Disclaimer: Lost does not belong to me. I've just taken Jack and Kate out to play and will be sure to get them home before dark.

A/N: I've been bitten by the AU bug. For those who read my last story, this one is based around the same concept – how Jack and Kate might meet in another time and place. This fic will cover several meetings between Jack and Kate. This first chapter will most likely be much longer than the others because it sets the foundation. I want to warn potential readers right now that this story will rely on coincidence and contrivance. If those turn you off then make sure you proceed with caution! I apologize for any grammatical or spelling errors.

A/N II: If the first two chapters seem really familiar to some of you, it's because you've probably already read them. Those chapters were posted previously but I removed them a while back due to some reworking.

Winding Roads – Chapter 1

October 4th, 2002

You don't see the hole until it is too late. To be honest, you don't actually see the hole at all because Patsy Cline is playing on your Walkman and you're too busy singing on an imaginary stage to notice anything but your screaming fans. But the hole doesn't care that you're oblivious because suddenly the world tilts and you're on the ground, your face smacking hard against unforgiving asphalt.

The first thing you notice, after you blink your eyes twice in confusion, is the wet. Pools of rain, left behind by last night's storm, seep through your long-sleeved t-shirt and soak your skin. It is cold and uncomfortable but you don't get up because the next thing you notice is the pain. It starts in your ankle and shoots its way up your leg, sharp and unrelenting. You roll onto your back, your eyes clenched tight, and release a pathetic, pain-filled whimper. A groan of frustration follows almost immediately.

Some fractional part of your mind, the part still capable of objective thought, is dimly aware that you've become a public spectacle. In about fifteen minutes your entire body will burn with embarrassment. But that part of you is insignificant, its concerns held hostage by the far larger part of you that is writhing in pain and doesn't give a good damn who will see you out here.

Hesitantly you lower your hand and let your fingers trace along the contours of your ankle, checking for signs of outward damage. You half expect to find your foot facing in the wrong direction, or maybe detached from your body altogether. But after a shaky examination, everything appears to be in the right place. You breathe a grateful sigh before dropping a few well-chosen curses for good measure. Because you're in pain and copious use of expletives might make you feel better, and because some situations simply demand foul language.

"Are you all right?"

Before you can register that someone is speaking to you – acting as a witness to your shame – a firm hand grips your shoulder. Startled, your eyes pop open in surprise just as your mouth snaps shut. You look up to see a man crouching beside you, his head is bent toward yours and his dark eyes are studying you with a steady concern. He is dressed in a t-shirt and shorts, far too light for the weather, and a ring of sweat circles his collar. His chest heaves with each breath and he is so close the fine wisps of hair at your temples flutter with each exhalation.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you." He drops the hand from your shoulder and sits back, retreating from your personal space. "Can you sit up?"

You nod awkwardly and struggle to a sitting position, acutely aware of how silly you must look. The stranger, sensing your need for assistance, puts an arm behind your shoulders and guides you to a sitting position. The whole time you can feel him watching you carefully, like he is afraid you might pitch over. Maybe finish whatever damage you were attempting to inflict upon yourself before he found you. Briefly you wonder how many people bite it this badly in public parks. You hope it's more than ten.

"Thank you." You smile sheepishly around the pain and gesture self-consciously. "I'm a bit of a klutz." Which isn't exactly the truth – or anywhere near it, really – but all feelings of embarrassment have made their appearance and you don't know what else to say. Mostly you just wish you'd managed to fall flat on your face somewhere with a little more privacy.

At your feet the nameless Good Samaritan settles on his haunches and motions for you to straighten your wounded leg. You want to protest, to tell him you're grateful for his help but this really isn't necessary and he should just go on his way because you'll be fine. But you don't open your mouth because you know, instinctively, that he won't listen. In the two minutes since he asked if you were okay you can already tell – by his precise actions and efficient, professional tone – that he is a man who gets things done.

So, with a grimace, you lift your foot and start to slide your leg forward. The man notices your discomfort and reaches for your foot, gently supporting your heel in long-fingered hands as he settles it on the ground.

"Did you hit your head when you fell?" He's still winded, just a little, and his voice is a bit breathless when he speaks. You notice a single drop of sweat roll down the sharp ridge of his nose and dangle from the tip. He wipes at it impatiently, his eyes unwavering on yours.

"I bounced it a little. But it didn't take the brunt of the impact. I landed on these." You smile and hold up hands with angry, red scrapes along the palms. "I think my ankle took the worst of it."

He nods. "When you rolled it, do you remember if it went to the inside or the outside?"

"It definitely rolled out." A shudder runs through you at the memory and the skin along your arms and neck prickles. You've seen enough replays of ankle injuries on ESPN to know what your foot must have looked like and it makes you faintly sick. Silently you vow never to run on anything but a treadmill, where the surface is always flat and no holes lie in wait to contort your body in unnatural ways.

"Did you hear or feel any popping?"

"I heard a crunch."

He nods again and you laugh without humor, marveling at the absurdity of it all. All you did this morning is wake up and decide to go for a jog, run maybe a mile. Nothing more complicated than that, no climbing hills, no wind sprints or other extreme exercise. Just a jog and now you sit wounded in a public park, your clothes soaking wet, and being quizzed about your ankle by a man whose name you don't even know.

"Do you mind if I take a look at your ankle?" He looks up at you, eyebrows raised.

You tilt your head to one side and smile, amused that he is hesitating and asking your permission to do something now.

"I'm a doctor," he blurts out, misreading your silence. "I probably should have said that right away."

It's funny. You're not exactly sure why, but it is and so you let yourself laugh. He stares at you for a heartbeat before a reluctant smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. It's a quiet smile, self-awareness and embarrassment commingled into something vaguely sweet. It's the first smile he's given you and - you don't know how you didn't see it before - it makes you realize how handsome he is. Definitely handsome enough to make you wish you'd met him somewhere else under more flattering circumstances.

But that's not how your luck usually works, anyway.

"I'm sorry," he says finally. "I get carried away when I'm in the zone."

"That's okay." You dip your chin toward your foot, still smiling. "Go ahead, you can't do it any harm."

"I'm Jack, by the way." He introduces himself while once again lifting your foot from the ground. With slow, careful movements he braces it across his knee but you still jerk once in pain and surprise.

"Kate," you say when your breath returns. His eyes flick to yours, clouded for a split second by confusion because he's already forgotten the conversation. But then his eyes clear and he smiles at you again. "I'd say it's nice to meet you but..."

He chuckles and nods his head. "I understand. Now, this may hurt but I just want to make sure it's not broken."

With no more warning than that he taps his broad palm against the bottom of your heel. Pain shoots up your leg and you suck a quick, hissing breath through clenched teeth. Jack's mouth twists and he puts your foot back on the ground, like it's some fragile antique. Apparently more tests aren't necessary.

"I want you to get this x-rayed."

"You think it's broken?"

"I think it's worth checking out. I was hoping to save you a trip to the hospital but…" His words trail off and he shrugs apologetically. You nod, not at all surprised your day has come to this. It probably even serves you right. Imaginary concerts should only happen within the safe confines of your own home.

"Great." You drop your forehead into your hand and shake your head. It's almost amusing.

At your feet, Jack braces his hands against the ground to pushes himself to a standing position. Once vertical, he wipes his palms on his shorts, leaving streaks of grime on the navy mesh. Hands clean, he rests them on his hips and stares down at you with a furrowed brow, obviously wondering how best to deal with you.

The pain in your ankle is still there, but it's become more manageable so you don't offer any immediate solutions. Instead you try not to feel guilty – and hope you aren't obvious – as you use the moment as an excuse to stare boldly up at Jack's face and enjoy the view. With a possibly broken ankle, looming hospital bills, the threat of crutches, and all future inconveniences waiting to make your life miserable, you'll be damned if you don't allow yourself to appreciate the one scrap of good that has come from this.

"We're going to have to get you to an emergency room."

You want to laugh at his use of the word 'we' but manage to hide your amusement.

"I'll take a taxi." Your tone is as direct as his and he nods. You're almost sure he would offer to take you, that it was what he was thinking when he stared down at you mere seconds ago. But Good Samaritan or no, doctor or no, you'll only accept so much help.

Jack helps you to your feet and you think he starts to bend down, so he can lift you up and carry you, but you sling an arm around his shoulder and start forward with ginger steps, forcing him to walk with you. There is a parking lot close by and Jack tells you he will call a cab to pick you up and take you to the hospital. You nod and keep walking but your progress is labored. Ten awkward steps later Jack offers to carry you, assuring you it will be no problem before you even have a chance to protest. He could do it, you think, and probably not drop you in the process. He's tall, your head barely reaches his chin and you've always been slight. It would be easier but you only smile your thanks and shake your head. On the whole he's helped you enough already and you do have some pride.

"Is there someone I can call? Someone who can meet you at the hospital?"

"No. I have exactly one friend out here and he's at school. Medical school, actually." You smile to let Jack know you're not concerned. "I'll leave him a message."

Jack nods and you can tell he wants to say more, but he doesn't.

When you finally reach the parking lot Jack settles you on the curb and makes sure you're comfortable before calling the taxi company. You wait and listen to him giving your location to the operator. As he talks he walks away from you, his head bent low and his left hand waving in the air as if the person on the other side of the line can see him. The conversation is short; within minutes you hear his shoes crunching on the gravel, announcing his return. He sits next to you, a respectful distance away, and rests his arms on his knees.

He glances at you, then his eyes flick to your leg. "How's the pain?"

"It's all right." You shrug your shoulders. It's the truth, more or less. The first, unrelenting waves of pain have receded, leaving only a dull, throbbing ache behind. There's not much swelling and you turn your head left and right, assessing the visible damage. No bruise darkens your skin yet but you know it will come. Vivid splotches of indigo and violet that will fade slowly to sickly yellows.

You turn to look at Jack. He has his elbows braced on his knees and is staring out across the parking lot. He looks just as good in profile as he does from the front, you think. Immediately you tell yourself to knock it off.

"I want to thank you again. You've been great."

"You're welcome." He smiles and nods and falls silent again. You wait, wondering if he is going to say anything else, but nothing comes. The silence isn't exactly uncomfortable but you're not used to people who use two words when twenty-five rambling ones will work just as well.

You pick at your fingernails.

"You don't have to stay, you know. I don't want to keep you." You hope he doesn't think you're ungrateful, hope he knows you just don't want to be a burden.

He shakes his head. "I don't have anywhere to be. Besides, the taxi shouldn't be too long."

You smile, pleased and grateful though you know it's ridiculous.

After that, you decide to pass what's left of the time making conversation. You talk about his new shoes, how you'll never run again, and the approaching holidays. Oddly, the taxi arrives before you want it to, the obnoxious blaze yellow very unwelcome. It heads directly for you and Jack is on his feet, helping you to yours. It's less awkward this time, one trial and error and you've both perfected your technique. You lean on Jack's shoulder for support and wait while the cab pulls up next to you. Jack opens the backseat passenger door, then bends at the knee to help you slide into the cab. You manage to bump your ankle only once before you settle in and stretch your leg across the seat.

"Are you all set?" Jack holds the door open with one hand, his head ducked so he can see you.

"Yes."

He nods once and shuts the door before walking to the driver's side. The driver rolls down his window and you see Jack thrust a handful of bills into the man's hand.

"This is for the fare, keep the change as tip."

"Hey." You pitch forward, half tempted to rip the money from the driver's hands and toss it out the window. "I can pay. You shouldn't do this."

Jack's eyes slide toward you. "You've got an emergency room bill to worry about. I'll take care of this."

"No."

"Too late."

You protest again but Jack ignores you. He talks to the driver again, tells him to take you to the St. Sebastian's emergency room, taps the top of the cab with his hand.

"And make sure you have someone get a wheelchair to roll her in, I think her ankle's broken."

"Jack."

Jack leans forward, just enough so you can see his face within the frame of the window. Outside it's started to rain and drops fall into the cab, splashing the taxi driver. He leans back, obviously wanting to close his window, but Jack doesn't move right away.

"Good luck with your ankle. I hope I'm wrong."

"I hope you are, too." You bite your lip. "And thank you. For everything."

"It was nice meeting you, Kate."

You open your mouth to return the sentiment but he's gone and the driver is already rolling up his window. You twist your body to look outside and see Jack backing away from the taxi. He gives you one last wave then turns and jogs back to the trail, his long-legged stride eating up the distance. He doesn't turn back again, you're not sure you think he would, but you watch anyway. You watch until the cab pulls onto the street, until the parking lot is stolen from sight by twisting roads and concrete barrier. Then you collapse against the hard plastic seat, press a hand across your eyes, shake your head, and sigh.

"Only you, Kate. Only you."