|So I Met Alec Track
Author: KiplingKat PM
In response to a fanfic challenge: What would happen if I met Dr. Alec Track of "The Golden Hour"?Rated: Fiction T - English - Romance/Drama - Chapters: 7 - Words: 12,568 - Reviews: 4 - Favs: 3 - Published: 07-20-10 - Status: Complete - id: 6160391
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A. Don't own Alec Track or "The Golden Hour" - verse, not making any money off this, and have severe doubts anyone could.
B. This story was written as a great conceit. I believe strongly in the rule of fanfic that reads: "No one gives a crap about your Mary Sue.", but we were presented with a challenge on the IMDB Richard Armitage board: "You'll Never Guess Who I Ran Into…" in which "we can imagine what it would be like to bump into one of RA's characters and what occurs." So I came up with this story and a couple others, and have decided to move them here so they do not get lost. I beg forgiveness, and hope that readers can use my Mary Sue as a lens through which to get to know these characters better.
For those interested in the character of Alec, all four episodes of "The Golden Hour" are up on YouTube.
They say everything seems to move in slow motion when you have a major accident.
A split second between you know something has gone horribly wrong and ...SLAM!BANG! and The world is fuzzy. Why is the world fuzzy?
I blink my eyes to clear my vision, and suddenly half my world goes red opaque. Burned rubber and oil and a coppery scent fill my nose.
I hear voices, people starting to gather around my car. Lots of "Are you alright?" followed by gasping and murmuring. Then one makes himself heard. Not a yell, just a very distinct command.
"Let me though. I'm a doctor."
And then that voice is in my ear.
The voice paused. That's not a good sign.
"Can you hear me?"
"What's your name?" Northern, a deep northern voice with a slight nasal edge, but I can't place the accent exactly tho'.
I tell him.
"Don't turn your head. Just stay still. O.K. Kip. My name is Alec, I'm with the London Air Ambulance…"
"That was quick."
"Well, my mates and I were just in a pub down the road."
"Sorry to cut into your off hours." What wrong with my foot?
"American? Naz? Naz! I need a pressure bandage. See if the pub has some clean towels. So what are you doing on this side of the Atlantic?" he asks as I feel cool fingers gently prod their way down my neck. F-kF-kF-kF-k! My foot is really starting to kill me.
Someone else is there. "The other driver is pissed. Can't tell what is a concussion and what's beer, but otherwise he's fine." This voice is local.
"They always are. Thanks," Alec replies.
"Grabbed 'em on the way out."
"Guys? My foot is really starting to kill me."
"Your foot?" the second voice asks incredulously.
"Hold that. I'll take a look." The baritone moves away.
"Hi." We replay introductions as Naz, I find his name to be, presses a scratchy towel to my forehead. Ouch. "Can you tell me where you were going?"
"Back to my apartment."
"A Yank. Don't get many of those. What are you doing over here?"
"That's what I want to know." Alec's voice is muffled from the left now, he's moved around to the other side of the car.
"Maritime History program at Greenwhich," I answer. Not that they care of course, they're just asking me consciousness questions, trying to gauge how aware I am and keep me that aware.
There's a creak and a wrench, and a big dark blurry shape slides across the passenger seat, shining a penlight down at the drivers pedals.
"Well, it's not caught. Can you move your toes?"
The attempt to do so results in a profanity. "...That was novel. Sorry," I end sheepishly.
"Heard worse." He's feeling his way across my ankle.
"Oh please say it was a sailor."
There is a deep chuckle, interrupted by a gasp and "OW! F-K! OW!" from me when his fingers delicately slide across the top of my foot.
"Did you hit the brake just before you impacted?"
"I'd say you were probably standing on it. When you hit, all your weight went into your foot. You've broken the bones along the top…"
"Metatarsals," I inject automatically.
"Ooh, smart lady," Naz observes archly.
"Anthropology major. Osteology class." Can he hear me over the siren?
"Well, Miss Anthropology major, you're going to take a ride in an ambulance."
"Damn. I was hoping for a helicopter ride."
"Sorry, foreign dignitaries have to schedule their visits in advance for the premier treatment. You're just going to have to make do with the truck."
There's another chuckle from somewhere around my knees. Naz switches off with the paramedics to get gloves on and then comes back to switch the towel out for a bandage.
"Ah." I can feel Alec's arm brush under my thigh and back out again. "Do you normally wear glasses?"
…They aren't on my face? "Yes."
"That's what did it," he says to Naz. "Face went into the steering wheel and jammed the edge of her glasses into her eyelid. Tore it."
..and head wounds bleed like a S.O.B.. So that's why everything is red on the right.
"Trauma isn't going to…?"
"No. I wouldn't let anyone but a plastic surgeon near that. Just clean it, pack it, and leave it to the experts."
"Sounds fine by me."
"Thanks." I can hear the latex snap as Alec pulls on a pair gloves. As he feels up the leg and checks the other foot for any further breaks, Naz puts a collar on me. Gawd. I hate these things. Alec unlatches the buckle on the seatbelt which mercifully still works. I begin to discern the more gentle tone he takes on when addressing me as opposed to his co-worker. "We're about to move you out of the car. Now's the time to tell me if it hurts anywhere else."
"…No, I don't think so."
"Good." He slides out of the car for a moment and there's a quick conference with the paramedics. And then he's back.
"I'm going to grab you under your arms and drag you across, o.k.?"
He leans me forward just enough to slide an arm around my back and in my dazed state, shock is a lovely thing sometimes, I pick up his scent. It's a nice scent. Warm and crisp, like a hearth-fire as November sets in.
And before I can even think to do something other than just hang there like a ragdoll, I'm-being-dragged-across-the-passenger-seat-onto-a-backboard. And then I'm being strapped down.
"Do you always pick up girls this quick?...O.k. That was a perfectly wretched joke. Now I know I have a concussion."
That's a smile a woman would make a damn fool of herself for.
...(To be continued)