The Girl Who Walked on Thinnest Ice

Blomkvist has a story. Salander has a grudge. Everyone has secrets.

Disclaimer: The Millennium Trilogy and its characters belong to the late Stieg Larsson. I make no money from this.

Thanks to my beta, IndigoAssassin. For more information about my fanfiction, you can find me on Tumblr under crazyforkate.

Prologue

Contrary to popular myth, the Arctic lemming does not commit mass suicide. However, the animal's path of migration, which may cross large bodies of water, is often fatal.

29 April 2006

Inuvik, Northwest Territories

A storm was coming.

From his desk, he watched flurries of snow whirl against the window. They were light at the moment, but would inevitably pick up as the wind grew stronger. It was a pity. He had hoped for a few warm days – they were not unheard of at this time of year – but evidently it was not to be.

Soon enough, he knew, the cold and darkness would end, although tonight it was difficult to believe. Winter's grip dominated the region every year for months on end, leaving the local population entirely dependent on its whims. That was the price one paid, he mused, for trying to live and prosper where no man should.

It didn't make for an easy existence.

For the thousandth time, he wondered if he had made the right decision.

It was not a question he usually had to ask. By nature he was cautious. Despite his ruthless reputation – one he had earned, he hastened to say – he never acted without knowing every aspect of the situation, and every possible risk his decisions carried. After that, success was absurdly easy. It was one of the many secrets that had propelled him to wealth and power. The others weren't nearly as neat and tidy, of course, nor should they necessarily be passed on as wisdom, but they had been equally efficient in their own way. He did not regret his actions. Throughout the years, he had always been prepared to live with the consequences.

Tonight, however, the outcome had been entirely removed from his control. He could only sit at his desk and wait - for the sun to come out, for the snow to melt, for this impossibly foolish decision to come to fruition. In the end, it was all the same.

Over fifty years had passed since he began his working life. Only now, at a point when he could slide into a comfortable retirement, had he chosen to strike a new path. The humour was not lost on him. He had become every cliché of the feeble old man clinging to a last chance at glory.

And after tonight, his life would change forever, whether he succeeded or not.

The man drummed his fingers against the desk. Again, he glanced out the window.

He waited for the knock.

He wondered what the future would bring.

Stockholm

Pleasure and pain, Lisbeth Salander thought, were separated by a very thin line. Sated as she was, Blomkvist's elbow was digging into her hip, and her knees had been wedged into a most uncomfortable position. His feet dangled over the armrest. The couch was really too small for both of them, yet in a hasty moment it proved quite adequate for their purposes. Propped up on his elbows, Blomkvist leaned over her, a satisfied smile on his face.

"Happy birthday," he said.

She reached out and grabbed her Palm from the floor, knocking over the empty wine bottle. It was half past two.

"Technically, it's not for another hour," she said.

"Don't you think that's a little pedantic?"

Salander ignored the comment. She supposed it didn't really matter, but she had never been one to ignore the details – especially the few that she could wrangle from her patchy history.

Twenty-eight years old. Even if it wasn't a milestone, the fact still astonished her. It was the first birthday she would celebrate without fear of where she might be for the next - and she had chosen to spend it with Kalle Blomkvist. It defied explanation.

Still, when he was with her, it didn't seem like a mistake. He was loyal as a friend and exciting as a lover, and though she was always on the lookout, he had not yet given her reason to doubt him. Maybe one of these days she could stop wondering if the bullet in her brain had clouded her judgment.

She felt his thumb over the spot where the tattoo had been. Twice he had mentioned that he missed it. Both times she had stopped short of telling him to get one himself, if he liked it so much.

"Why Wasp?"

"Sorry?"

"Your - Internet name." His hand moved downward. "Whatever you call it. Why did you pick Wasp?"

He had ventured into uncomfortable territory. She lay there in silence, hoping that he would get the hint. When he continued to stare at her expectantly, she sat up and brought her lips to his. It worked; soon enough, they were both distracted.

Salander did not choose her lovers on a casual basis – sex, yes, but never the people she shared it with. It was not a decision to be made lightly. She had walked into this with open eyes.

This time, there would be no unnecessary attachment.

"Up for another?" she asked.

Blomkvist grinned. "I thought you might say that."

Grabbing onto the back of the couch, he tried to move up without disturbing her. She put out her hand to stop him.

"No. On your back."

He sank onto the armrest. She took off her shirt – in their hurry, neither of them had managed to completely undress – and climbed on top of him. For the second time that night, she allowed herself to be taken.

On this birthday, a night of change, it occurred to her that she was moving forward. Tonight they had crossed a barrier, though not the one she dreaded; rather than a recreational amusement, somewhere along the line the act had become an expression of unity. It was not love, exactly – she couldn't quite describe the feeling – but at that moment, she realized that she wouldn't want to be anywhere else.

Penetrated, claimed, with his hands on her breasts and his eyes locked with hers, Lisbeth suddenly had the distinct impression that her life was about to turn a corner.

As it turned out, she was right.