A. Don't own Ricky Deeming or the George Gently - 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/Author Avatar as a lens through which to get to know these characters better.
For those interested in the character of Ricky, the episode of George Gently (it's the Pilot) is up on YouTube in HD.
It's 1962 and I, being me, am not waiting at home from some socially approved swain to sweep me off my feet, but have bought a motorcycle and am cruising around Europe. Heading up the coast of Northumberland, I come cross a little roadside dinner with a row of motorcycles lines up in front. I park and enter to find myself facing a gaggle of young men in riding leathers who have noted my arrival with surprise that a woman (*gasp!*) would be out riding on her own.
Of course, since I am also soul-stirringly gorgeous in this Mary Sue fantasy, not to mention rather exotic being American and a female motorcycle rider on my own, while I am trying to drink my tea and eat lunch in one of the booths I am chatting with and fending off the flirtatious attentions of the lads. Since they take my attention, I do not notice the rather large man in black leather at the end of counter who quietly sips his coffee until the boys get a little too pushy and rowdy.
Until suddenly he is towering among them, growling at them to "Push off" with a gentle scowl and few playful shoves.
"Sorry about them."
"Not a problem," I smile in amusement, "but I appreciate the assist."
He slides into the booth and orders another coffee from the proprietor.
Oh dear, I realize, that wasn't an assist. I've been claimed.
Suppressing a grin I look the alpha male over. His dark hair is lightly tousled, but deliberately *just so*. Handsome, certainly. A set of finely chiseled features set in a soft rectangular face giving an impression of both masculine strength and masculine beauty. I can just see the hollow of his throat between the edges of his flannel shirt. His broad shoulders fill the leather jacket he wears that is well cared for, but worn soft and flexible with consonant use. There's a working reality under the flash. And the hands, one crushing a cigarette out in the ashtray while the other wraps almost completely around the cup brought to him, long slender musicians fingers on large square workman's palms. Like his face they are a mixture of a raw masculinity and a cultured delicacy. An intriguing paradox dominated by an amused, lop sided smirk and deep set eyes the color of a winter sky.
"Do I pass muster then, love?"
Caught out, I blush but reply, "For now."
He chuckles, the smirk flashing into a brilliant smile for only a moment.
I decide I don't mind being claimed. Or least I don't mind him trying.