedding— she’d been her best mate in school— and I’m not expecting him home that day, let alone these ten minutes of the day I’ve chosen to play. I could've gone to the wedding with him, but I thought maybe meeting someone the week of their wedding might be a bit presumptive of me, especially with our relationship being fairly recent. Besides, the caseload at work’s been busy and I’d’ve had to fly separately, Simon's invested in his tickets an era ago and I don’t particularly want to fly over the Atlantic alone. I’ve offered to take Penny and her husband-to-be on a cruise together at some later date and we can get to know each other then, when they’re not so busy with pre-wedding and during-wedding and post-wedding.

Simon tumbles through the door about two minutes after I’ve started but I don’t hear him. He’s still at the door when I finish. Thirteen minutes later. I can feel my hand aching a little but my neck’s doing alright, so I’ll take that as a good day. I blink over at Simon, realizing he’s really there as I carefully settle my violin back into her stand.

“You play beautifully,” Simon says as she closes the door, “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

I blink back the way ears in my eyes. It takes me a minute to find my words, but I shake my head to tell him that he hadn’t. I find my confidence and breath and ultimately find it’s not uncomfortable for me to have Simon seeing me play. That’s a relief. Unsurprising, ultimately, but no less a relief. “You’re early?”

“Ah, yeah,” Simon answers as she kicks off her shoes. I’m already moving to help with his bags while he explains, “Pen’s already on honeymoon and originally I’d wanted to stay over to see some sights but I just missed you so I checked to see if I could catch an earlier flight and here I am.” She does a silly little wave of her hands and it makes me impossibly bloody fond.

“You missed me that much?” There’s a touch of teasing there and Simon punches my arm for it, but he doesn’t use any strength to do it, and just sort of scrunches his nose in annoyance.

“Of bloody course I did, you prick. It’s been a whole week already…”

I hum as I follow Simon to our room, helping him unpack when we get there. I pause to nudge his side and when he turns my way I catch him in a kiss. “I missed you too.”

It’s an easy admission. “Of course you did,” Simon says it like it’s obvious.

it is obvious.

We work through unpacking him in relative silence, a companionable quiet that tells me both how tired he is and how happy he is just to be home. I’ll ask him all about everything after he’s gotten some sleep in him, reset properly from the jetlag over some food. I’m just as happy to have Simon home again too. I missed existing with her the last week.

“I’ll let you hear me play again,” I say apropos of nothing, except I can still hear those words in my head. You play beautifully.

I know I do. Or I knew I did.

The declaration stops Simon midway from tossing his dirty wash in our hamper, but only for a moment. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, whenever I play next.” It’ll be tomorrow. I play almost every day, so long as it’s not a snow day.

“I’d like that,” He answers with a soft smile, “I’d like it a lot.”

I love this about Simon. He’s just so bloody understanding. I don’t understand how he doesn’t press or complicate or assume anything. We just finish getting through his unpacking and collapse into our bed and cuddle close.

I think he’s fallen asleep already when his voice catches me off guard, but maybe I’d been the one closer to sleep. “Are you gonna tell me about it?”

“Not tonight,” I know exactly what he means without asking, “But soon, probably. After you tell me all about how the wedding went.”

Simon hums and snuggles in closer and I melt around him, letting myself relax with him, letting myself feel how much I missed him. I can feel Simon melting in my arms too. I’m too tired for anything else, he’s too tired for anything else, and it’s so bloody easy for us to fall asleep like that, tangled up in one another.

⋆｡˚ SIMON

He doesn’t tell me the next morning, not after all the talking I can manage on Pen’s ceremony and dress and everything. It’s a lazy morning. He called in to work from home (“No court days?” “No court days.”) and we slept in and stayed in bed hours longer and I still had three whole more days off work. I’m not in any rush to find out, I’m just happy I’ve gotten to hear him play now.

I ramble on and on about the States and everything that I’d missed about home and weird little language differences and all the things Pen had gone on about herself during our downtime. I think Baz might know her better than he thinks with how much I talk about her, but I’m not mad he didn’t come with me. I just missed him.

I don’t ask. I don’t need to ask. He’ll tell me when he’s ready.

I’m happy to linger in lazy mornings like this forever, if he’ll be here with me for them.

⋆｡˚ BAZ

I keep thinking I’m going to tell her, and then I don’t. I keep thinking I should bring it up, but then I don’t. It’s just such a bloody happy day and I’m such a greedy, selfish sap. I want to keep it a happy day. We deserve more happy, lazy days.

I do play my violin for him, just like I’d said I would. I only just make it through about eight minutes today, but Simon smiles so beautifully for such a simple piece.

I’m going to tell him, I know it, just not today. Today I want to keep his smile just like it was when he woke up, refreshed and comfortable after a week out of our bed. I want to keep her just like this forever.

⋆｡˚ SIMON

It’s about two weeks later when Basil wakes up in a cold sweat next to me. It’s not the first time I’ve witnessed his night terrors, we’ve lived together far too long by now for me not to be at least a little familiar with them, but normally he goes through the motions quickly enough that I barely have time to comfort at all. This time must’ve been particularly visceral. I sit up beside him and he still hasn’t budged an inch, except to curl in on himself. I touch carefully, brushing my fingers through his thick, dark hair, brushing his bangs aside so they don’t stick to his sweat-slick skin and hum.

I hum whatever he’d played me last. Something by Bach, I think, but I’m not good at classical music. I am learning, a little, but I still can’t tell Beethoven from the Greatest Showman and apparently the latter is a musical, not a classical composition. I’m learning. Baz smiles whenever I get something right.

He unwinds enough to roll himself over and into my arms and I wrap him up like I’m a security blanket made just for him.

“Bloody nightmares…” His voice comes out in rasp, dry and angry, but I don’t push, I just hold him like that until he stops shaking, until his breathing settles out against my chest.

I glance at the clock. Twelve more hours till work. I can nap after this all settles if I need more sleep. I have time. “Think you can sleep again?” I ask it as gently as I can manage.

Baz shakes his head against my chest, but it’s alright, I just keep humming while he sinks deeper into my arms and the tangle of blankets around us. If there was less time, I’d even call out, but there’s plenty of time.

“I think I want to talk about it.”

⋆｡˚ BAZ

I’ve surprised him, I can tell. His mouth is doing that little ‘oh’ thing that she only does when she’s caught off guard. Maybe that’s fair, I haven’t talked about for long enough that maybe she was never truly expecting me to, but I have wanted to.

⋆｡˚ SIMON

He presses a kiss to the hollow of my throat and it brings me back to my senses enough to encourage him to keep going. “If you’re ready.”

Basil hums again and nods along, “I’m ready.”

I press a kiss to his temple and wait. I have time. I can always wait where Baz is concerned, but he doesn’t make me wait long. It spills out in chunks, but I fill in the blanks well enough. Trauma’s like that, I know, sometimes memories just don’t come back clean.

⋆｡˚ BAZ

I was twenty when it happened. It was winter break and I was driving back home for the holidays. The road had been slick from the storm but it was only a four hour drive, a little longer if I went easy, and I always go easy when I need to. So I’m headed home and thinking about what to get my sisters in the meanwhile and not at all worried about the process of getting there.

Of course, it was never me I had to worry about. A truck twice the size of my little Beetle comes hurtling down the opposite side of the road at a good twice my speed. It must’ve started hydroplaning at the exact right moment to cause him to swerve right into me.

There’s no time to react, no time to brake or swerve or anything at all.

There’s only the truck’s blinding headlights on a collision course straight for me.

I can still feel the hear the sound of the metal crunching together in front of me. I can still feel the pressure of the airbag going off against my face, against my hands. The way my arm had hit the center dash and turned blue almost immediately. The whiplash from my head flinging back so suddenly, the wrongness in my neck.

Simon’s petting through my hair as he listens to me, taking everything in, kissing my forehead again, and then pulling back enough to pull my hands up to kiss them too. She’s patient through it all and it’s not until the lull in my story that I realize I’ve been crying. Just a little. Just quietly while I go through it.

I lose myself in the realization for a moment, thoughts dissipating into nothing. I’m not sure where I was in the story, or where to pick up, it’s just all sort of a blur anyway. I let myself have my tears about and Simon, my sweet Simon, kisses my tears away and holds me closer through it.

“Is that what your nightmares are about?” Simon asks when my tears start to slow and I’ve worked myself further out of that ball of stress.

“No,” I answer, and it feels a bit silly, but also not at all. “My nightmares are… they’re about the first time I picked up my grandfather’s violin, after I’d supposedly healed enough to try again, and I dropped it.”

⋆｡˚ SIMON

Baz chokes when he confesses it, loses his voice halfway through the word dropped, but his mouth still forms the word it. My skill in lipreading fills in that blank too. “You don’t have to say more if you don’t want to, you know. It’s okay to be done talking.”

He hums low and shifts our hold so he’s more holding me now, wrapping his legs around mine and practically clinging. I don’t bother to resist. I don’t mind comforting him like this either. It’s plenty comfortable in Baz’s arms too.

“I don’t think there’s much else to say,” Baz breathes out when he finds his voice again, “If there is I can’t recall right now.”

I nuzzle his chest and tangle us up that much more thoroughly. “It’s alright, love… if you want to talk more later, I’m always here for you, alright?”

“Alright.”

“I love you.”

⋆｡˚ BAZ

Simon quiets in my arms after that and I can feel my exhaustion creeping up again. I press a kiss to her temple and let my thoughts drift away from my nightmares, from my spotty memories, from the little Volvo I had once loved so much. I suppose it saved my life that day, gave it’s own for me. If cars have souls, I hope it's thriving somewhere.

I let myself drift to thoughts of Simon, of our life. Of the time we’ve had together so far, of the time we’re going to have together. I think of his soft hair and softer marshmallow scent. I thought it was a perfume or cologne at first, but no. That’s just Simon, sugary sweet.

“Hey, Simon?”

She murmurs her own soft, unintelligible acknowledgment against my chest and I can tell from the weight of him that she’s drifting back off already.

“Thank you,” I say into the mess of her hair and she makes a happy little noise. Her own of course, anytime, always, without the mess of words. She makes me so bloody soft, so bloody comfortable. “I love you too.”

Simon’s little noise repeats itself and I can feel a smile crack my lips, just a little bit even after all the emotions thinking about the accident can give me.

“Rest well, love,” my words fall soft and Simon’s already gone, and I think I can manage the same. I think, probably, without dreaming terrible things all over again.

#Carry On Countdown #COC 2023 #baz pitch #simon snow #snowbaz #carry on fanfiction #my writing #there's more of this to be posted #Bigender Nurse Simon Snow (He/She)#Lawyer Baz Pitch #soft snowbaz #emotional hurt/comfort #tw: car accident #alternating pov

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