1 part Complete Richard Hammond's recovery from his 2006 Dragster crash. Seen through the eyes of, surprisingly, Richard himself. Through hazy, fragmented, damaged memories.
Platonic/family-like Top Gear (Hammond, Clarkson and May). Hurt/Comfort, fluff, angst.
- Excerpt -
A voice, in his ear.
"-doing so well, mate." It whispers. A waft of warm air against his cheek. It tickles. "So, so fucking well. We're right here, okay? We're right here. We're not going anywhere."
There's a soft, gentle weight on his arm. Fingers curl around his wrist, squeezing loosely. The pressure grounds him, just a little. He wishes it was stronger. If it was strong enough, it'd help him out of the heavy, cotton-like fog his mind seems to have shoved him into. At least, he thinks it would.
"You're a tough little bastard, Ham." The voice cracks a little, like a stuttery record. "You know that, right?"
"Want a minute?" Another voice asks softly, from further away. He becomes aware of a weight against his leg. A hand? "I can go, if you want."
"No, no, I... I'm okay." It breathes. He can't feel the warmth on his cheek anymore, but he hears the breath. Trembly and upset. "God, Rich, you scared the shit out of me."
"You and me both, Jezza." The other voice murmurs. "You and me both."
- - -
