Chapter Text
It didn't take long for you to get packed. The eviction notice was scotch-taped to your door and within twenty minutes, you were ready to go. You suddenly question your decision to leave when you notice the pouring rain just outside, drenching the streets of London like they did often.
With a sigh, you make a choice and heave your bags up, one over your shoulder, and the other dragging behind you through the puddles, a curse escaping your lips as the contents inside become thoroughly soaked.
Cars zip by, sending waves of cold street water up and over your head, coaxing shocked gasps from you as you're splashed.
"So much for staying relatively dry," you mutter impatiently, brow furrowing as you cross the street fully and try to hail a cab. To no avail, of course. You curse again and get to walking. You know there's a hotel nearby, and there's just enough lining your pockets to stay a night or two and get a hot meal some place close.
But that means skipping a taxi and walking in the downpour. Despite the thunder crashing so loud your teeth rattle, you decide to hike. At least you'll be able to warm up upon arrival.
You try heaving your suitcase up against your hip to balance, and instead stumble to the street, ankle rolling as you slip over the sidewalk and to your knees. It's more embarrassment than pain that reddens your cheeks as you struggle to stand back up, but you notice with some amount of shock that you're completely alone on the road now. Hardly a car passes.
That can only mean that the storm is about to get worse, and everyone else is taking shelter. You strain to see a cab, but the streets are empty and the rain is pouring down harder now, drenching you completely, and you decide to just run. Maybe you can make it if you hurry.
But the hotel is five blocks away, and when you put pressure on your ankle, you yelp at the shooting pain now coursing through it. You curse through gritted teeth, tears of pain and fear springing into your eyes suddenly.
"This cannot be happening," you mutter to yourself, shaking your head. Lightning flashes through the sky, sending fear through your veins and gripping your core. "Oh, God, please, help me..." You mumble a half-hearted prayer, and slam your eyes shut.
You can almost feel something snap in the air, like a miracle being woven from the very fabric of existence, and you open your eyes at the sound of a curt whistle.
"Hey love, need a ride?" You turn your head and spot an attractive Bently sitting at the curb, a man in dark shades looking at you quizzically. Your brows shoot up and you try to stand, unable to hide the wince at the pain in your ankle.
"Um, I can't pay you," you say. It's only a partial lie. If you pay him, you won't be able to afford dinner tonight.
"S'a'right," he purrs, pushing the door open. "Hop in."
You nod gratefully, tossing your bags in the back and limping to the front seat before collapsing inside with a grunt. He notices, and eyes you.
"A'right there?" He asks it calmly but firmly. You nod, embarrassed.
"Yeah, sorry," you say quickly. "I just... rolled my ankle back there. I'll be fine."
"Hm." He leans over to glance down at your foot, discreetly snaps his fingers, as if it's a tic or something, and says, "Doesn't look too bad."
"Let's hope," you say, trying to change the subject as he starts to drive again. "Nice car," you muse.
He grins brightly.
"I call 'er the Queen."
"Classy," you smile smally.
The pause that comes next isn't as awkward as you worried it would be. Then he speaks.
"Where to?"
"The Dermont Hotel," you say. "Up by-"
"I know where it is," he interrupts with a grin. "You visiting? I noticed the accent."
You blush fiercely. Of course he heard your thick American accent. You probably look like a tourist.
"Right," you say. "I've actually lived here for a few years now. Trying to publish my book."
"Ah, interesting," he says, sounding bored. He grimaces. "Listen, sorry if I seem... I dunno. I just sorta... felt the need to stop. I almost drove past ya."
"Oh. It's fine. Thank you for the ride," you say, slightly confused. "It means a lot."
"You're soaked," he says, stating the obvious as he rolls to a stop before the hotel. You shake your head.
"I'm fine, thank you," you say, hopping out. You grab your bags and trot up the front steps as the man waves, shades still covering his eyes despite the black sky overhead.
You almost feel bad as you check into a room, wishing for reasons unknown that you could have asked him more about his car, or why he wore shades, but by the time you settle into your room, your thoughts have drifted to something else.
As soon as you left the car, your ankle stopped hurting. When he snapped his fingers, in fact.
And after you ran in from the rain, the front desk attendant looked at you strangely. Maybe it was because you entered the building completely dry.
You can't help but wonder if the man in the Queen had something to do with that, too.