Work Text:
You're supposed to be well on your way home from work by now. Quick stop at the gas station – typical convenience store attached – fill the tank; 15 minute drive before you're pouring yourself a glass of wine and sitting in front of the TV. That isn't how your evening begins. Instead, you're met with the crunch of steel against your car's front end and the driver's side window violently meeting the left side of your forehead. Thankfully, it's not enough of an impact for your airbag to go off, but your cell phone has suffered the injury of a cracked screen. Jiggling the “on” button endlessly, there's not even the slightest hint of life. Lovely.
The man who has hit you manages to pull away just as quickly and recklessly as he'd turned into the station. You manage to get most of the license plate before shakily unbuckling your seat belt and making your way into the convenience store. You hope they'll allow you to use their phone to – at the very least – call the police.
A bright, yellow sign proclaiming “Caution: Wet Floor” greets you. You pay no mind. This is a mistake. Keeping in line with how your luck is going, you slip. There is no purchase. You reach out to catch yourself...until someone grabs your elbow in a firm grip.
“Careful,” the voice gently chides. It has a lilt that's decidedly foreign.
“I...” you start, but trail off when you meet the eyes of the man who has done you this kindness. He looks out of place. Perfectly quaffed hair, impeccably styled suit, and square framed glasses that screamed designer.
“Are you alright?” His face changes from a rested calm to mild alarm as his eyes dart up to your forehead.
“Y-y-yeah. I just...” you take a deep breath. He is patient, and waits for you to collect yourself. “A-a man. Pulled into the parking lot a little too fast. I was pulling out. The impact...did this.” You wave your hand in the vicinity of your face. “He took off before I could really get the license plate. I just need to use the phone in here. My cell is dead.”
He regards you with an unchanged expression through your rambling. You shake yourself into realization.
“Sorry...” you begin walking away from him and towards the front counter, but his words follow you.
“Can I offer you some advice?” The phrase doesn't come off condescending like you think it should.
“S-s-sure.”
“Get yourself a cup of hot chocolate from the machine there.” His head tilts towards the back of the store.
“What?”
“You're in shock. You were just involved in a nasty automobile accident, you're bleeding, and you're shaking just enough to cause alarm. The sugar and the warmth of the cocoa should help.”
Your eyes go wide at his assessment. Absentmindedly, you reach your fingers towards the wound on your forehead. Your fingers come away bright red.
“Oh god,” your whisper does not go unnoticed. He's there at your side again, pressing a clean handkerchief into your hand.
“Here.”
You take another deep breath before pressing the cloth against your head.
“Are you a doctor?” If you didn't know better, you would have sworn he let out a small chuckle.
“No, but I do deal with...emergencies often.”
You're not exactly sure what that means, but you're grateful for his help nonetheless.
“Well, thank you.” You smile at him, and he smiles back. Without another word, you start towards the hot chocolate machine at the back of the store.
As you're filling up the styrofoam cup with hot, brown liquid, you can hear the man speaking softly with the store owner. He's only there for a few moments until the bell over the door announces his departure. Soon after, you make your own way up to the front of the store.
The man there regards you with a curious expression.
“Can I use your phone? After I pay for this, of course...” You're happy to say that you've regained some clarity. It's the first full sentence you've uttered without your voice shaking.
“Sure you can.” He produces a cordless handset from under the counter. “Don't worry about the cocoa, though. It's paid for.”
“Wh-” you start. The owner shrugs, answering quickly.
“Guy who just left was payin' it forward I guess. Nice. Outta place.”
“Yeah...” you agree, quietly. You turn your attention back to the phone in your hand, dialing 911 as quickly as you can.
----------------------------------------------------
The next day you wake up to the landline on your bedside table ringing. You groan. It's Saturday. Who would be bothering you so early?
“Hello?” You answer, voice still hoarse from sleep.
It's the police. They've found the driver who hit your car at the gas station yesterday. You're taken by surprise, and the officer on the phone with you seems equally confused by the turn of events. The report hadn't even been in the system for 24 hours. You ask how they managed to find the man so quickly.
“Anonymous tip,” is the best answer you get before making arrangements to come down to the station later. You hang up the call, starting suddenly as your radio alarm springs to life.
Reaching over to unplug the thing, you catch a bit of the day's news before you manage to silence it.
“Police encourage anyone who might have any information about yesterday's devastating explosion near the Four Lakes Gas 'n' Go to come forward...”
Strange...and a bit eerie that you were there only hours before it took place.
You shrug it off, planning to sleep well into the afternoon.