Chapter Text
The steering wheel was cold and her hands were numb.
Panic attacks often manifest through an increased heart rate, rapid or uneven breathing and a prickling feeling in fingers and/or extremities. - Dr Harper, Dr Selgood, and one very over-involved coworker
What did doctors know? They also insisted on patients maintaining 8 hour sleep cycles and drinking under 10 units of caffeine a week. Like they did any of that. Hypocrites.
Sleep was overrated, LB decided. The spectrum canteen was operational around the clock, and it would be helpful to get ahead of her paperwork. Spectrum 3 was insistent when it came to budget allocation. It would be a waste to drive all the way home now, only for the sake of a few hours of sleep. The closest spectrum entrance was only an hour away.
She'd work on the budget proposal first. Get the biggest headache - the thing she was not thinking about in case she crashes the car excluded - out of the way. There were some meetings scheduled to prepare for, but none important enough to keep her attention. She considered, briefly, fanning the flames of whatever crisis Agent Trent-Cobie was currently embroiled in. He'd come to her for help and she'd be suitably distracted for a few hours. She discarded that plan. He was greying early anyway.
The afternoon needed to be blocked off, unavailable except for emergencies then uncontactable after 3. Figure out how to schedule it into the calendar in a way that didn't set alarm bells ringing. "Personal reasons". As if anyone would believe that. Maybe she could get Harper to order a rest day. Be discreet about it of course. The doctor would never believe she would demand such a thing of her own volition. Worse, if she did, she may think it'd become a trend. No, definitely not. She'd have to get someone else to refer her, probably Hitch, and wasn't that a whole other headache. She'd have to deal with him at some point as well.
She hadn't been paying enough attention to the road.
The brakes screeched in protest as the car veered sharply on a turn, tyres spinning out of control on the ice. The dark mass of the forest below yawned open for several hypnotising seconds, before she managed to get her numb fingers to obey and grapple the steering wheel into submission. The acrid smell of burning tyres was filling the vehicle.
So. Accounting for icy weather conditions it may take an hour and a half to get to the closest entrance. Still. It made sense. She was wide awake. Had been before and doubly so now. All this adrenaline had to go somewhere. It would be actively wasteful, really, to go home now.
Definitely not avoiding her empty house. Definitely not.
She felt delirious walking through the almost deserted halls, passing only Buzz, without acknowledgment, both well used to the other's presence at odd and uncomfortable hours. At the canteen, she ordered the other woman a coffee too. Placed it, without comment, on one of the few spaces on her desk not covered by wires or phones as she passed on the way back to the office.
It was like being shot, she considered, dropping heavily down into her chair, coffee coming dangerously close to spilling at the impact. Like the milliseconds before and after the bullet rips through flesh, where everything slows and you can see the way out, with perfect clarity and too late to be any use at all.
Maybe it had just been some strange and fanciful delusion. She'd blink and the room would swim back into focus and she'd have to check how much time she'd lost. Not unheard of.
No such luck. Her blazer shoulders were damp from the snow.
-
Whether the amendments she made to the, frankly insulting, budget proposals from 3 were coherent she didn't know. Pure routine and instinct drove her hand and LB figured that after eleven years of the same tedious annual dance, she could create at least a passable first draft. It was only after she had called for Alex from finance to come down and assess the proposition that she considered how unpresentable the night may have made her.
She moved to the ensuite bathroom, doorway concealed in the wall, "and it doesn't even double as a panic room" Bradley had griped when given the tour and she, gleefully showing off her newfound insider knowledge, replied, "why would it? The panic room is over -
There. The blank expanse of wall behind the desk stared back at her.
Her ears were ringing. She shook her head and pushed through the door, slamming it shut after her.
She rested her weight on her hands, the edges of the sink digging into her palms, scrutinising the reflection in the mirror. It could've been worse. Her hair looked unkempt, melted snowflakes making the ends frizz up and her lipstick had faded or smudged. Easily fixed. Her reflection continued to stare back. Its eyes looked tired. Her eyes were tired. She'd close them, for a second. The dark was welcoming and her ears were still ringing. It made her sway on her feet for a moment, letting her head thump against the mirror, the glass cool against her forehead.
A somewhat muted knock echoed into the room. Right. Alex.
She couldn't stand up. Her limbs felt leaden and the mirror was comfortable.
It was fine, it was fine, the draft was right dead centre in the middle of her desk Alex would find it. She didn't need LB there, just take the document and leave. She could stay here, just resting her eyes and decidedly not hiding in the bathroom. Another tentative knock sounded then, after a pause, the click of a door handle. Soft rustling of papers then another click as the door shut again.
She glanced at her watch. 04:52.
53.
54.
55.
56.
57.
The minutes ticked by as the glass of the mirror warmed under her skin. Her hair still wasn't fixed… and as a matter of fact, neither was her lipstick and if she was already going to be fixing herself up might as well make use of the spare change of clothes in the boiler cupboard and get breakfast. Go through the whole morning routine. It'd been known to start at 5. Often earlier.
05:03
It had also been known to start at quarter past, she reasoned, opening the alarm function, which, set as it was to ring in just under two hours, at 0700 precisely, neither confirmed nor directly contradicted the twelve -
05:04
Eleven minutes that she could stay resting against the glass. After which her morning would continue as normal. No reason why it shouldn't. The watch beeped: her alarm was now set to ten minutes from now.
She closed her eyes and sighed. Not for the first time, she regretted not building out her office, branching out another room from the office to allow her to sleep comfortably. After the crash, she had found herself entirely unable to sleep in their house. In their bed. The still relatively new position was harder to manage, the workload far heavier; more meetings, more paperwork, less time for herself, barely even time to think. So nearly perfect. If only she didn't have to go home. A perfect escape from the crawling, splintering feeling that settled in her stomach at the very thought of the empty house.
She had considered it. Strongly. Even filled out all necessary proposed expansion request forms. But she couldn't do it. It was too pathetic. And it made her feel guilty. Well. More guilty anyway. He'd hated it when she worked too late. So she went home. It was still terrible. Couldn't even kip on the sofa, the absence of the TV set across from it as glaring a reminder as the TV itself. Which she had smashed. Or thrown. Potentially both. It didn't matter, really, the end result was the same; broken glass on the carpet and blood on her hands. It had made her laugh, then, the sound as broken as the glass, at the hamfisted metaphor she'd created, at the knowledge that, were this a film, she'd be groaning at the gracelessness of it, shouting not-so-constructive criticism at the TV she'd destroyed, aggravated and amused in equal measure. She'd liked those films the best though. Because Bradley would seek them out beforehand to find the best-worst one, which he denied, of course, so she would needle him about it later, but he would, and she knew he would, because he'd turn to watch her seconds before something stupid, or poorly written, or badly acted or unnecessary would happen and he'd nudge her, eyes bright and crinkled at the corners, already grinning, waiting for her reaction.
Her watch beeped loudly and she blinked. Her cheeks were wet.
Well.
Doctor Selgood would have a field day with this.
-
6.45.
Considering she'd arrived at work around five hours ago the amount of work she'd completed was abysmal. It could slide today, given the circumstances. She'd meant to do the budgeting today anyway and under normal circumstances she would have been at work in about 15 minutes…technically she was ahead. Probably the best way to look at it. Right.
She was purposefully avoiding any trains of thought that could lead to Bradley, the logistical nightmare that was his entirely miraculous survival already giving her a headache. The horrible sense of deja vu made any attempts to bury herself in work near impossible. It all bore an almost ridiculous resemblance to eleven years ago.
Whether to haggle with 3 over flight training funding. Had he been happy, those years in beauteous, calm, 'free from serious crime since 1951' little mountain side? Whether it would be more prudent to refer the coding and cyber heads to Dr. Selgood or leave them to work their own issues out - monitor, see how it's affecting output. How to explain that his past could be returned to him, even in some small capacity, but only at the cost of his future. Find Hal an assistant he wouldn't fire after two weeks. How to explain his life wasn't safe anymore, and it wouldn't be, the simple fact that a particularly clever thirteen year old had been looking for mushrooms meant Mo's life, his quiet, and small, and safe life couldn't be his anymore - not for a long while at least. Prepare a base structure for the annual report to head office. Figure out accomodation for duty agents moving across states. Where to prepare for him to stay, who to trust with his existence, his location, his protection.
Whether there was any way for him to not resent her now.
A sharp pain lanced behind her eyes and she winced. Opened the left desk drawer and took out two more aspirin. Washed down with green tea. Deep breath. She wasn't thinking about any of that.
What LB was instead, was entirely focused on the brief that Agent Flint had sent ahead, detailing the staffing capabilities of sectors 5 through 9 of the remote tracking division, and how, by only cutting two key workers' hours in half, he could have an assistant. Something had to be said for the blind and unfounded confidence of the man. Nothing good, but still. Something. She'd just decided to have Buzz send him a message instead, when there was a knock at the door. She would say this for Agent Flint; at least he was punctual. Early, even. She cleared her throat.
"Enter."
The door swung open. Backlit against the doorway, as immaculately dressed as ever, stood Hitch. He took a deep breath.
"So -"
" Come in and close the door."
He levelled her with a cold glare but did as she said, as keenly aware as she of the devastation the slightest indiscretion could wreak.
He shut the door hard.
She'd expected him to start whatever tirade he'd clearly been stewing over all night as soon as the door was shut. Instead, Hitch stayed quite still, hand flat against the door and back turned to her. His breathing was uneven. She watched the rise and fall of his shoulders. The silence was thick. Oppressive. Time stretched on. LB watched him for some seconds then turned to her watch, sending a note to Buzz to cancel Flint's meeting.
"So you killed him th- are you.."
Hitch had finished sulking apparently. LB looked up. He'd turned back from the door and was staring at her disbelievingly.
"Are you honestly working right now?" His mouth was pulled into a disdainful scowl. It didn't suit him.
"Not currently, no."
He scoffed. Looked pointedly at her wrist.
"I have a meeting in -" LB looked at the watch, "right now, actually."
"Are you…actually, " Hitch seemed to be struggling to get the words out. "actually, dismissing me?"
"No." She held up her wrist. "I cancelled it. Sit."
"Prefer to stand actually."
It was so petulant. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Just. Instead, she made the universally acknowledged 'suit yourself' gesture, and, when Hitch just continued to glare accusingly, sighed and leaned forward on her elbows.
"Yes, I did, for all intents and purposes, kill him. You heard some of the story in the cafe last night, do you have any further questions?"
He scoffed again. "You seem awfully blasé about the whole thing"
Her eyes sharpened. "Just because I'm not throwing a tantrum -"
"He was my friend too! Just because you happened to be fucking " he spat that word, like it offended him, "does not give you the right to keep that from me."
Her mouth tasted like metal. She swallowed, heartbeat heavy in her throat. Maybe she was going to throw up. Her vision blurred.
Hitch stepped back slightly. She blinked and her eyes refocused. Her glasses had fogged up. She pushed them up to rest in her hair and massaged the bridge of her nose. She'd been staring at his jugular. The realisation almost made her laugh. If she had the energy to feel the weight of his reaction, it would have hurt.
As it was, she sank back into the chair, let her features even back out. Raised an eyebrow.
Hitch sighed heavily and pushed off the wall, striding over to the chair opposite and slumping down, still glaring. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, LB felt a surge of vindication that she'd been right about how he'd react. How they'd all react. Eleven years of nightmares had been accurate. It was a hollow victory.
"You killed him."
"Yes."
His mouth twisted unpleasantly again, seeming discontented with how quickly she'd replied.
She tilted her head quizzically. "Do you want me to cry?"
His eyes flickered. Ah.
"I'd like some - any indication that what happened last night was real. You -" he broke off. Took a deep breath.
"You don't…you don't react. Ever. You didn't blink twice when you saw him yesterday. Just started talking as if nothing had happened. You were discussing the mechanics of the escape watch when we left for god's sake." He paused to take a shuddery breath. Looked at her pleadingly. "Even when he di- …even after his plane crashed. You arrived for work the next day. You changed overnight and you refused to acknowledge what had happened. You wouldn't talk to me- I wanted to help you!"
She snorted. It was involuntary and undignified and obviously unappreciated by Hitch whose eyes hardened but it was just so ridiculous.
"I didn't react?" She couldn't help it, even to her own ears she sounded incredulous. "What do you think all this is?" she gestured broadly, at her clothes, at her office, the blank white that encroached everything in her life.
He looked around at the empty white walls then back at her. "You never cried."
She looked at him blankly. It was too ridiculous. "Of course I did. Doctor Mathews had me on an IV drip for close to 2 years because I'd get too dehydrated."
His face fell. The steadfast belief in her callousness made her head hurt. Her pain would be more justified, she supposed, grudgingly, if she hadn't spent close to twelve years trying to convince everyone of its absence.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, aware the conversation was in no way over, yet neither willing to be the first to break. Finally, something seemed to occur to Hitch.
"Your name is Loveday?"
Another frequently recurring nightmare. Thankfully, one she was rather better prepared for. Judging by the anticipatory grin starting to break open on Hitch's face, he knew too. She rolled her eyes so as to not smile. She knew her part.
"Alright, Art-Hitchen Zachary, I see you never learned about people in glass houses."
"What'd that old proverb say again? Fuck in the outhouse lest the windows get fogged up?"
LB sighed, looking up to the ceiling. To admire the architecture. No tears were threatening to fall. Crying like a child about a dead fiance was inconvenient but to cry at some shitty joke Hitch deemed clever was a step too far.
She shook her head and straightened out, clearing her throat, "That's the one, yeah."
"Don't really see the relevance." He shrugged then tilted his head, face the very picture of caring concern, "I fear you may be losing your touch."
That was the last straw. "You are not pouting in my office."
His eyebrows drew up. "Pouting?"
"That" she waved a hand at his head, "face you do that is seemingly irresistible to service workers and helicopter pilots, I will not stand for it you look like an entitled puppy begging for treats."
"I'd make an excellent puppy."
"You'd make a fat puppy considering how effective that face seems to be."
Hitch snorted, dropping his gaze, indulging in the smile he was allowing himself.
He opened his mouth as if to speak, met her gaze and dropped his hands, palms up on the desk, grinning. Grabbed her hand and held it tight.
"He's alive." The words broke into a laugh.
She did nothing. Tried to remember the last time someone had held her hand. If they did it to assist a taekwondo takedown it probably didn't count.
"He's alive." He shook her hand, still held limply in his.
His palm was warm and dry. She could feel the raised bumps clustered around his fingers, faint callouses from years of fighting. Met his warm, honey-brown eyes and felt the beginnings of a smile she knew she couldn't tamp down. She didn't try.
The air stilled for a second, then she let out a breathless laugh, raising her unheld hand to hide the way her face twisted. Looked back at Hitch, whose smile had graduated into a full blown grin. His cheeks had dimpled.
He's alive, she tried to say, but the words died in her throat, a low choked off sound replacing them. She squeezed Hitch's hand.
The assurance came at once.
"He's alive."
LB just nodded in response. Her voice still wasn't cooperating and his face had become suspiciously blurry.
Hitch was still grinning.
-
After she shoo'd Hitch from her office, the next two meetings passed in a blur.
All too soon it was coming up on 3.
Hitch had been happy enough to help after seeing her tears, a fact she hadn't yet decided how she felt about. Amused outrage perhaps. Regardless, he had talked to Dr Harper, who had sent him back with a demand she take the rest of the day off, and preferably make use of the sleeping aid sent along with the note.
She pocketed the note, slipping the sleeping aid into the bathroom cabinet. It was sure to see use sometime soon.
It felt odd, leaving her office while it was still light out. Hitch's office door was ajar and her resolve almost crumbled as she walked past. Surely he could do a better job of this than she could. He, at least, wasn't at risk of breaking down into sobs or professing undying love mid-sentence. Hopefully.
The sun was already low in the sky by the time LB left, bright white beams of light piercing the windshield as she drove. She would be a little early, judging by the open roads. The thought of waiting by the bench, desperately watching for Bradley, made her stomach turn. She eyed the turning that would lead to the agreed meeting place. Turned the opposite way. Circled the block. Twice.
She drove up to the street corner at 3 o’ clock on the dot.
The purr of the engine as the car turned in made Bradley look up. He checked his watch and stood, regarding the car, trying to see through the windshield - a fruitless endeavour, the glass was cleverly tinted and mirrored, then raised an arm in greeting as the car pulled up.
LB reached across the passenger seat and pushed open the door.
“Have you been hailing every car coming down this street?”
He grinned, cheeks tinged red with cold.
“Didn't have to. Figured you'd be the type to be ridiculously punctual.”
She tilted her head in acknowledgement, trying to ignore the way her chest suddenly felt too tight.
“And, who else do I know that has a freakishly high tech-car? What else does this thing do? I'm scared to ask, considering what you lot have done to watches…can this thing fly?” He fixed her with a conspiratorial look, looking up from under his eyelashes. “You can tell me.”
She held his gaze until his eyes were sparkling with laughter then raised an eyebrow, “freakishly high-tech?”
“Oh, are windows that heavily tinted are legal now? I'll have to tell Sven he’ll be elated.”
“There's nothing illegal about my windows.”
He crossed his arms and she rolled her eyes, “Or my retractable tyre spikes.” she conceded.
His eyes lit up, delighted, looking seconds away from dropping down to explore the tyres. Mildly alarmed, LB motioned for him to get in. He looked up at her, then gestured, in wordless confusion, to the bench where two takeaway coffee cups sat.
“Safety precautions.”
“Seems a bit extreme, no? What's going to happen on a bench?”
There was a long pause.
“..you're not going to like the rest of this conversation.”
He shrugged, wandering over to the bench to retrieve the coffee.
“Sounds ominous.” He commented, passing the cups over to her as he clambered into the passenger seat. “One of those is yours, I think the one with pen on the lid is black, the others milky and oversugared so...” He fiddled with the seatbelt, avoiding her gaze, “I didn't know how you liked it so I went for the two extremes. I panicked. Slightly.”
His seatbelt clicked into place. “How do you take it? For future reference.”
‘Bitter and strong.’
“Caffeinated.” she replied, passing back his black coffee and taking a swig of the sugary monstrosity.
Bradley sipped at his coffee, looking quietly pleased.
“i think I overdid it on the sugar, I don't take it so I don't really have a good eye...sure you don't mind?” he asked, as the car purred to life.
‘I’d drink bleach if you handed it to me’
“No.” She replied, swinging the car back onto the main road.
He settled into the seat, angling himself towards her. “So. Tyre spikes.”
She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “Not as exciting as you think, no spinning boudicca blades, just snow spikes.”
This did not seem to dampen his enthusiasm. He peered through the window, trying to catch a good look at the spinning tyres.
“And are these not-at-all-exciting tires driving us any place in particular?”
“Just driving. Like I said, car’s safer” She glanced over at him, lit up by the pale winter sun, absently tracing the rim of the flimsy paper cup in his lap. He was real. He was real and sitting next to her. She felt sick. She felt giddy. She sort of felt like she wanted to die, right now, so this could be the last thing she'd ever see. This wasn't going to get easier.
She cleared her throat and stared fixedly at the road ahead.
“Regretfully, your…continued existence,” She cringed inwardly. “Becoming known to us places you in rather significant danger. There is a double agent somewhere within our organisation and it would only take one case of misplaced trust or an intercepted message for there to be a serious and immediate threat to your life.” She chanced a glance at him. He was watching her steadily, absorbing it all unblinkingly. Thankfully not yet looking seconds away from leaping out of the car. Yet. She glanced at him again and swallowed.
“To mitigate this we..find it necessary to implement safety procedures that your current living situation cannot accommodate.”
His gaze held steady, even as he fought a smile, looking like he was trying very hard not to laugh at her.
“Do you always revert to corporate speak when you're nervous?”
“Depends, do you always deflect uncomfortable topics with deductions about a person's psyche?”
“Yes. Your turn.”
“No. I'm just like this.”
“Found your double agent then. She looks a lot like you, met her yesterday.” he grinned. “We had muffins.”
She sighed heavily and turned to look at him properly. “You can't stay in little mountain side.”
He pouted. “Not even if I get a burglar alarm?”
LB glared at him then turned back to the road.
“What if I make all visitors pinky promise they won't assassinate me before they come in.”
“No.”
“You sure? Seems foolproof.”
“Snipers don't function under the same rules as vampires.”
“Mores the pity. What if.. I call you hourly to confirm my alive-ness?”
“Not at all suspicious to anyone taking an interest I'm sure.”
He grinned and seemed to cede the game.
“What are these ‘safety measures’ that are going to be accommodated for outside of little mountain side then?”
“Anonymity. Round the clock surveillance. State of the art security system. Fully trained agent around at all times -”
“You?”
“..What? No. No, it would be…” she trailed off. The amount of people in her own organisation that she did not, could not trust suddenly made her feel sick. “...someone else.” She finished lamely. “Hitch.” She added, absentmindedly.
“Hm. Pity.”
Her breath stuttered in her chest even as she eyed him suspiciously. Bradley, for his part, grinned beautifically and seemed resolute in saying nothing more.
“Well…regardless, the most crucial thing is, if we are to even attempt to provide you with treatment for your amnesia we cannot do so in little mountain side. The sheer amount of classified medical equipment making its way to some random mountain town would be impossible to cover. That's not even accounting for the number of higher level agents finding their way to the same location.”
“So where am I being moved to? Wouldn't the same problems rule out a safehouse?”
She hummed her ascension. “Less, but you're right. Not ideal.” She took a deep breath, still less than pleased with the solution devised. “The Redforts' home has a guest apartment. Hitch lives on the premises. There's any number of reasons Spectrum staff would be visiting her house. If you are amenable, that is our solution.”
“And her parents?”
“Delightful individuals, by all accounts. Their daughters intellect decidedly skipped a generation.”
“So we're lying.”
“You're Hitch's long lost cousin.”
“Naturally.”
They lapsed into silence. It gave LB time to think and come to the conclusion that the knock on the head may have robbed him of all survival instinct. She really didn't want to say anything. This was the best outcome she could have asked for. She would leave it alone, she could, definitely -
“Just like that?”
He shrugged loosely, head lolling to the side to look at her. “I like living.”
She felt sick. The urge to ask forgiveness, beg absolution, was like a live thing, clawing out from inside her chest, tearing at her throat. She would choke on it.
She looked at him out of the corner of her eye again, the lines on his face that hadn't been there when she'd last seen him, the way the dying sun haloed his hair, how different he looked with a beard, how his smile, half obscured by the scruff, was unchanged.
“You're very trusting.”
“You're very trustworthy.”
His eyes were soft, the words warm and amused and maybe the ‘crash the car so this moment doesn't end’ plan wasn't so bad, actually.
She cleared her throat, “well, seeing as you're so trusting you'll uproot your life this went significantly quicker than I'd planned, can I give you a lift back to little mountain side?”
“Oh, no, you can give me a lift back and explain to Sven why I'm missing Poker night. You know,” he turned to look at her, face deadly serious, “seeing as you're uprooting my entire life and all.” He shook his head solemnly. “Least you could do really.”
Her cheeks were sore and she realised, belatedly, that she was grinning. The thrum of her pulse where the band of the watch met her wrist was rapid and LB focused on it, willed it to match her deliberate breaths. This was fine. It was. Slow, steady breaths.
A sharp snap jolted her out of her reverie and she turned to look at Bradley, who was pointing a finger at her and grinning brightly.
“20 questions!”
“Excuse me?”
“Might as well get a head start on this amnesia, get to know each other.” He waved his hand, he’d snapped his fingers, LB realised belatedly, and settled back into his seat, head still turned to her. “Simple game. You ask me a question, any subject you like, and I have to answer, then I ask you a question and you have to answer.” He paused theatrically. “- Then you ask me a question, which I then answer, after which I-”
LB sighed heavily, staring resolutely at the road ahead while Bradley chuckled to himself. He took a deep breath, ready to continue his explanation. Not happening.
“Once the game starts you have to stop explaining the rules so...what's your favourite garden herb?”
He gave a startled laugh, “Mint. I keep a pot on the windowsill in the kitchen. Chew it when I cook.” He laughed again, “that's a good opening question, I'll have to steal it.”
She shrugged. “Go ahead.” Her voice seemed distant through the overwhelming headrush of relief that something was still known to her, that the little plant on her windowsill she'd religiously kept alive meant something.
“ What's your favourite garden herb.”
“Well now you're just cheating. I'm not answering that.”
He turned to her, affronted. “ You said I could steal the question!”
“For any future games. Repeat questions aren't valid.” She glanced at his fond smile and her chest hurt. “Obviously.” She added haughtily.
Bradley laughed again “I wasn't aware 20 questions had such strict rules.”
“Oh it does. I'll give you a second chance I suppose. This once.”
“Aren't you generous. Hmm..” He considered her, head tilted to the side. “..What's your favourite colour?”
LB scoffed. “How original. Amber.”
Bradley's smile widened.
“What?”
He shook his head, looking very pleased with himself. “Knew it wasn't red.”
Hm.
She looked down at her nails. She would indulge his preening. “How astute.”
The landscape blurred outside the window as the sun sunk behind the mountains.