#Tw: Car Accident

[tradgedyinwaves]

tw: cheating, car accident

Being John's assistant and girlfriend was hard sometimes. Okay, a lot of the time. Holidays were missed. Special occasions put on back burners. But when he was home, John made every effort to make it up to you. At least, he usually did.

You took care of their paperwork for the most part, submitting their reports once they were turned in with details of their mission. You made a point never to read them. You'd made that mistake once and gotten a first-hand account of how Johnny had shoved a grenade down someone's throat and then stood back to watch.

They were your boys, but that didn't mean they were stable. Simon liked killing people with his bare hands. Johnny liked to watch them explode. Gaz liked to wittle them down to nothing during interrogation(torture).

But your John? Well, he made sure his shots provided the most suffering. Shooting out the knees first, then the elbows, shoulders, spine and then finally the head. He had no issues getting the headshot, but liked to take his time.

With you, though? Oh with you they are protective and gentle. Harm almost never befell you with them around. The worst that had happened since the beginning of your relationship with John (and your indoctrination into their group) was that you'd stubbed your own toe on a chair you hadn't pushed in. It was your own fault really, love.

The team had returned the day before your birthday. What a birthday present, right? Wrong. As you greeted them on the tarmac with warm meals waiting in the car, each one gave you one armed hugs. John was last, pulling you to his side but not saying anything.

You could tell they were exhausted and that something hadn't gone quite right on their mission. They were always extra quiet and morose on those days, usually breaking out of it with a good meal and a decent night of rest.

That wouldn't be the case when you woke up the next morning next to...an empty bed? Usually, the day after he returned, John would sleep in, catching up on the hours of sleep he hadn't been able to get.

And went you puttered out into the rest of the apartment, you would find it empty. Boots, keys, and wallet were gone. Boonie hat missing from it's spot on the hook by the door. Maybe he was just out getting things.

He'd never missed a birthday if he was home and always made it up to you if he wasn't. So you waited. Took a shower, pampered yourself with the new body scrub you'd purchased just for this day.

When John wasn't back even a couple hours later, you headed up to the base as you felt the first prickles of anger rising on the back of your neck. You brought a lunch with you, an excuse for being there on your day off.

"Oh, just bringing Captain Price is lunch. Silly man forgot it again."

And so they let you in. No one questioned you, giving you warm smiles and well wishes. Some even wishing you a happy birthday for which you thanked them.

Stepping into John's office always made you cringe. It was an organized person's nightmare. Papers strewn everywhere, dirty coffee mugs left around sporadically, cigar ash filling the tray but also filtered around it like he was in a hurry. He wasn't like this at home, so you let him have his space at work the way he wanted it.

Except he wasn't in there. Keys and wallet, sure. So you knew he was on base. Leaving the warm meal on his desk, you meandered out to find the gym where you thought maybe they were sparring, getting rid of excess adrenaline from their mission.

No one there. At least, no one who knew where Captain Price was.

You spent the entire work day looking for him and when you never found him, you left the base. You end up stopping to grab a little cake for yourself and a bottle of wine, setting up at the coffee table.

And when you wake the next morning, you're still on the couch and the living room is a mess. And there's still no boots by the door.

So you go to work on your own (when John would normally drive you). You eat lunch on your own (when the entire team would usually join you in the mess hall). You drop off papers outside John's door (when you would normally go inside and leave them on his desk).

And you went home alone.

That was when you noticed some of his clothes were missing as was his duffel. You slept alone that night. And the night after. And the night after that.

By the time the next week rolled around and you'd slept alone for four nights, you were on edge and furiously upset. Not a word from your boyfriend of three years or his team.

And then the calls stopped going through. And the texts. So you called Laswell who was actually one of your best friends at this point, as was her wife.

"They're on another mission, hun. John didn't tell you?" "John hasn't spoken to me since they got back from the last one." "That bastard. I'm sorry. Unfortunately, they're already gone and I can't get you in contact with them until they're back." "I know. Just...tell him I love him?" "Absolutely." You went to work and did your job. When the taskforce was on mission, you were used for general paperwork needs in other departments since there wasn't much for you to do with them gone.

You went home alone and it felt wrong. Everything felt wrong.

It took another two months for them to return. But you weren't waiting for them on the tarmac. You were up to your eyeballs in new recruit uniform requests and even though you knew what time it was, you couldn't find it in yourself to care much.

Kate had been able to contact John and give him your message, but he never gave her one to return to you. And that had rubbed you the wrong way.

Forgetting your birthday was one thing. Disappearing and not telling you that they were going on another mission was another. But his silence was what hurt the most. Everything had been perfect when he'd left for the first mission.

It was hours later when you laid in bed that you heard the keys jingle against the lock. They wouldn't work, not the ones he had anyways. Knocking followed and you rolled over, throwing your pillow over your head to block out the banging and the sound of his voice filtering through the wood.

It stopped surprisingly quickly and you sighed, knowing you'd have to face him the next day at work.

You did. Sort of. You saw him when you came in, immediately turning to your office when he looked up. You stayed there all day, eating your lunch there and only leaving for bathroom breaks.

Unfortunately, you had some forms that needed to be turned in before you left but they required his signature. You didn't bother knocking as you went into his office, teeth grinding and prepared to be as short as possible. You weren't expecting the sight before you.

Your boyfriend leaned back in his office chair, eyes squeezed shut and grunting quietly with one of his own men between his thick, burly thighs. You could see the mohawk just above the desk, the sounds coming from a man you considered a brother ripping more holes into your psyche.

With a gasp, you dropped the papers and fled from the room, immediately grabbing your purse and fleeing from the building.

You could hear them calling your name, but you kept going. You'd have to find a new job or transfer, but that was a small price if it meant getting away from the only family you had.

But they weren't your family, were they? They were a family on their own. They obviously didn't need you. They leaned on each other in the field and at home. You took care of them, sure, but it wasn't enough apparently.

You got home and packed your bags, leaving behind anything that reminded you of the team or John. You left the keys in the lock with a post it stuck to the door.

"Go to hell, John."

You got back in the car and called Laswell, voice surprisingly even for what was going on.

"I need a transfer, Kate. Immediately." "Whoa, what happened? What's going on?" "He's cheating on me." Calm. Collected. Numb. "Excuse me?" "You heard me. With Soap. Probably the lot of them."

You didn't get to hear what she replied with as a semi plowed into the driver's side of your car.

I just want you all to know; this was supposed to be happy. It was going to end with a cute surprise party and apologies from everyone and nobody died. Oops, sorry.

Alternate Ending

Part Two

[nowimjustastranger]

Just a little gift for my bestie Phoenix, aka @flame-cat, because they were in a car accident recently. But thankfully they're okay! This was actually inspired by an outline for an interaction between the brothers that they shared with me privately, so enjoy 1.5k words worth of stangst y'all!

Ford scrubbed a hand over his face with a frustrated groan, fingers knocking his glasses askew. He couldn’t afford to have his body fail him now, not when he had an exam to study for. But what he wanted didn’t change the fact that his eyes had started to outright refuse to focus on the words in the textbook five minutes ago, an annoyingly persistent migraine pulsing behind his eyes.

To make matters worse, the landline rang. The shrill sound made the bothersome migraine go from a mild three all the way up to a solid eight on his tolerance scale, which made his temper flare. Ford snatched the handset off the cradle with a growl, reluctantly bringing it to his ear.

“Stanford Pines.” He bit out, adjusting his glasses with his free hand so they sat on his nose properly. When his prickly greeting didn’t garner a response outside of what sounded like labored breathing, Ford scowled. Great, it was his mystery caller again. Just what he needed on top of an already stressful day.

“I refuse to keep entertaining these prank calls, so if you call again I’ll be notifying–” Ford began in a stern tone, but he was interrupted by a familiar voice.

“Stanford.”

Stanley. That was Stanley. Why was his brother calling him at –Ford stole a glance at the clock– two in the afternoon? What could he possibly want? Well, whatever it was, he wouldn’t be getting it from Ford. He had already given up so much because of Stanley’s selfishness, he wasn’t about to give him the opportunity to worm his way back into Ford’s life–

“…Sixer?” Stanley asked, a breathless quality to his voice that brought Ford’s anger back down to a simmer. Why did Stanley sound like that? His breathing was short like he wasn’t taking full breaths, but there was still a measured quality to each inhale and exhale like he was breathing that way on purpose.

“How did you get this number?” Ford asked bluntly, bracing his elbow on his desk before letting his forehead drop into the palm of his hand, resigning himself to having this unexpected yet long overdue conversation with his estranged brother. Maybe Stanley had realized the error of his ways and called to apologize? Yeah right, fat fucking chance of that.

“Ma passed it along.” Stanley grunted, his tone laced with pain, and Ford could certainly relate. He didn’t want to be talking to Stanley any more than Stanley wanted to talk to him, which begged the question: why exactly did Stanley call him?

“Of course she did.” Ford grumbled, suddenly feeling every hour of lost sleep hitting him all at once. He was exhausted. He was tired of trying to fend Ma and her mission to reconnect him with his brother off, tired of walking on eggshells during his monthly calls home just to avoid saying the wrong thing and causing unnecessary drama, and he was tired of putting up with the part of him that still cared about his brother.

“I… I think my ribs are broken.” Stanley said quietly and Ford’s brain shrieked to a standstill, his grip momentarily going slack on the handset as he tried to process the implications of such an ominous statement, forcing him to fumble with it until he managed to press the receiver back against his ear.

“What?” Ford barked, tone incredulous and concerned in equal measure. He resolutely ignored the way that his hands trembled, his grip white-knuckle tight on the handset.

"My ribs. I think–” Stan cut himself off as his breath hitched, a pained hiss following shortly after. Ford found himself leaning forward, blankly staring into the middle distance as he strained his ears to hear every little shift in Stanley’s breathing, trying to assess his brother’s current state. “Nevermind. Shit. Not important right now.”

“Not impor– You can’t be serious, Stanley!?” Ford seethed, lurching out of his chair, uncaring as it tipped back and crashed to the floor as he began to pace. He made sure to stay within the range that the cord allowed him, but he simply couldn’t sit still when Stanley was hurt and possibly even suffering from a head wound considering that he wasn’t making any fucking sense–

“I’m fine. It’s fine. I just…” Stanley spoke in starts and stops, his breathing strained as he spoke through what sounded like clenched teeth. “I need…”

“What? What do you need? What happened?” Ford prompted with urgency, fingers curling and uncurling anxiously. He had to know. He couldn’t estimate the severity of Stanley’s injuries without more data, right now he was left with what his imagination could produce. He needed facts in order to combat the increasingly horrible scenarios that his mind was dredging up.

“Car crash.” Stan said on an exhale and Ford nodded even though his brother wouldn’t be able to see it, pinching the bridge of his nose as his useless brain fixated on those two words.

“What else hurts? Or is it just your ribs?” Ford asked tersely, moving back to his desk with a determined stride to grab a piece of paper at random along with the pen that he had tucked behind his ear earlier. He scribbled down Stanley’s comment about his potentially busted ribs and then let the pen hover as he waited for Stanley’s –hopefully detailed– analysis of his person.

“I dunno… stomach hurts. Kinda swollen.” Stanley mumbled, sucking in a sharp breath as he presumably prodded at the area in question.

“Lightheadedness? Nausea?” Ford pressed, his heart lurching into his throat as several injuries came to mind, internal bleeding being the most likely explanation. Stanley had already displayed textbook signs of internal bleeding, such as disorientation and shortness of breath.

“Both? Feelin’ a bit sluggish too.” Stanley admitted, the muted rustle of clothes indicating that he had adjusted.

“Is the cord long enough for you to sit down?” Ford asked, looking up when the door opened and Fiddleford stepped into the room. Ford frantically waved him over, writing a message for Fiddleford in the notebook before sidestepping so he could read it when he hurried over.

“I think so? Lemme just…” Stanley huffed, Ford splitting his attention between the sound of Stanley gingerly lowering himself to the ground and Fiddleford’s rapidly paling face as the man read through Ford’s notes of Stanley’s wellbeing.

“Stanley? Stanley, are you there?” Ford prompted when there was nothing but harsh breathing for several seconds, sharing a look with an equally rattled Fiddleford.

“Yeah… yeah ‘m here.” Stanley panted, his speech slurred, and Fiddleford hurried from the room to contact emergency services with a different phone. As soon as Ford got a location, he would relay the address to Fiddleford and then stay on the line with Stanley for as long as he could before the call cut out.

“Where exactly is ‘here’, Stanley? Where are you?” Ford asked, rapidly tapping his pen on the notebook just to have something to do since he couldn’t get his hands on his brother like he desperately wanted. He hated feeling so useless.

“Uh… outside a 7/11.” Stanley said weakly, his voice barely a whisper.

“Which 7/11?” Ford demanded, his eyes narrowing. Either Stanley was losing consciousness, or he was losing his grip on lucidity. Neither were ideal considering the circumstances. Ford didn’t have enough information to confidently deduce how hurt his brother was. These could be Stanley’s last moments and Ford was wasting his breath giving him the third degree instead of saying anything of value–

“Um… I dunno.” Stanley said with the vocal equivalent of a shrug and Ford suddenly felt the inexplicable urge to scream.

“An address, Stanley.” Ford clarified in a clipped tone, impatiently tapping his foot as emotions built up in his esophagus, bubbling up despite his best efforts to stuff them back down into their vault. This could be his last opportunity to say something. Anything. Ford couldn’t squander this rare chance, couldn’t let Stanley fade away without knowing that his big brother lo–

“I dunno, s-somewhere in New Mexico, I guess.” Stanley murmured, sounding a little less strained but just as tired. Sitting down had eased some of the stress that his body was under then. Good.

“Just stay there, Stanley. You hear me? Don’t move.” Ford said sternly, speaking slowly and clearly so Stanley’s muddled brain could register the words and damn well heed them. Ford knew that Fiddleford could triangulate Stanley’s position using the phone call, but he wasn’t going anywhere until the call ended.

“M’kay.” Stanley agreed, his voice so quiet that Ford wouldn’t have caught it if his entire focus hadn’t been on his brother. Ford ran a hand through his hair, gripping it at the roots and tugging as he stared down at the notebook, bloodshot eyes roaming over his messily scrawled notes.

“I’ll meet you at the nearest ho–” Ford assured, unceremoniously cut off when the line abruptly went dead. “–spital.”

Fuck.

Fuck.

“God fucking damnit!” Ford snarled, slamming the handset onto the cradle with excessive force before turning on his heel to sprint out of the room and track down Fiddleford. Then Ford would take over the call with emergency services while his roommate used his skills to locate Stanley, sending an ambulance to him.

College could wait, Ford’s brother needed him.

[missjukebox8bit]

Tragedy struck Mega City today as a 20 car pileup was caused by someone placing one of those goddamn disappearing block puzzles on the highway

[kittywillcutyou]

So as delicious as I find the concept of the fic I read where a lot of the initial tension in TG:M is subverted and essentially replaced by Mav snapping a rib after getting thrown out the Harddeck(courtesy of fracturing said rib during the Dark Star Incident), Bradley crashing his car prior to TG:M and getting screwed up enough to actually call his family or worse NOT CALL his family and have them find out anyway is living rent free in my head.

I just...want my favs to suffer (but I also want them to be treated real soft and handled with care). If anyone has any offerings of suffering with a good ending, my shrine is open.

(I may even accept character death fics but only if the ending is hopeful.)

[rosewoodrambler]

EMMY ROSSUM AS RIDLEY DUCHANNES

did you forget? i'm a siren. i don't love anyone.

[livwritesstuff]

So you know how parents always have that *one* story about a time where their kid scared them beyond this universe — like their kid could be a daredevil and constantly trying their patience but this particular story is the most harrowing, scariest situation they’ve been in. (This may not be universal but I’m hoping I’m explaining it right lol)

What do you think would be Steve and Ed’s stories for each of the girls?

tw: hospitals, illness, car accidents, in general proceed w/caution if sensitive to children sustaining injuries/illnesses

When Moe was about six months old, she got sick – really sick, hospital-trip sick. All Steve really remembers is that one minute her appetite wasn’t what it usually was, and the next her temperature had spiked to 104 and something about her breathing was not normal and they were on their way to the ER.

They'd ended up staying for three days, Steve didn't sleep the entire time, and because it was before Moe's adoption was finalized, they had all kinds of DFS paperwork to fill out in addition to the mountain of documents the hospital had given them. Steve remembers having to coordinate with Ed dropping everything off at the DFS office and thinking for the first time ever in their years of fostering kids how stupid it was that he was expected to focus on following DFS procedure instead of being there for his baby girl.

The scariest moment with Hazel was the time they lost her.

They’d been at the New England Aquarium with all three girls on a Saturday afternoon – ridiculous, in both Steve and Eddie's opinion, and honestly they weren't even able to enjoy outings like these because they’re still in the stage where they spend the entire time anxiously keeping track of the girls (who were having the time of their lives, obviously – that's why they're suffering through it).

So when Steve did a headcount like he usually does every so often and came up with two, his heart flipped over. He checked again, and again only counted two. 

Triple-checks. Two.

In real-time, they hadn't lost sight of Hazel for more than ten seconds, but it was the longest ten seconds Steve had ever lived by a mile, and he’d spent the whole time thinking that it had to be the worst-case for a situation like this because it was Hazel. If Moe or Robbie got separated from them, they would have no problem marching up to the first person in an NEA shirt they could find and demanding help finding their dads. Hazel, though, is quiet and shy and usually stuck to them like glue. She won’t talk to strangers in the best of moments, so there was no chance she’d find it in herself to try during a bad one.

Turns out, Hazel had been so mesmerized by the jellyfish that even after they all moved on to the next display, Hazel just had to turn back to get one more look, and Eddie had his head screwed on tight enough that day to think of checking there first.

Later, Steve reneged on their plan to take the girls to Boston Pride (which would have been in a few weeks) because it had been scary enough losing track of Hazel in an enclosed space where there were only so many places she could wander off to. The idea of it happening in the dead center of the city, with all those crowds of people, with infinite directions for her to go…no chance. They’d try again next year.

Between all three girls, the scariest moment by goddamn lightyears was Robbie.

When Robbie was fifteen – a high school freshman but placed in the senior-level band class – the school took their music classes (band, orchestra, chorus) to Disney World for the performing arts workshops they offer in the spring.

The student-adult ratio on trips like these is pretty terrible and, in Steve's opinion, there is too much unsupervised independent time for a group of high school students.

Way too much.

A few days into the trip, one kid – a senior with a fake ID who Robbie was friends with through band – managed to commandeer a car and convince a group of kids to blow off curfew and secretly explore the city.

Three hours and half a liquor-store’s worth of alcohol later, Steve got a call from one of the chaperones telling him that his fifteen-year-old was unresponsive in a hospital in Florida.

Planning their last family vacation had taken three entire months of planning and indecision and research.

It took less than five minutes for Steve to get flights booked for the next plane bound for Orlando.

“Maybe if she hadn’t gone on the trip in the first place…” Moe trailed off innocently as she watched her dads pack – she's anything but innocent though. Moe had been pissed to all hell that Robbie got to go to Disney World and she didn’t. She’d spent weeks trying to weasel her way onto the trip to no avail, and she’d been sulking the entire four days Robbie had been gone.

“Not another word,” Eddie warned her, his tone icier than perhaps he’s ever heard directed at one of his kids. Moe opens her mouth to retort, but he cuts her off, "So fuckin' serious, Moe. Not the time."

Robbie had been in pretty rough shape when they finally arrived which was horrible to see – especially for Steve, who had always connected the way Robbie was similar to Eddie with the way Eddie almost died, so seeing her unconscious in a hospital bed, light brown curls strewn out over the sterile-white sheets and tangled amongst all kinds of tubes and wires was pretty much a nightmare come to life.

He was actually thankful for Eddie’s threats to find the idiot driving the car and murder him because he seemed pretty serious about it and making sure he didn't do that gave Steve something to focus on other than counting the hours Robbie had been in the hospital all alone.

[the-penguin-of-baskervilles]

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.

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

Next - Chapter XXIX

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

Masterlist

[starlightiing]

|| Car Crash Hearts || Pierresteban || 1/2 ||

Title: Car Crash Hearts (AO3)

Rating: M

Warnings: Car accident, hospitals, angst, whump (mental and physical), ect ect.

Graphic credit: @watercolor-hearts <3

Pairing: Pierre Gasly & Esteban Ocon. (Side Esteban/Male OC and Charles Leclerc/Male OC).

“Pierre - what? Why are you calling me? I do not have anything to do with him.” “You were listed as his only emergency contact, sir. If you would please -” “No,” Esteban interjects, waving his hands about as if she can actually see him, “No, no. There’s a mistake here or something. I can give you a different number to call, but I do not have anything to do with him.” Or: Tragedy strikes for Pierre one week ahead of the Austin GP. Esteban is left with no choice but to pick up the pieces in the aftermath.

When Esteban’s eyes flutter open, the room is dark. The curtains are pulled tightly across the hotel room window, but even through the cracks and creases in the fabric, Esteban can tell it's just as dark outside as it is inside the room. This means it is nowhere near morning yet, and the option to roll back over onto his side and sneak in a few more hours of sleep is tantalizing to his groggy brain. 

To his left, Esteban can hear Gabriel’s gentle breathing, slow and steady, and can reasonably conclude that he is still tossed far into the wiles of slumber as well. Sucking in a breath, Esteban rolls himself over onto his left side and drapes an arm delicately across Gabriel’s hips as to not disturb his peaceful sleep. His eyes fall shut once more, and the rhythm of Gabriel’s breathing up against the weary pull of sleep work together to push him further and further into a state of unconsciousness himself.

That is, of course, until the harsh and frantic ‘buzz’ of Esteban’s cellphone cuts through the otherwise serene silence.

In his half-aware state, Esteban cracks only one eye open slightly, as if it would somehow sharpen his senses to the noise coming from his bedside table. He doesn’t know exactly what time it is - just how early or how late into the night or morning it could possibly be, but phone calls between this window are rare and, dare he suggest it, aggravating. He groans slightly, picking his head up from the pillow and pulling his arm back from around Gabriel’s waist. The soft motions come with a sharp intake of breath from Gabriel, who almost immediately pops open both eyes and furrows his brows in tired confusion.

“Babe, your phone.” Gabriel says, his voice gravelly and low. “Who the fuck is calling at…” a soft glow of light comes from Esteban’s left, where he notices Gabriel has turned on his own phone. “Two in the morning?”

“Fuck if I know. Hold on.” Esteban hoists himself up to a sitting position in the bed, running a hand over his face to try and wake himself up a bit more. He reaches over and swipes his phone from the table, eyes snapping immediately to the caller information. To his confusion, the number isn’t one that is registered in his contacts. The area information reads ‘Austin, TX’ with an American phone number printed beneath, but no further insight into who this mystery caller is. Now that his curiosity has reached an all time high (and perhaps a bit of nervous dread is mixed in as well), Esteban accepts the phone call and presses the speaker button so Gabriel can listen in as well. “Hello?”

“Hello. Is this a mister Esteban Ocon?” greets a disinterested voice from the other end of the line. Esteban can hear quite a commotion in the background behind her, and something inside his stomach begins to churn.

“Yes, who is this?”

“I’m calling from Saint David’s North Austin Medical Center in regards to Pierre Gasly.” 

Esteban’s eyes widen in disbelief. He steals a glance over at Gabriel, eyebrows furrowed in confusion and even a hint of anger, only to find a very similar expression painted across his face as well. 

“Pierre - what? Why are you calling me? I do not have anything to do with him.”

“You were listed as his only emergency contact, sir. If you would please -”

“No,” Esteban interjects, waving his hands about as if she can actually see him, “No, no. There’s a mistake here or something. I can give you a different number to call, but I do not have anything to do with him.”

“Sir-” the woman sounds annoyed now, a bit louder and more insistent, “There was an accident, and we are required to make phone calls to all listed emergency contacts. I cannot call a random phone number you give me due to American HIPAA laws in place to protect Pierre’s privacy. Are you able to come up to the hospital with proof of identity within the next few hours?” 

“I -” at a loss for words, Esteban locks his gaze with Gabriel, who is beginning to look less irritated and more concerned with every passing second. “What did you say was the name of this hospital again?”

“Saint David’s North Austin Medical Center.” 

“I’m looking it up.” Gabriel says softly, pulling his phone back out and tapping aggressively at the screen. Flashes of color illuminate the room as Gabriel switches from google to google maps, and Esteban leans over to get a glimpse of their position in regards to the hospital. “It’s only fifteen minutes. We can go.” “Uh, yes, yes, I can come. Can you just - is he…is he alive?” Esteban’s voice comes out small and meek, almost like a scolded child who has just served a most unjust time-out. His stomach is flopping about even more viciously now, and all of the anger that had boiled his blood only minutes ago is dissipating into anxious energy. Pierre is not his friend, but that does not mean Esteban wants anything bad to happen to him.

“I cannot divulge any further information over the phone, Mr. Ocon. Once you get here and prove your identity, we’ll be able to give you a much more detailed overview of the situation. We’ll see you soon.”

The ‘click’ of the other line disconnecting and the immediate three-beep ‘dropped call’ tone sounds in Esteban’s ears before he can even finish processing the woman’s words. His phone dims now that it’s no longer in use, and it slides from his knee as Gabriel shifts the mattress to stand to his feet. Esteban, still in shock, looks up at Gabriel and blindly follows his motions by lifting himself off of the bed as well. He is going to need his keys, his phone, his wallet, his passport, what little bit of American cash he has on him, and -

“Hey, Este, it’s okay.” comes Gabriel’s voice, now closer to him than Esteban remembers them being moments ago. A warm hand comes to rest on his shoulder, and he sucks in a deep breath to try and regain his bearings. “It sounds like protocol to me from the hospital. I am sure Pierre is okay, and you can add this to the list of shit he owes you for, right?”

“Right.” Esteban’s voice is tense, but he does find the strength to offer the barest smile at Gabriel’s efforts to calm his racing thoughts. “That asshole.”

“That asshole, yes. Now get dressed and hand me your keys, you are not driving right now.”

It is a welcome relief that comes with Gabriel’s words. Driving, of course, is more than second nature - almost as involuntary as breathing to someone like Esteban - even when stress and conflict and feelings are built up into a tight ball in his chest the way they are now. But to have the privilege of handing that responsibility off, well, he would take that in a heartbeat. And so he does.

“Here,” he says, grabbing the keys from his side table and tossing them over into Gabriel’s expectant hands, “Go on ahead. I will meet you outside so I can just jump in the car and we can go. Get the GPS ready and all that.”

“Yes, boss.” Gabriel shots back with a mock American salute, earning a half-hearted chuckle from Esteban in the process. He is out the door within seconds and as soon as Esteban hears the click of the strike, he lets out a massive breath that feels far too heavy in his lungs.

Surely, he thinks, Pierre will be fine. It was probably a stupid, drunken stint at a fancy club down the road from their hotel that may have landed him a broken nose or a harmless concussion. Surely, in two hours time Esteban will be curling back into bed with Gabriel to catch up on the precious sleep they missed while being Pierre’s babysitters. Pierre has been looking particularly forward to the American Grand Prix, as Esteban had overheard in the garage after their last race, so it would only make sense if he had gone out and partied with Yuki and some of the other drivers that had flown in a week early as well.

At least that is what he is going to tell himself for now, as he shrugs into an Alpine t-shirt he had discarded on the floor earlier that night, aptly strewn beside a pair of dark jeans that will suit this spontaneous hospital trip just fine. Once he finishes dressing, he grabs his passport from his bedside table along with his wallet and one of his watches, and then his phone from the middle of the bed where it has slid off of his knee a few minutes prior. 

‘Coming downstairs now. Have the car ready by check in.’ Esteban types sloppily on his phone, not caring to check for any errors as he hastily sends the message to Gabriel and all but jogs down three flights of stairs and out to the lobby, where if he garners a strange look or two from the late night desk clerks, he pays absolutely no mind.

As expected, Gabriel already has the car pulled around under the awning of the hotel check-in lane when Esteban bursts through the doors and into the night. Humidity hits him like a brick wall as soon as he steps outside, the air feeling heavy in his lungs as he rushes forward towards the passenger door.

“I have to make a phone call to Charles, do you have everything you need on your phone to get us there?” Esteban asks, slamming the passenger door shut behind him. Gabriel hits the gas hard enough for Esteban to jolt forward, but he pays it barely any mind as he quickly squirms himself into his seat belt and pulls up his contact list on his phone.

“Don’t worry about anything, Esteban, do what you need to do.” Gabriel replies firmly, his voice tender and full of a kindness that works to help ease the nerves Esteban feels swirling around in his chest. 

He tells himself, yet again, that Pierre is fine. He probably just hurt himself doing something stupid while he was drunk, and as soon as they get there, they can load him up into the car and take him back to the hotel without much of a fuss. Nonetheless, he can’t manage to shake this feeling of dread clawing its way up the back of his spine and into his chest. He swallows thickly, swiping his finger down his screen until he finds the contact name he was looking for. He taps Charles Leclerc’s name with a trembling finger, and then brings the phone up to his ear.

It takes Charles nearly four rings to answer, though Esteban can not blame him given how early in the morning it is. In fact, he is surprised Charles even answers at all.

“Someone had better be dying.” Comes Charles’ groggy voice on the other end of the line. And oh, the irony of his statement - if he only knew. Esteban heaves an unsteady breath into his lungs to clear those thoughts out of his mind; Pierre will be fine, no one is dying. But the rate of his own heartbeat and the tension in his chest would say otherwise - and Charles’ offhand greeting does not do Esteban’s anxiety any favors.

“Good morning to you too, Charles.” Esteban shoots back, working to keep his tone any semblance of ‘normal’ as to not worry Charles unnecessarily. “Hopefully no one is dying, but I got a phone call regarding Pierre.”

The other line is silent for a moment too long, long enough for Esteban to wonder if perhaps Charles has fallen back asleep. He finally hears distant shuffling in the background, followed by a very sleepy groan.

“What about Pierre?”

“The hospital nearby gave me a call. Apparently I am still his emergency contact.” Esteban informs him tensely, drowning out the sound of Gabriel’s GPS as the shrill voice spits out instructions towards the hospital. “I don’t know the details, they will not tell me this over the phone. I am heading there now to find out what happened. I thought maybe it would be good that you knew, just in case.”

“Just in case what?” Charles asks, and his voice sounds much clearer and steady now. “Did they say it was bad?”

“They told me nothing at all, Charles. It’s some sort of American law or something, I don’t really know. You are staying at the same hotel as Pierre, no?” Esteban’s words are a bit frantic, perhaps even laced with an involuntary bite of annoyance. Already, the conversation has dragged on for longer than he wanted. The car can only move so quickly and yet it feels too slow, as well. Esteban is pitched forward in his seat, almost like he’s ready to jump out at any given moment. If he could just focus his attention -

“Yes,” Charles answers curtly, and his anxiety is almost palpable through the phone. Esteban would commiserate with Charles right now, if only he had the space in his chest for it. “Tell me the hospital he is at and I will be there as quickly as I can.” “How about I text it to you? I will send you the directions and everything.”

“That’s fine. Let me know as soon as you hear anything about Pierre.”

“I will,” Esteban replies, feeling more anticipation and anxiety build in his chest as Gabriel finally turns the car into the parking lot for the hospital. “We are here, so I should know something soon. I will call you in a few moments.”

“Good, thank you.” 

The call drops almost immediately, so Esteban lowers the phone from his ear and works on unfastening his seat belt so he can be out of the car as soon as Gabriel parks it. The hospital is far larger than any of the medical centers he is used to seeing - even the parking deck goes up more levels than he can comprehend. Thankfully, at this time of night, the normal visitor parking out in front of the hospital has some empty space, so Esteban watches as Gabriel pulls the car into the closest spot he can find.

“Go, go go, I will catch up.” Gabriel says, urging Esteban out the door as soon as the tires come screeching to a halt. Esteban nods, offering a grateful pat to Gabriel’s shoulder before opening the door and darting out into the humid night. He loops around the back of the car, breaking out into a light jog as he makes his way towards the entrance of the hospital.

Around him, it is surprisingly peaceful. There are lights in the parking lot that keep the area well-lit, and he can see a few nurses and other hospital staff huddled around a bench for a ten-minute smoke break off in the distance. Otherwise, the night is eerily still and quiet in a way that Esteban did not realize America could be.

It feels like it does not bode well.

As he approaches the entrance to the hospital, the automatic doors part with a quiet hum and he doesn’t even need to slow his pace. He continues his jog right up to the front desk, where an employee is typing furiously on her computer. She hardly looks up when he approaches.

“Can I help you?” she asks, eyes still fastened on her computer screen. Esteban clears his throat to try and keep his voice level and even, before reaching into his pocket to pull out his passport.

“Yes, my name is Esteban Ocon. I was called by someone from this hospital maybe twenty or thirty minutes ago because I am an emergency contact for Pierre Gasly. I was told to come with proof of my identity so I could get an update on his condition.” Esteban explains carefully, opening his passport up and pushing it forward on the desk. 

She finally looks away from her screen and gently takes his passport, reading the information and studying his photo before looking back up and making eye contact with him. “Thank you, Mr. Ocon. Give me just a moment to pull up his information. You said his name was what?”

“Pierre Gasly.” He says, feeling anticipation rise up into his throat now that he’s so close to knowing what’s going on. His heart is thumping quickly in his chest, and he shoves his hands in his pockets to keep them from trembling. It's funny, really, just how nervous he is - he keeps trying to tell himself that it is nothing major, that Pierre just did something stupid during a drunken night of fun with his friends. But Esteban can feel something tense in the air - he can feel the dread churching his stomach and even though he hopes he’s wrong, he fears this may be worse than even he can imagine.

“Pierre Gasly, yes, it seems he’s currently in the ICU with very limited visitation. I will page his doctor to come talk to you about his condition, and then you can be taken to see him.” the receptionist informs him, her voice calm and even, as if she hadn’t just told Esteban that the person he’s here to see is in the intensive care unit. As if that isn’t one of the most devastating things you could tell someone.

Esteban’s breath halts in his lungs, and a cold feeling washes over him that starts at his temples and drags all the way down to the tips of his toes. The ICU - the most critical place Pierre could possibly be. His heart feels strained as it beats even faster, and if he had not been leaning against the front desk so heavily, he might have stumbled over in shock.

“I - thank you. Thank you.” He sputters, taking one of his hands out of his pocket to grab his passport back from the woman. Her eyes finally flash a hint of sympathy as she looks him over. He must look just as terrified as he feels. “Can I - is there a place to sit?”

“Of course, go down to the right a bit and there’s a waiting area. I’ll call you up when the doctor arrives, okay? It shouldn’t take too long.”

Esteban nods, stuffing his passport back into his pocket and pulling in a shaky breath. At that moment, he sees a flash of movement to his left, and Gabriel is at his side in an instant.

“Hey,” he whispers, grabbing onto Esteban’s shoulders. “You are shaking. What happened?”

Esteban leans back into Gabriel with perhaps a bit too much of his bodyweight, swallowing a mouthful of emotions back as he stumbles to take a step forward. He feels Gabriel’s grip on his shoulders tighten, holding him firmly to keep him from swaying.

“Pierre is in the intensive care unit.” Esteban chokes out, the tightness in his chest only growing as the reality of the situation bears down on him. His mind can only race with possibilities now of what could have happened to Pierre - especially so early in the morning, with no one else around. Did someone hurt him? Had he been in an accident? 

“Oh my god. What happened to him?” Gabriel asks, gently leading Esteban down the short hallway towards the waiting area. “Did they tell you?”

Slowly, Esteban finds himself maneuvered into a chair. He stretches his legs out and turns onto his side, the side where Gabriel sits next to him, and reaches for his hand. Gabriel is more than happy to offer his hand in response, giving Esteban’s a little squeeze of support. 

“They did not say yet. I have to wait for the doctor to come down and talk with me. But…this means it is very serious. I thought it would be something stupid, like a broken nose or maybe even a concussion or something.” Esteban squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath, holding it in his lungs for a few seconds before exhaling it out sharply. “Oh fuck, I did not text Charles.”

He worms his free hand around in the pocket opposite his passport, grabbing his phone out with little struggle. He quickly presses his thumb against the fingerprint scanner, and scrolls through a series of old conversations until he finds one with Charles from over a month ago.

His hand is shaking so badly, he nearly misses clicking on Charles’ name three times.

“Baby, do you want me to do it?” Gabriel suggests, his breath warm against the crown of Esteban’s forehead where he is resting his lips. Esteban sighs, surrendering his phone over and resting the weight of his head against Gabriel’s. 

“Do not tell Charles that Pierre is in the ICU. I do not want him driving here worried. He just needs directions to the hospital.” Esteban tells him gently. Gabriel hums in acknowledgement, and Esteban listens to the soft sound of the phone keyboard clicking as Gabriel types one-handedly.

Esteban’s anxiety is only going from bad to worse as the minutes pass, waiting for the doctor to make their way down to him. Logically, he understands this hospital is full of people who need help and families who need support, but the longer he waits to find out what happened to Pierre, the more the scenarios in his mind worsen. Intensive care could be indicative of so many different things - is Pierre unconscious and critical but breathing on his own, or is he on a breathing device as well? Is he in one piece or multiple pieces? Will he look like a shell of the man Esteban knew, or will he just look like he’s sleeping peacefully? Why didn’t Pierre pull Esteban’s name off of his emergency contact list?

He hears Gabriel’s tip-tapping on the phone stop, and he looks down at their entwined fingers. The phone screen is dark, indicating that Gabriel has already finished the message and locked the phone. Esteban does not reach out to take it back, instead closing his eyes and focusing on the rise and fall of his own chest as he breathes. It’s all he can do to keep his mind busy and away from all of the horrible scenarios running through it.

Gabriel is blessedly silent beside him, offering a gentle kiss to his temple every so often, and his thumb consistently rubs over Esteban’s knuckles in a pattern that is easy to focus on in tandem with his breathing. He has almost managed to reach a point of calm, almost victorious in bringing his heart rate down from frantic to just slightly elevated, until he hears the woman at the front desk call his name.

“Shit.” he hisses beneath his breath, and Gabriel gives his hand a reassuring squeeze. “They will not let you in because you are not the emergency contact.”

“I know. Will you be alright?” Gabriel asks earnestly, and it causes something to squeeze a little too tight in Esteban’s chest. No, he’s not alright, and no he won’t be alright. At the very least, having Gabriel with him would offer some form of comfort when he needs it the most. But, there is no time to waste, and this isn’t about whether or not Esteban can handle it.

He can. He will. Just like he always does.

“Yes. Just…hope that it is not horrible news.”

Esteban untangles himself from the comfortable positioning he had managed to worm into, looking down at Gabriel with a tight-lipped and uncomfortable smile. Gabriel’s eyes are soft and sad, and his smile is equally as cautious. It makes Esteban’s stomach flip in the worst ways.

But he’s dawdling, and he cannot do that. Pierre could very well be dying, and –

He pushes those thoughts aside and makes his way back up to the front desk, feeling the trembling in his limbs returning. As he reaches the reception area, he sees the same woman from before, conversing with a tall, dark-haired doctor in a stereotypical white coat at her side. Her hair is tied up in a bun and she’s wearing thick-rimmed glasses. Her features are soft and gentle, but there is an obvious tension in the crinkle of her brow and the way her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes, either.

“Mr. Ocon, this is Doctor Maynor. She will give you an update on Pierre’s condition and take you to see him, okay?” The receptionist says, and her tone is noticeably more carefully chosen than it had been when Esteban first walked into the hospital. None of this is easing his anxiety in the slightest. It is clear that everyone is walking on eggshells, and walking on eggshells means that they have bad news to deliver. Esteban can only hope that Doctor Maynor is blunt, concise, and rips the band-aid off so his poor heart can just take all the damage in one swoop.

“Thank you.” He says, looking over to the doctor and politely holding out a hand for her to shake. She does so, and her hand is warm as she grips his firmly. He hopes she cannot feel him trembling.

“Good morning, Mr. Ocon. Let me take you somewhere a little more private, okay? We can talk outside of his room.” Doctor Maynor suggests, motioning down the hallway towards a set of double doors that Esteban assumes lead into the ICU. He swallows thickly.

“Yes, of course. My partner is here with me, I know he cannot hear anything about Pierre’s condition, but can he come with me to the ICU?” He asks, almost fearing what the answer might be to such a question. The receptionist earlier had mentioned ‘limited visitation’ and that alone might be enough for them to keep Gabriel from him.

However, her polite smile never falters, and she offers a nod. “Of course. I can’t allow both of you into Pierre’s room at the same time, but there is a separate waiting area for the ICU that he can be situated in.”

Esteban’s sigh of relief must be palpable, as Doctor Maynor’s smile twitches towards something more genuine. Esteban jogs ahead of her towards the waiting area where Gabriel is still sitting, and he whistles softly to get his attention. Gabriel’s head snaps up instantaneously, and Esteban urges him over with a frantic hand gesture. “Come, we are going to the ICU.”

Esteban watches as Gabriel fumbles to collect his belongings. It’s clear he must have thought he would be there for some time, as he was lounging with his feet up and both his phone and a book open to his side. He grabs everything and shuffles to his feet, meeting up with Esteban at the same moment Doctor Maynor joins them as well.

“Good morning. Mr. Ocon has requested you to be with him in the ICU. I’ll show you where the waiting area is, and I’ll have a chat with Mr. Ocon in private about your friend’s condition.”

Esteban barely contains a snort at the word ‘friend.’ Perhaps one time in the past, they were friends. Perhaps one time in the past, they were even more than that. Perhaps something went wrong somewhere down the line, and their hearts lost touch. Perhaps from that moment, they never saw each other in a positive light again. ‘Friend’ - the way that makes Esteban’s heart ache so painfully in his chest. They are not friends. He doesn’t even know what they are anymore, really. Maybe just teammates, and nothing more.

Nonetheless, Esteban nods towards Gabriel, who responds with a very polite, “Yes ma’am.” 

As they approach the double doors of the intensive care unit, Doctor Maynor tugs on a badge clipped loosely to her coat and holds it against the sensor. The doors spring to life, opening slowly to allow them inside, and Esteban forces himself to take a deep breath as he crosses the threshold into his new and frightening territory. The ward is alive with the sounds of beeping monitors, nurse chatter, the clicking of keyboards as they’re furiously typed upon, and the sound of wheels against linoleum flooring where monitors and other sensitive equipment are being carted around by the medical staff. Each door is spread quite far apart from the other, all numbered in ascending order, with even numbers on the left and odd ones on the right.

Doctor Maynor comes to a halt right at the end of the hallway, where Esteban can see a small carpeted area full of couches and chairs. It’s all very similar to the waiting room outside of the emergency ward, and he knows this is where he loses Gabriel.

This is where he knows things may never be quite the same ever again.

“Here’s the waiting area. Pierre’s room is not too far from here.” Doctor Maynor says, using her arm to gesture towards the empty chairs in the room. Gabriel sucks in a breath and Esteban immediately turns to face him, feeling that same awful, ice-cold dread fill him from head to toe once again. 

“I will be right here, Esteban. It’s going to be okay.” Gabriel tells him, leaning in close to bump their foreheads together. Esteban nods, not trusting the way his voice might sound if he dares to speak. “It’s okay, baby.” 

Gabriel presses a feather-soft kiss to the bridge of Esteban’s nose, and then he steps back to head into the waiting room. Esteban’s hand twitches at his side, a longing feeling at the tips of his fingers to reach out and grab hold of Gabriel, to stop him from leaving, but that would only prolong the inevitable. Something Esteban has already been doing too much of.

“Are you ready, Mr. Ocon?” Doctor Maynor asks softly, and Esteban can appreciate that her voice is full of sympathy and warmth. It’s in stark contrast to the woman at the front desk who, (through no fault of her own, really, Esteban knows this is her job after all), had been less than gentle giving her side of the news. 

“Yes,” he replies after a moment, his chest clenching in on itself with the desperate anxiety he feels buzzing in his veins. “I’m ready.”

As she begins to walk off towards Pierre’s room, Esteban is hot on her heels. Even amongst the dread and the nausea and the raw fear he’s fighting off, deep down he wants nothing more than to just know already. And the faster they get to Pierre’s room, the faster he gets that information.

Doctor Maynor stops so abruptly in front of room 158 that Esteban nearly trips over her in the process. His head snaps over towards the door, where Pierre’s name is written neatly up on the board hanging beside the window. The curtains are shut tight, however, and to his dismay (or perhaps to his benefit), nothing can be seen inside the room other than the faint glow of the light peeking out through the corners of the fabric.

“Okay, have they told you anything about what’s happened to Mr. Gasly yet?” She begins, pulling her tablet out from her pocket. Esteban assumes that is where all of Pierre’s data is being kept, an entire record of what’s happened to him since he set foot inside of this hospital. He has to fight the urges to just reach forward and grab it from her hands, and read all the data himself.

“Not at all. I did not even know he was in the ICU until ten minutes ago.”

Doctor Maynor frowns, sliding her finger across the tablet as she scrolls through pages of data. Esteban watches her intently, his heart pounding so fast he can hear it clearly in his ears.

“Mr. Gasly was in a horrible car accident. He was brought in about an hour ago in critical condition. His injuries are extensive and range in severity, but overall, his condition is still highly critical.” She informs him, and Esteban’s stomach drops to his feet.

A car accident? Of all things?

“Okay, so what are they, then?” He urges a bit impatiently, though doctor Maynor doesn’t seem to mind all that much. She sucks in a breath and looks up from the tablet, finally meeting his gaze with a sad smile.

“His pelvis is broken, as well as his clavicle. A few of his ribs fractured as well, and one of them splintered into his lung which caused a puncture and a collapse. He had an open cranial fracture - though minor - and a brain contusion to go along with it. On top of this, he has whiplash, and we are monitoring his neck for any swelling. His right leg is also broken in two spots, but the worst of the injuries is the internal bleeding. It seems on his ride over to the hospital, he went into cardiac arrest once.”

Esteban feels his legs tremble beneath him, either unable or unwilling to hold his weight. His breath is frozen in his lungs, eyes wide in absolute horror as the magnitude of Pierre’s injuries slowly, one by one, register into his brain. He can feel his heart beating in his throat, hard and heavy as if he’d just run up six flights of stairs to get here.

He’s certain the doctor must be speaking to him, but there’s a ringing in his ears that drowns out all other sounds.

Pierre’s heart had stopped in the ambulance. His heart had simply stopped beating.

Esteban thinks he may be sick.

[heckitall]

hallo hallo,

just giving a small update! i was recently in a minor car accident (not my car, was not driving) but the incident has left me with some nice bruises and a hurty head. it has also stirred up some unpleasant flashbacks that have kicked my ass (four hour shower and dont remember even getting in or starting it? yes please thank u can i have a side of fries too?)

If you have not heard from me about ur commission, that is the only reason slowing me down right now. i appreciate ur patience with me right now as i spool my threads back together :)

[finaltimelineau]

the force because Charles always fails and the window hasn't been our friend a lot

[citylighten]

BEGINNING // PREVIOUS // NEXT

@cocoanmelaninsims @sheplayswithlifee @wannabecatwriter @percosim

@havenroyals @splodge86 @eslanes @xldkx

@nyrarachelle @spiderlilyart @ellemant @ladygangsters

@swiftviolets @weirdosalike @smok3inm1rrors @dresdendarlin @quesims

@digital-deluxe @keesimziaa @thewalkingplumbob @nymphdiariesdotcom @nightlifeseries

@miss-may-i @spnmoosejerk

[noonegetsleftbehind]

this is not something i do with any ease at all. in fact, i hate doing this, but i'm not doing this for me - i'm doing it for my girlfriend.

as you know, there was just a death in my family. my girlfriend dropped everything to take me back to be with family and say goodbye. her job is door dashing so she relies on her car.

she's the most giving and selfless person i know. she does so much for everyone. even those who have nothing. she had literally just finished bringing water to a homeless woman before this happened.

on friday night, a car full of young adults was driving down the middle of the road and started to swerve purposely towards my girlfriend's car. she swerved to avoid and they swerved more to make sure they could collide with her. they hit her driver's side head on. she suffered cuts, scrapes, burns and bruises.

the young adults that hit her physically got out of their car, leaving it in the middle of the road and ran off into the woods on foot, fleeing the scene. by the time i got on scene, my girlfriend's door was in the road, she had to crawl out the passenger side to get out of the car, there was a pair of shoes in the mud and they had not come back. the police had drones in the air searching for them.

this is a devastating loss and breaks my heart. as i said, my girlfriend's only job was her car. that car is now gone. that car was also still not paid off and we don't know what's going to happen with insurance etc. she's planning to press charges and sue, but that could take months and months. for now, she's got nothing.

so that's how we get to here. i'm asking that if anyone has anything, no matter how small, to donate please consider doing so. it will help her get through this time and lessen the stress for her. any little bit will be greatly appreciated more than you will know and will go to helping keep her afloat. consider sharing even if you can't donate.

cashapp - $amopeyzoolion

Paypal is available upon DM

(photo of wreck under cut)

[maliciouscigarette]

Call it Fruits Basket because I’m a fruit and I’m frantically weaving between the sides of my line.

[milktooth222]

a thing you should know about stanley / south park stan marsh au companion piece

cw: descriptions of addictive behaviors, car crashes, glib language about those subjects

———————

stanley randolph marsh learned to drive at eight and a half.

his dad was a loser who valued his own ideas of the way that the world worked.

regardless of whether or not his ideas had any basis in the absolute truths of reality.

he wanted and wanted and wanted.

it was the sick kind of want.

the kind of want that simmers in the neurons of the junkies and the obsessives.

the kind of want that feels like a sharp pain between

the skull and the spine.

stan’s dad couldn’t do anything without taking something.

stan had to do an awful lot.

he was a sweet kid.

he wanted desperately to see the good in things.

in his nightstand he kept a photograph tucked between a dog-eared copy of the wizard of earthsea and a sports illustrated swimsuit magazine from 2003, a relic from his high school days.

it was a good picture. a happy one, dated 1989.

it was there -

in a different house,

in a different century -

where he stood, dimpled and smiling upon his father’s slippers,

clad in footie pajamas and still wet-haired from his bath.

it was a picture that made stan sick.

sick with love and upset and rage and dread and confusion as to how a man can change so much and still cling to the past like a juvenile barn cat to a nursing cow’s teat.

he loved his father, so he broke colorado traffic and safety rules to make sure that his father didn’t end up wrapping himself around a fucking tree.

he loved his father.

he was driving.

everything was going to be okay.

but he still did.

that is to say, he wrapped his car around a fucking tree.

stan hadn’t spoken to jesus since the 7th grade, but he tried to see him that night.

jesus just rolled his eyes and sent stan away from the scene with a broken arm and a broken nose and a broken cellphone.

stan r. marsh was temporarily restricted from driving at 21.

weak.

[thelizaxevans]

open - @aurorabaystarter

where - any food establishment tbh

Liza had spent the last few days at home after a car accident that left her with a fractured wrist and a lot of buried fears coming to light from her mother's death over a decade ago. But...she wasn't the type to wallow or hide away, and she was determined to get past it. So that sunny afternoon she decided to go on a walk with her daughter, carefully pushing the stroller as they went. After a while though hunger was setting in and she bit her lip, trying to figure out how to get in. "Hey um, would you mind getting the door please?" she asked as she even gave a feeble wave of her casted hand pushing a sleeping baby in a stroller, hoping to get a sympathy point.

[superbonusround]

hey you lot

i'll say first that i'm okay, still don't totally understand how, but i'm going to be fine in the long term

i was in a pretty horrific car accident on january 4 and had three surgeries over the course of a week to repair as much as possible. i won't be walking or doing much of anything in the next couple of months as i focus on getting the strength and mobility back that i've lost

this is the hardest thing i've ever done, and it's barely even started yet. harder than being ditched by my best friend in thailand when we were nineteen, then finding my own way home across four countries; harder than going to teach english in another country, choosing to leave that program for what i thought were good and valid reasons at the time, and the eventual realization that i wasn't actually so different than the people that i didn't feel should be there, and that i probably never should have been there, either; harder than cutting off the vast majority of my family for treating me like trash my whole life; harder than watching that same family come pretend to cry then lapse into gushing about their beautiful lives at my grandmother's funeral when i was the only one of them that was there for her for the last five years of her life.

the last ten days have taken every bit of pride and shame that i had and put them in a bedpan. it's as fun as it sounds. if nothing else, now i understand what my grandma was feeling in those last few years. i just wish i could go back and use what i know now to do better for her. she deserved so much better.

i think so much about the consequences of the small decisions we make. i worry about the brand of chips i buy and the takeout i get and the ripple effects that our small, personal, everyday choices create. i guess every once in a while, that great roulette wheel has to land on you. i just wanted to get an ice cream.

i don't say this for fun, i don't want your money, or much of anything, really, besides the lower 70% of my body to return to proper working condition at some point. but if you've ever seen a superbonusround post or video that you've loved or that's just given you a giggle, please give it a watch, and don't be sad. i did all of this, even the crappy paint.net edits, because they brought a little happiness into my day at some point, and i think it's wonderful that they could continue to do that for you, too. that said, my laptop is still bricked and its repair is no longer so high up on my list of priorities, so the original trilogy playthrough is indefinitely suspended lol.

today i almost. almost feel somewhat human again. i am finally watching the charli xcx snl episode and i cried during 360. my mom is visiting daily and we are watching season 3 of the traitors (u.s.)

good night, i love you all, and here's hoping i have the dream about the massive 17 x gorillaz collab museum again tonight. that place was awesome

that's all for now

<3 sbr