AN: If I had to point fingers, google maps would be the first at fault for how long I spent dropping that lil orange man on desert roads, then YouTube for teaching me all about pimping cars, and Wikipedia for the insights on things I have no experience at all!
But most notably, it is all EllanaSan's fault, for she sent me that list of 'things you said when' prompts that morning I was particularly bored at work, and I linked them, one by one, till I had the outline of a kabby AU and some will to give it a try
Shout out to my beta catelynstxrks for being the sweetest enabler!
Things you said when we first met
The first time she meets Marcus Kane, she's driving a rental Toyota way over the speed limit in the middle of the desert.
She sees the lights in the rearview mirror before she can hear the sirens over the screeching of the engine, and pulls over cursing everything holy and the smell of burning oil getting stronger when she lowers the glass of the car window.
Of course it's just her luck to run into a patrol when she's in a hurry and still so many miles away from home. Abby should have known fate was out to get her from the very beginning, from when she dropped her phone running to catch a cancelled flight home (shattered, completely smashed, useless thing now lying pitifully on the passenger seat) or when the few cars available for rent were off-roads four-wheel manual - "Perfect to cross the desert, Ma'am!" she recalls the clerk helpfully supplying at the sinking hope depicted on her face.
She watches in the side mirror a tall and lean man wearing aviators and a sheriff's hat approaching at a leisurely pace, and tries - ineffectively - to control her impatience by brushing back a strand of wavy hair that bounces back in place.
"Good evening, Madam," he says - and by the sound of it it doesn't seem like a very good one - "did you happen to see the very big, very bright speed limit sign over there?" he asks towering on the other side of the open window, pointing to the arrow-straight road where a few miles back a square is fastened to a pole.
Abby clutches her necklace like a lifeline, but she schools her tone into deep regret mode when she answers: "I'm so sorry..." and she narrows her eyes against the setting sun to get a glimpse of his nameplate, unsuccessfully. "Sheriff, I will be more careful, I promise."
It doesn't usually work but she tries a friendly smile anyway, the alternative being throwing a tantrum and making it even more difficult to quietly slip away and be on her merry way. The faster, the better.
His lips twitch upwards for a fraction of a second and she almost thinks he is - definitely not fooled, but - amused by her antics; then he leans in slightly to get a better view of the inside of the vehicle. He takes in her manicured hands, golden bracelet and wedding ring, open bag on the passenger's seat, styled curls and tailored, smart dress, and by his pursed lips she guesses she doesn't look like his usual tourist or passer-by. "Madam, can I see your license and registration, please?"
"Of course," she answers (too cheerfully, she has to cringe) stretching on her side to get the documents from the dashboard where she tossed them, hiding a roll of the eyes and a prayer to at least let it be quick.
He takes the papers she offers through the window and retraces his steps back to his car (ever so slowly; she thinks it might be deliberate).
All she can think of while the man runs her numbers is Clarke, how very late it is and how she'd love to get rid of frustratingly slow County Sheriffs who should be investigating the illegal fires that are surely still burning - somewhere, seriously, the stench was insufferable ever since she left the gas station - instead of stopping innocent ladies hurrying home for supper.
When he's back in front of her window she stops drumming her nails on the wheel self-consciously but she figures there is no point in hiding her frustration by now. The look on his face is not promising.
"Where are you going in such a hurry, Doctor Griffin?"
Abby tucks her license back in her bag's pocket and readies one of her polite smiles just for the sake of appearances: "I was eager to get home⦠for a medical emergency," she replies.
She can't be sure she fooled him, because she can't read the man behind the shades as she's used to read most people, but she thinks he's perplexed by her answer, like he expected that conversation to go in a very different direction, yet still on the fence about letting her go. She studies him: the shadow of a five o'clock stubble suggests he's at the end of his shift, the grimace tells her he can smell the stench of burnt oil too, but that's not what's bothering him at the moment. "Home? As in Los Angeles?"
Abby purses her lips before spitting curtly: "Yes."
At this point she's mostly irritated by the twitching eyebrow of this man looking at her in disbelief and she's ready to drop her act, request he just gives her the speeding ticket or hear a piece of her mind, when he speaks again: "Madam, are you aware this is not the road to California? You were heading north."
Abby squints at the setting sun slowly making its way to the flat, empty horizon behind the sheriff's silhouette and her mental map suddenly shifts into perspective. Fuck?
It takes her a few seconds to address him again when he asks if she, maybe, needs escorting (or a map).
"What? No, I..." She blinks. She must look mortified because he gives her a small sympathetic smile as he fishes a pen from his pocket.
"I will have to give you a ticket, Doctor Griffin," he says in his overly polite tone. But the boyish grin he can't erase tells her he's having the time of his life. Of course, what else could be going on in his little square of desert if writing a ticket to foreign speeding ladies provides such a thrill on a Friday night. (Illegal fires seem to be no concern of his anyway).
He gives her instructions to go back to the main road, she accepts the paper and promises to drive home safely, so the sheriff tips his hat and - reluctantly - leaves her with a last irritating smirk her way.
Except he's not yet behind his wheel when she tries to start the engine and a puff of smoke rises outside her windshield instead. Abby is not one to dive into a panic but the day's been long and stressful already and she can just feel her breath catching and her pulse quickening. A few tries later and the rental Toyota still won't start and she watches in horror as the sheriff drives off, leaving her in the middle of the desert with no phone and no car, and most definitely no luck.
AN2: and that's about the shape of it. Meet the mechanic tomorrow!
