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kalieros · 5 days

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“It’s gonna get me by the end of the night.” pt. 3

Synopsis: True to his word, Sergeant Garrick accompanies her home. Wordcount: 3.7k Things to note: references to traumatic events, fear of being followed, anxiety attacks, angst, some comfort, KISSING a/n: I JUST WANTED TO MAKE THESE TWO KISS AND INSTEAD CORNERED MYSELF INTO PLOT AND EXTENSIVE BACKSTORY😭😭, I posted it on ao3 earlier, but wanted to edit it more before posting here. I hope this doesn't feel too rushed, I decided to stay strictly with Stacy's pov, so the plot of the whumptober prompt sorta kinda resolves itself in the background, told through vignette style progressions.

Masterlist | Part One |

True to his word, Sergeant Garrick accompanies her home.

Close to his side, the city at night isn’t so terrible, and noises in the dark lose their eerie quality. His presence bleeds out her paranoia.

He leans into Stacy as they walk down the narrow sidewalk. Bodies drawn to warmth against the night chill. She keeps her hands tucked in her coat pockets and thinks about slipping them into the crook of his elbow, tucking further into his side as they walk.

Thinks about it, for that's as far as she gets.

“If you want to talk about it...” he lets the rest of the sentence hang. Doesn’t need to finish it.

“I’d just get mad. Right now.” She adds quickly. The memorial wasn’t the closure she hoped for. And even the well-meaning condolences had her on edge. Left her with a delicate patience, like gauze. Annoyance bled through too easily.

“Maybe later? Over...”

“...dinner?” He interrupts. His hopeful gaze meets her tentative one, and they hold still for a small, sweet moment. She was going to offer another try at drinks once her mood wasn’t so low, but dinner is just as nice.

He goes to speak but stops, a sentence frozen at the tip of his tongue. She holds her breath, waiting for words that never come. Instead, she follows as his eyes dart towards her apartment complex. They’ve slowed to a stop, far from the entrance. A figure skulks at the doors. He’s steady as he grabs her arm and holds her firmly behind him, angling towards the person in hiding. His free hand moves to grab something in his pocket. Her eyes dart around the ground, searching desperately for a sturdy branch, a rock, anything that might serve as a makeshift weapon.

“Oy, mate.” He settles into a voice she imagines is used to issuing commands across a battlefield. “Step into the light.”

“And who the fuck are you?” A familiar, reedy voice responds. Despite the irritable pushback, they step out of the shadows. Stacy places a staying hand on Kyle’s arm. She recognizes him. A local who’s made it his mission to pester her.

“Lee? Are you following me?” Wrong question. Kyle immediately reacts. Still, there’s a rush of relief laced with annoyance. Her previous panic now has a tangible source.

“Nooo. Not anymore.”

Now she loops her arm through Kyle’s. “He’s just — well, a local. Runs a conspiracy podcast.” Annoying, but harmless.

“An investigative podcast,” A snippy correction. “And who’s this guy?”

“He’s a -” She can’t decide what to call him, but it's also none of his business. “A date.” Kyle finishes. Well. Technically true, she supposes.

“Why are you here?” Her voice is sharp. Steady. But her hands haven’t stopped trembling, and she’s clutching his arm like a drowning woman. Lee might be harmless, but he doesn’t live at these apartments, and his obsession with her was unnerving on a good day.

“Promise you won’t get mad.” He waits for an acknowledgement, which neither of them gives. “You know me. The lengths I go for the truth? This time, I’ll admit, might’ve gone too far." His posture sags. "Might've agreed to keep tabs on you.”

Kyle tenses up and aims a murderous stare at the other man.

“Hold on. Don’t judge me, I gotta eat, gotta make money, ok?” Lee makes his way towards them, rifling through his pack. “Got something for you to listen to.” He pulls out one of those old-fashioned tape cassette recorders and wiggles it in front of them. “Lucky for us, I record my phone calls.”

They glance at each other as he fiddles around with the tape. “Lee, for fuck's sake. Why were you following me? You scared me half to death. I thought -” She drops the sentence. Doesn’t want to even entertain the thought.

Lee huffs. “I've got this loyal listener. Great guy. Really appreciates my investigative integrity.” Stacy rolls her eyes. “Contacted me with some decent tips. Then asked me to investigate you. Said he had suspicions about your involvement in Urzikstan. And the coverup. His words. Wanted me to keep an eye on you." His stilted confession offers no relief, her heart leaps into her throat; the sudden surge of adrenaline turns her limbs to jelly.

“You get a bullshit tip and decide to harass her, then?” Anger burns at the edges of his words, and he’s holding her so firmly she’d stay upright even if her legs gave out.

“No, no." He holds up his hands in defense. "It’s not like that. I had my suspicions, ok? I did my due diligence. Followed you to the memorial and back, just in case. When you started freaking out, I felt really shitty. Decided the tip was shitty. Shame too, because they subscribed to my podca-”

Lee stops rambling after another sharp look from Kyle. “Anyways. Went to gather my recordings and came back to tell you. Froze my ass off, by the way. No one would let me in the lobby.”

“Should’ve reported this to the police.”

Lee snorts. “And incriminate myself? Besides, what would they do? Have me fill out a report they’d never follow up on? Funny.”

Kyle pauses before humming in agreement.

Her mind is racing. Nothing helpful, just a haze of questions. How had she not noticed Lee at the memorial? What asshole suggested she was involved in some conspiracy? And what kind of asshole believes it? She scowls at Lee.

“I–I–” Too angry and scared to speak, her stammering snaps Kyle into action.

“Mate, all those conversations, they’re recorded on that tape?”

“Uh - yeah?” Lee looks up curiously, expression creasing into annoyance as the sergeant grabs the recorder from his hands. Kyle holds it over his head as he tries snatching for it and plucks the tape from its slot. “Fuck you, man. Give it back!”

“You’ll get it back. Promise.” She stumbles over her words, saying what needs to be said to avoid causing more of a stir. She’s not sure how truthful the promise is, and quite honestly does not care. Lights are turning on in nearby windows, she doesn’t need more eyes on her.

Kyle crowds her towards the entrance, and she lets him, her thoughts continuing to spiral over this nameless, faceless inquisitor. Worrying how clueless, how unaware, she’s been of her surroundings. Was this the first time this person asked someone to keep tabs on her? The second? Tenth?

There’s a dozen or so eyes on her, so it feels like, watching her every move. Should've stayed home, safe under her blankets.

Lee’s spouting off about getting a personal interview for this, until the doors click shut, blessedly shutting out the world. Almost immediately her heart calms, her breathing evens. It takes a second to realize the sergeant is speaking to her. Asking if she’s ok.

“I’m good. Just – fine.” She’s reasonably sure that’s true.

He pockets the tape. “I’ve no business asking you anything–but if you don’t stay at a friend’s now, I might camp outside your door the whole night.” He says it with a lopsided grin, It’s a tease, something to lighten the mood. Except now there’s an edge to his expression, a determination that belies his easy charm.

“No. You’re right.” She inhales, suddenly nervous to ask what she wants. “Can you stay? Until I get a hold of her?”

He nods. “Wouldn’t forgive myself if I left.”

Sonja ranted and raved for a good minute. Smacking Stacy’s shoulder in the way that loved ones do. Why would you walk alone at night? Lord knows you can afford an uber. I’m your friend, why didn’t you call me? She droned on in her worried way until Kyle poked his head into the apartment to say his goodbyes, letting her know there was no one lurking in the shadows. No loiterers around the apartment. None to be worried about, he says.

Questions were endless after that. All the way to Sonja’s apartment. Hers was a nice one too, with proper security and a doorman. No one’s getting in here. You’re safe for as long as you need to say, she said. Assurances before pestering her from one end of the apartment to the other about Kyle Garrick. Not a moment of peace until they tucked themselves into bed.

But even cocooned into Sonja’s side, she’s unable to sleep. Her mind’s running too fast to rest. So she snakes her hand out from beneath the covers to grab her phone. Maybe if she asks her questions, lays out her worries, the anxiety will bleed out, her mind might settle enough to sleep.

[S: what’s your plan with the tape]

She throws an arm over her face, a barrier against her own embarrassment. Could’ve started with a softer approach.

[S: sorry, having troubles sleeping] she adds quickly.

It was burning up her brain since they parted ways. In the madness, there wasn’t a chance to question him. She stares at the phone for what feels like ages. A half-hour, at least. The incoming message icon blinks, but nothing appears. She holds it to her chest and drifts in and out, waking with a start as it buzzes against her.

[K: wanted to run it by someone]

[K: see if I could help.]

[K: We should talk]

Stacy freezes, reading and rereading the text. She rolls away from Sonja and grips the phone, trying not to let fear take over.

Days had passed since the fraught anniversary of the embassy attack. Stacy was still at Sonja’s. The overnight stay turned into days – it wasn’t purposeful – but her friend wasn’t kicking her out, and she couldn’t bring herself to leave. Sonja was eager to knock the gloom out of her, had been pestering her to visit for some time. And it was easier to pretend she was fine when she didn’t have to face the world.

[K: Don’t worry, you’re safe. 100%. But we should talk]

“I might’ve played some part in that.” Kyle’s eyes drop to the tape. To the folder he brought with him.

Less than a week after their first shared drink, Stacy stares at Kyle, and he stares at her, both sipping from their own fortifying cup of coffee. Talking about things only meant for their ears. Sonja’s in her office, it was a WFH day, but she had music playing to drown out all other noise, so no worries there.

Wrapped in a fluffy housecoat, wearing borrowed slippers, she's simultaneously horrified at the greasiness of her hair, and too worried about the state of things to care.

“I don’t believe you.”

He laughs. “Appreciate the faith.”

Rubs a hand over his stubble; the man doesn’t look quite as worn down as her, but she doubts he’s had much sleep since they parted. “Back when your story hit the news, I couldn't stop thinking about what you told me. About your old boss. Got proper mad about it, tried asking around to see if...” Something in her expression has him course correcting. “I was discrete. Nothing came of it at the time.” He’s sheepish now.

Stacy sets her coffee down. “I assume there’s a ‘but’?”

He snorts. " But. Word still got out. Seems they think I was the start of an official investigation." Remorse piles on in layers. "And when we both had plans to be in the same city," he shrugs. "Your former boss doesn’t believe in coincidence. Assume he was hoping for a cheap, anonymous way to keep an eye on you, which led him to Lee."

Fear prickles across her skin. She did what they wanted; she kept quiet, let them sweep things under the rug, let them send her to Urzikstan. And when the attack happened, she didn’t stay still; she played her part, did her civic duty, crawled across war-torn offices to soldiers who were helpless without her. She wanted to be left alone. Too many eyes on her, even here. An itch out of reach. Don’t scratch, don’t scratch, don't scratch, you’ll just make it worse.

“One second.” She mutters. Her rattled nerves find a moment of relief, she scratches the itch. Checks the windows, checks the locks and bolt. Checks the security app on her phone.

Nothing’s changed; everything is still safe, but her body doesn’t understand. She can’t relax. Can’t calm down. Scraped knees, hands embedded with glass and debris. It’s healed, she checks to be sure. Checks again. Phantom pain stabs through healed flesh. Hard to breathe, air’s too thin.

There’s a hand on her back, warm and comforting. Grounding. Kind words murmur in her ear. A gentle but firm voice guides her through a breathing exercise. Once again he gives her guiding words.

Another day.

Each text, each phone call, brings them closer. Time passes and their connection becomes less centred on her personal bogeyman.

There’s a park around the corner from her apartment, and today is a small victory – she’s walking it without panic crawling up her insides. Kyle reaches for her arm, and she leans into his touch, his warmth. Subtle hints of lavender and vanilla roll off him, and she wonders if that’s for her, or if he's all done up like this for everyone.

“Alright, love?”

He was here to update her on what he knows about her old boss, about the case that's being built. He promises it won't involve her. Doesn't sugarcoat it though. Tells her his co-workers ("co-workers") want him to serve his time, but they want to take out the ringleaders more, which means deals, lighter sentencing.

But today? Right now? Forty-five minutes passed without either mentioning it. His expression is far away, and she’s not sure if it’s something to worry about. Could be nothing. Fear creases her brow, and he pulls himself back to the present.

Such an easy endearment. Casual even. Leaves her flustered and heated, regardless. She'd love to hear it again.

“You first.”

He arches a brow.

“You’ve got something on your mind. Clearly.”

He sighs and kicks at an empty beer can, sending it further down the path. “The ones that sent you to Urzikstan. You said they started out with good intentions.”

So they said. She nods. Was how they tricked her into silence the first time. That he was bringing them up left her ill at ease. Wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Wasn’t sure how he expected her to respond.

“Don’t mind me, just...working something out on my own. Professionally.”

He has an uncanny way of putting her at ease, this man. Still, she feels the need to clarify.

“You going to tell me the end justifies the means?”

“I'm supposed to believe it.” He chuckles, and it sours, fading into a sigh. “Victory doesn’t feel much like victory these days.”

Memories of the sergeant in the aftermath of the embassy attack fill her mind. Vivid recollections of him being at odds with his captain on helping the survivors. She arches a brow. Both their chosen careers had failed them in different ways, it would seem. Stacy wishes for words to help him, but all she has is a question. “Plan on doing anything about it?”

"I -" He stops, brow furrowing. "I'm not sure I can."

His eyes widen. "Not about you-" He rushes out the words.

Stacy reaches for his hand. They didn't have to solve anything yet. He squeezes gently, threading his fingers between hers. They continue their walk, both lost in thought, both gently anchored by the other's presence.

Days turn into weeks and life moves on as it always does. Lee putters around the neighbourhood and works to avoid her in the rare times she leaves her apartment. Small miracles. Out of morbid curiosity, she checks in on his podcast. She snorts. The irony of "don't trust the media" Lee falling for any of that bullshit was good for a laugh. But other than a brief mention before this mess started, her name remains blissfully out of his mouth.

As they often did these days, her thoughts drift back to one Kyle Garrick. Wasn't hard to figure out why, not when her world was the small rooms of her apartment, and dreary conspiracies. Today the thoughts are light and shallow. She wonders if he remembers suggesting dinner, if he meant it, or if it was just something to say. Words to fill the silence.

She could manage a quiet dinner, she thinks. There's comfort in imagining idle conversation, in gentle, friendly touches. Talking about perfectly pleasant, boring days.

Her reverie is shaken by a buzz from her phone.

[K: i'm about to be your fave person]

[K: can i call you?]

The ambassador's paranoia finally did him in. She'd made peace with the idea that he was being used to go after bigger fish. Wasn't happy about it, but she was working on peace.

“Now.” Kyle holds his phone away from her. “If word gets out that you’ve seen this–it’ll start an international incident, so keep mum.”

Stacy mimes sealing her lips. He beams, his dimples deepen, warm brown eyes shimmer with cheer. She’d kiss him if she felt bolder; the smile had her heart pitter-pattering away in her chest.

Golden rays of light from a picture-perfect sunset fill her apartment with a cozy glow. In front of them, her TV plays a nature documentary on mute. She’s not sure why she turned it on; they never run out of things to talk about. Habit maybe. The comfort of a distraction– a just in case .

Anxiety, her near constant companion, was a stranger today.

Kyle’s pleased with himself, she can tell; presenting the phone to her, holding it for her as a video begins to play. Body cam footage of the ambassador being frog-marched out of his office, ducking his head, desperate to shield himself from prying eyes. One of the men detaining him lays a hand atop his head and forces him into an armoured SUV. Behind him, his fingers are bright red from the strain of the cuffs. The clip cuts off as the door of the vehicle shuts. They both sit there a moment, staring at the black screen before them, at the small offering of justice.

“Nothing official yet, but he doesn’t have a reason to bother you. Bigger problems now.”

Her breath hitches, and she covers it with a laugh. “Wasn’t very good at bothering me though, was he?” The heaviness of her past doesn’t lift–oh, there’s a balm of relief, a brief private high from this victory – but the damage of it has left a stubborn stain.

Kyle rests his arm across her shoulders, pulling her into his side. She inhales the familiar scent of his aftershave. It's safety. (Hand on her back, helping her breathe). Comfort. (Sitting in the stairwell of her apartment, holding her hand while they chat). Warmth. (Leaning into his side as they walk. Private smiles just for her.) How does she explain she misses the smell of someone when they’re gone?

He massages her shoulder, and with each gentle circle of his fingertips, a slow ache of desire builds. There’s a world where she acts on it, a casual touch, an easy kiss. It used to be so easy. Now she sits burdened with everything that came before.

He opens his mouth but thinks better of it.

She swallows. “Go on.”

“A bit tasteless.”

She shakes her head. “Go on, say it.”

“Selfish of me, but I'm bloody glad they transferred you. To Urzikstan.”

She picks at the purple fluff of her sweater. She’d never say she was glad, not under the circumstances that it happened, but she understands his intent.

“I wish we could’ve met like normal people.” Her voice trembles, not from the sentiment, but summoning the courage to act on selfish wants. Would they have given each other a second look outside their chaotic, traumatic introduction? Maybe it doesn’t matter. Sitting here, pressed close to him, reveling in the comfort of his presence – did it matter how they met?

“That’s all in front of us, yeah?” His lips quirk into a cheeky grin. A friend? Deep brown eyes travel across the lines and curves of her face, eventually settling on her lips. A lover?

“You survived. We survived.” He murmurs, eyes not moving from her mouth. “Now we make the most of it.”

Stacy reaches up and smooths her thumb across the long-healed scar under his eye. He leans into the touch, and she flinches on contact. It’s fervent desire and a fearful step all at once. But she cups his face, pulling him close. Her thumb caresses his cheek, running gently toward his full lower lip.

“Kiss me-.” She breathes. His lips are on hers before the sentence ends. Before it has a chance to start. At first, feather light touches, skin grazing skin, gentle, questioning pecks. Is this okay? Can I touch here? Gentle, silent questions. Coffee and the faint taste of an old cigarette still swirls on his breath, now on hers. There on his tongue as he parts her lips.

His fingers thread through her hair, cradling her head in his hands like a precious thing. She grips the front of his shirt tightly, pulling him to her, or her to him, she couldn’t keep track within the dizziness of the kiss. They pull back to breathe, gasping for air. Still clutching each other. It’s only a moment before they’re pressed against each other again, tongue sliding against hers, lips bruising each other with newfound fervour.

A kiss that carries the weight of weeks filled with stress, frustration, and longing. All of it a cathartic release under the urgent press of his lips. Her hands flutter across his chest, his neck, searching for a place to rest. As her nails graze softly down his neck, he shivers and presses deeper into the kiss.

Finally, they break. Nose to nose, chests heaving as they catch their breath. Stacy takes a moment to smooth his ruffled shirt. “What's that about making the most of it?” She's breathless.

“Stacy Davidson.” He’s still short of breath and sporting that 1000-watt grin of his as he places a hand on his chest. “Kyle Garrick. Gaz to friends. Would love,” he gulps down air. “to take you to a regular, boring dinner.”

He’s ridiculous, and despite all her mixed-up feelings, she bursts into laughter.

And for a moment it's everything she needs.

"God, a boring dinner. A dream."

He chuckles, pressing a lingering kiss to her lips. "Cheers to the mundane."

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