Chapter Text
Friday 6:32 PM
As a wedding planner, Sansa rarely works in the office this late especially on Fridays but there’s paperwork to see to today. Taxes. Bleh. How very unromantic.
Nevertheless, she’s here and doing it because she loves her little company - Lemoncakes & Lovers, where your Happily Ever After starts.
She’s already bid her three employees goodnight over an hour ago and there are no weddings for her to attend this weekend (for once). She’ll have a weekend free to enjoy whatever she wishes. Alone.
Sighing quietly at that thought, she hears some noise from the office space next to hers. A file cabinet slamming shut and the muffled sound of a phone ringing. He’s still here this late? Well, she supposes Heralds of Doom prefer long hours.
Jon Snow, Attorney at Law.
But more specifically, he’s a divorce attorney.
Jon Snow who, when she’d been moving into her office space three months ago after working out of her home for over a year, had scoffed at her newly (and beautifully) painted sign on the lobby window advertising her services.
“I should probably add something to our sign for the future benefit of our new neighbor’s customers. ‘This is where you go when the Happily Ever After flops.’”
No, he hadn’t realized when he’d said it that she’d been standing right behind him and of course not everyone loves weddings like Sansa.
His partner, the very sweet Samwell Tarly and source of any building intel she’s accrued, had noticed her though and elbowed him in the ribs before turning to introduce themselves to their new neighbor on the fourteenth floor.
Mr. Snow, for his part, had looked away with a pained grimace the moment their eyes had met. He’d endured the introductions before muttering, ‘Good luck in your endeavor, Ms. Stark,’ and striding away.
She’s seen him walking past her window and giving it more than one sour glance since that day so she’s avoided Mr. Not-So-Sunny Snow and hopes none of the couples she arranges weddings for will ever have need of his services.
Oh, she’s no fool. She understands how these things go and is aware of the divorce rate. But Sansa hopes. Sometimes, that’s all we can do.
And no, she’s not been able to avoid him completely by any means. They often ride the elevator together on the mornings that she’s in the office.
Anytime they do ride together though, he’s always so tense. Their words are stilted and few, hers because Sansa has never known how to handle someone who apparently doesn’t like her and his because…well, clearly he doesn’t like her or her profession.
So, it really shouldn’t matter that she objectively finds Jon Snow handsome, should it? That’s just silliness on her part, probably part of her deep-seated desire to be liked by everyone. He’s obviously just a crusty, bitter old man in a younger man’s body (a rather cut body judging by those times they’d shared the elevator when he’d been on his way to the gym.)
Regardless, if Jon Snow enjoys spending his Friday nights watching wedded unions fall to pieces, that’s none of her business. She wouldn’t know what he enjoys and doubts she ever will.
7:18 PM
Jon lays his glasses aside to rub his tired eyes. The words in this brief are running together and he should probably call it a night but, with so few of his cases actually going to court anymore (it’s all usually procedural paperwork to file at most), he wants to be on top of everything come Monday. He hopes to win Walda every last dime she’s got coming her way from Mr. Bolton.
He hears the cleaning crew vacuuming down the hall and knows he should shove off since they’ll soon be done as well. But when you’ve got nothing but an empty flat and frozen dinner to go home to on a Friday night? He sighs and puts his glasses back on.
Ten minutes later, he hears a low thump through the wall and his ears perk up. That was next door, wasn’t it? Next door where Ms. Stark’s office is.
Surely, it’s not her. Probably just the cleaning crew. She gets here early like him but she’s usually out by 2PM, likely weighing the merits of various nuptial venues or approving iced confections. Her job requires much less time in the office which is fine…and also a shame.
What’s more of a shame is you and poor first impressions though. He does seem to make those more often than he would like.
He hadn’t meant to insult her at all and certainly not before they’d even met. His bitterness with regards to the business of matrimony has nothing to do with her and he didn’t make his statement with the intent of dashing anyone else’s enthusiasm. I’m just awkward that way.
And when he’d turned around and seen her standing there? Not only did he feel like a heel but, damn, she was beautiful. He wishes he could’ve seen her eyes when they were likely bright with pride and pleasure at the sight of her new sign.
But instead, her eyes had been narrowed having caught his flippant remark. At that point, he’d withdrawn into himself (his favorite defense mechanism) and since then it’s plain she’d rather avoid him whenever possible so he gives her her space and nurses his regrets in silence.
He rises from his desk at the sound of another thump and draws closer to their shared wall. The air unit’s duct work connects their two office spaces and he can sometimes catch snatches of conversation when she’s meeting with a client, her sunny-sweet voice filtering through to seep into his bones.
She wouldn’t be meeting someone this late, would she? Well, she could be. People work and maybe can’t meet with a wedding planner during the usual business hours and he supposes her line of work already requires some flexibility when it comes to one’s hours.
He catches just a muffled word or two. It sounds like ‘love you.’ It is her. And of course, she loves someone. Sansa Stark would certainly love someone and whoever that lucky person is would obviously love her back. He hopes he never sees her sitting opposite him in this office or in divorce court.
A file cabinet closes next door and he hears the faint click of her heels. She’s leaving. He glances at the clock. He should really leave, too. He’s done all he can here tonight.
Besides, the building’s parking garage doesn’t give off the safest of vibes at any time of day and certainly not after dark. If he can catch the elevator with her, he can at least feel some measure of comfort knowing she made it safely to her vehicle.
And I can ride down with her.
He doesn’t care for riding elevators. In fact, he hates them. He would take the stairs but it’s a lot of floors and his pride feels pricked to admit he’s afraid of riding the contraption like normal people do.
At least if someone’s with me and we fall, I won’t die alone.
Yes, he’s a regular ray of sunshine.
7:36 PM
Sansa locks the main door to her office and peers down the silent, partially darkened hallway towards the elevator. Then, she looks the other way towards the law firm where Jon Snow works. Through their glass lobby windows, she can see it’s utterly dark in there so he’s likely left by now.
She’s never been here so late. She’d seen Pia with her mop just a little bit ago she’d swear but the whole crew appears to be done and gone.
An unwelcome shiver chases down her spine but it’s just an office building. Security’s still downstairs, right?
Or are they? It’s late on a Friday and this building doesn’t keep a night watchman to her knowledge.
She chides herself and those abysmal taxes for delaying her but determines to cast away her fears, stepping out with the click-clack of her heels to keep her company upon the marble floor. Her parents know she’s leaving work, that she’ll be coming to visit them tomorrow. She’s fine. She’s not afraid of a dark hallway or a parking garage. But to be smart, she pulls her phone back out of her purse.
It’s a long hallway and it seems to stretch eerily onward tonight but she’s fine. She’s here alone.
Wait…
She’s not here alone.
There’s the unmistakable sound of someone closing a door and walking down the hall behind her, several paces back but not too far back. Someone who sounds like a man from the echoes of their footfalls.
Just one of the guys on the cleaning crew. Turn around and wave.
But fear renders her hesitant to, a sickening dread of discovering something undesired and dangerous.
If it’s one of the guys on the crew, they’ll speak. She knows all their names and they’re always friendly with her.
No one speaks.
She picks up her pace a touch. She’s got long legs though she’s cursing her heels. She should’ve changed into the running shoes she keeps on hand if needed. No matter. She’s pretty quick.
But the footsteps behind her speed up to match her new pace.
Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods.
She reaches the elevator on the verge of hyperventilating. She hurriedly presses the button but how long will it take to get here? Not soon enough. She glances at her phone but what's she supposed to do? Call Emergency because someone is in the same hallway? That would sound ludicrous, wouldn't it? Maybe she should dart into the stairwell instead? Does she have any chance of outrunning this stranger if necessary? Why didn’t she take up kickboxing when Arya had asked if she wanted to join her? Why did she scoff at Robb’s pepper spray keychain he’d bought her when she moved out?
The familiar rumble of the elevator drawing nearer sends her fight and flight reflexes into overdrive. What if he gets on with her and then tries something? She’ll be trapped! There’s video cameras but, with no one manning them, what will that matter?
Weighing the wisdom of taking off one of her heels to wield as a weapon, she yelps when the elevator dings.
“Hold the door!” a gruff voice calls.
She spins at that sound and knows she must look a vision of terror when she spies…Jon Snow?
“Gods, it’s just you,” she huffs with more venom than intended.
He strides up next to her with his satchel over his shoulder. “Yeah…sorry to disappoint.”
His loosened necktie is the only nod to the late hour and why must he be so attractive when he dislikes her so?
She steps onto the elevator with him following, punches the button for G3 and realizes it would only be courteous to explain her tone from a few seconds ago. “Sorry. I heard someone behind me and it was dark. I guess I started to freak out a bit.” His eyebrows shoot upward. Now, he probably thinks she’s a paranoid scaredy-cat. “What floor?”
“Same. G3. And I’m sorry if I gave you a scare, Ms. Stark. I didn’t mean to.”
“Sansa,” she says as the elevator doors close. “You can call me Sansa…if you want.” A completely unnecessary addition. He knows her first name but has chosen to call her Ms. Stark. It’s not like they’re friends or even business associates. In fact, they’re on the exact opposite side of their business in a sense.
“Right. Sansa. I remember your name.”
The elevator starts to descend and he’s glaring at the lighted floor buttons above the doors like he hates being here so much. He doesn’t encourage her to call him Jon either. It’s going to be a loooong elevator ride.
But secretly, she’s glad he’s going to the same level of the garage if nothing else. That place gives her the creeps sometimes and, while Jon doesn’t put her at ease with his demeanor, he doesn’t frighten her either. She’s known a few creeps and he’s not like them.
Just zone out until you reach the garage. Everyone does that in the elevator, don’t they? Zone out, get to your car and drive home. You don’t have to see him again until Monday at the very soonest and this whole embarrassing business of you freaking out can blow over.
Somewhere between ten and nine though, he clears his throat and drags her from of her zoning out. “Your name…it’s pretty.”
She blinks, her head whipping his way again. Did she just get a compliment? She’ll take it as one. “Thanks…Jon.”
He’s still staring at those lighted numbers above but she sees his lips quirking into a reluctant grin at the way she sort of sing-songed his name, a little grin he can’t quite suppress. It’s a fetching grin, a very fetching grin.
Something kind of warm and fluttery attacks her better senses and she finds herself wanting to chat with him. Probably a horrible idea. Just because he says her name is pretty doesn’t mean he likes her at all. Still, she can’t resist turning towards him as they continue their descent, somewhere between five and four.
His head has just swiveled to meet her gaze when it happens - a horrendous, jolting shudder as the elevator comes to an abrupt halt!
7:41 PM
He reaches out for her and the wall both out of instinct with the jolt. He feels her hand closing around his wrist as the lights flicker off but they stay on their feet. She’d given a little screech and he’d bitten his tongue to strangle his own.
Did the power go out? Or is the elevator acting up? The cable about to snap and them about to plunge to their deaths?
“It’s alright, it’s alright,” he’s muttering though it’s for himself as much as her.
A loud buzzing sound like an alarm is followed by something metallic hitting the concrete pad several floors below them. What is happening?
We’re going to die, that’s what.
“Fuck, fuck.”
He hates elevators! Why didn’t he just start taking the stairs? He’s in shape. He’s never getting on one of these again.
You say as if you’re going to survive. It’s eight stories to the lowest level of the parking garage.
All those primal fears from childhood come sweeping over him; the fear of darkness, the fear of being trapped in this little box hanging by a thread, of falling to his death. They’re twisted up with the memories of when he’d ride the elevator up to his father’s office, the smell of cloying cologne making the knot in his stomach that much worse and the stupid love songs spouting their lies playing over the speaker.
“Jon?”
“It’s alright, it’s alright,” he’s goes back to saying, wishing it were so.
But nothing’s alright. They’re trapped. They’ll die here. The building’s deserted on a Friday night and no one will know-
“It is alright, Jon. We’re going to be alright,” he hears her say softly through his panic and her hand slips into his, squeezing in a reassuring way. “It’s just a mechanical malfunction.”
“Shit, shit, shit.” He hates being afraid like this. He hates that she’s seeing him this afraid.
“I’m sure it’s nothing bad. We’ve not moved since the initial jolt. We’re okay.”
Then, as if in answer to her optimism, the emergency light comes on, a weak, yellow light but enough to cast away the darkness and banish a fraction of his terror.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
She’s a little shaky like he feels but she lets go of his hand before pushing the elevator emergency call button. Who will answer? He doesn’t know. When will they answer? He doesn’t know that either.
“Phones,” he manages to suggest.
“Oh right.”
He digs into his pocket. Hers is in her hand. Thank gods for cell phones. They’ll be fine.
“I’m not…I don’t have a signal.”
“Neither do I.”
They’re in the interior of this old building where reception can get spotty. So much for fucking cell phones.
He opens the door to the elevator's emergency phone. It's missing. "That's a lawsuit in the making." He is an attorney.
“I think we might be stuck here for a bit,” she says as calmly as she can manage and he admires that. Wishes he could be so calm…or at least fake it a little.
“I don’t like elevators,” he mutters.
“I’m not too fond of them either at the moment.”
Involuntarily, he smiles at that. She’s managed to make him smile, the wedding planner with the undoubtedly sunny outlook on life. “Sorry you’re stuck here with me.”
“Better than alone.” Gods, she’s right. He doesn’t know what he’d do if he was alone but he doesn’t think he’d be managing it well. She slides to the floor and slips her heels off. “May as well get comfortable.”
“Comfortable…yeah.”
He does the same as her, setting down his satchel before sliding down the opposite wall.
He’s stuck on an elevator with the beautiful woman who doesn’t like him. He’s barely holding panic at bay. He’s anything but comfortable right now but at least they’re together.