a_regular_bitch

Lisbeth admits easily enough that the Christmas season is difficult for her, in a variety of ways. She's never really known what it's like to spend the holiday with family or friends, and it reminds her of so many things-- of her mother, hopeful and dreading a visit from him, of seeing the reflection of brightly colored lights on the ceiling as she's strapped to a table, of nearly losing Palmgren and what had followed. And then, of course, of an idiot she'd thought herself in love with, and presumed heartbreak.

She supposes that she must have suffered from it longer in Stockholm, maybe even left the city, but that's a different Lisbeth.

The Lisbeth she is know had plunged into this strange world and had it almost immediately proven to her that while Blomkvist was a needed first step, his attention and care wasn't love at all. She had met Sam, and not only was she suddenly not alone, they had fit together so well she can almost believe in things like fate.

One of the ways they fit together is that holidays in general have been something to dread or suffer through, having had little reason to enjoy them in the first place. They try, though, and that's been more than enough.

It's early afternoon on Christmas Eve, and Sam will be home soon enough. She's been out shopping, and then fussing with what she feels to be an impressive amount of lights hung and twirled through the apartment at the last minute, enough so that between the tree and the twinkly bulbs everywhere, she doesn't need any lamps, even as it gets dark. It's maybe silly, but she has approximately one decent memory, from back before her mother was gone and before Camilla hated her-- they'd gone to some place, normally a garden, but done up with lights everywhere, even strung overhead on arches and netting.

"He'll be home soon," she tells the dogs, and after a few minutes, she curls up on the couch, much like she had so soon after arriving in Darrow-- only this time it's one of Sam's flannels that she uses as a blanket. Intending to just watch the lights for a while, she only fights sleep a little, and then stops, letting herself doze happily enough while she waits.

If Lisbeth Salander is to be honest, she would have put her odds in staying in her assigned apartments at something approaching zero. What kind of idiot does that, just stays where she's been put? Not her.

But here she is, tucked away and half-hidden from view of the front door and window in the little nest of pillows on the floor at one end of the couch, her laptop on a tray in front of her. She could make a half-dozen arguments about not immediately alerting whoever controls this place to her non-compliance, or about squatting somewhere during the winter, or monitoring the building, but they lack honesty.

The reasons she's here have everything to do with the effects of slow change, and are neatly wrapped up in one person many floors above.

She calls herself an idiot for the eighth time that day, and focuses on her screen, where her lazy tour of traffic cameras and anything else not properly secured, has caught something. The camera in question wouldn't be picked up typically, except that her own code, the numbers and letters and patterns she's using to trawl the city, have caught on it in some strange bit of overlap. Not impossible, but improbable. If she didn't know better, she'd think it must belong to Hacker Republic, at the least; it's something to check out tomorrow when there's light.

At the sound of someone outside her door, she leans around the couch, not entirely aware of the hopeful beginnings of a smile.