Stranded in the Alps 1
So apparently my one shots are too long for Tumblr now....wtf?
Hammond is cocky and makes a bet that he can get to the hotel the crew is staying at in the Swiss Alps. The reader, a long suffering location scout, is volunteered to go with him. Queue a sudden blizzard, an abandoned cabin and two people who really rub each other the wrong way.
Fic Masterlist
Stranded in the Alps Second Person | Enemies to Lovers | You x Richard Hammond | Part One
You don’t know who suggested the bet, probably one of the cameramen, bored and itching for entertainment, but the second Richard Hammond said, “I know exactly where the hotel is,” you should’ve known you were doomed.
"Fine," the director had said, too quickly. "You go with him."
You'd laughed like he was joking. He wasn’t.
"You’ve got the eye, and if there’s anything useful up there for filming, you’ll spot it. Hammond drives, you navigate."
“And what if we don’t find the place?” you’d asked, eyeing the cluster of weather-worn satellite maps on the hood of a car.
“Then you can tell him he’s an idiot all the way back.”
You didn’t even win anything, technically. Just the hollow satisfaction of being right if he was wrong, which, historically, has been often. Now you're about forty minutes into an hour-long drive that already feels like the longest of your life, and you’ve discovered that Richard Hammond drives like he lives: overconfidently, a little too fast, and with the stereo far too loud.
“You don’t actually like this music,” you say over the thudding beat of something that sounds like the soundtrack to a robot having a stroke.
“I do,” he says, cheerfully, eyes on the winding road ahead. “It’s real driving music. It has pace. Energy.”
“It has neurons melting through my ears.”
“That’s just your taste dying a slow death. It’s okay, happens to a lot of scouty type people.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, did you just condescend to me and insult my career in one breath? I’m impressed. That’s almost efficient.”
He glances at you. Smirks. “I’m nothing if not efficient.”
“Debatable,” you mutter, yanking the aux cable out and instantly silencing the music. “Let me guess, you didn’t bring actual directions either.”
“I know the way.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He shrugs. “I’ve been up here before. It’s fine.”
“It’s Switzerland, Hammond. There are a thousand identical switchback roads and every one of them leads to a postcard or a ski lodge or an icy death.”
“So dramatic,” he says, but his hands tighten slightly on the wheel. “We’re not lost.”
“Yet.”
You sink back in the passenger seat and unzip your pack. Emergency rations. Thermal gloves. Fold-out map. GPS beacon. A fully charged power bank. Spare batteries. Small first aid kit. Because you actually prepare for things.
“Snacks?” you offer sweetly, holding up a protein bar.
“Already had crisps,” he says, proudly holding up an empty bag of something that definitely didn’t have a nutritional panel.
You stare at him. “That’s not food, that’s seasoned regret.”
“Says the woman eating a brick made of seeds and judgement.”
“I’m beginning to understand why I’m the only one they trust with long-form copy,” you mutter.
He scoffs. “What does that even mean?”
“It means I can finish a sentence without my ego tripping over it.”
That earns you a sideways glance, one that lingers just a second too long. You don’t know what it is about him. It’s not that he’s mean. He isn’t. He’s quick and irritating, sure, and cocky in a way that makes you want to punch a wall, but he’s not cruel. He remembers people's names. He helps load gear when he thinks no one’s watching. He bought a grip new boots last month when his split open on location. He cares, in his own insufferable way. But whenever you’re in a room with him, or a car, or a tent, or a dusty back road, your skin just prickles. Like you’re a cat being stroked the wrong way. There’s a tension between you like two wires getting too close.
Maybe it’s because he never backs down from a fight. Maybe it’s because neither do you.
“Still think you know where we’re going?” you ask, after another stretch of silence, one that isn’t quite comfortable.
“Yes,” he replies. Then adds, “Mostly.”
You sigh. “Brilliant. You’re the human equivalent of a shrug.”
He opens his mouth, probably to say something smug, when….
tap.
A soft sound against the glass.
You glance up.
Another.
tap tap.
He notices it too, windshield wipers scraping once, unnecessarily.
You both look at each other at the exact same moment.
“Was that….?”
“Snow.”
Neither of you says anything for a beat. It hangs there between you, a shift in the air.
Outside, the sky’s begun to bruise a little darker. The clouds roll thicker, heavier, than they should.
Then another snowflake falls.
And another.
And another.
Richard eases his foot off the gas. The stereo stays off this time.
For once, neither of you has anything to say.
Snow thickens.
It starts as delicate flurries, soft, like ash drifting from a far-off fire. But in ten minutes, it’s a curtain. A full-on whiteout. The road beneath the Defender starts vanishing beneath a blanket of powder. You’re no longer rolling your eyes.
"Please tell me you brought chains," you say, trying to keep your voice flat as you peer out the windshield.
“Course I did,” Hammond mutters, flicking the headlights on full beam. “I’m reckless, not stupid.”
“That’s a debatable line, and you live right on it.”
“Remind me again why you’re here?”
“Because you swore you knew the way,” you snap, twisting in your seat to dig through your pack. “And because you didn’t want to let anyone else win a bet.”
He huffs but doesn’t argue. Probably because he can’t see more than ten feet ahead. You try your phone again. No signal. No surprise. You flip the GPS beacon on next, but the little indicator light stays red, can’t connect.
Your mouth tightens. “We need to radio the crew.”
“Already trying.” He picks up the shortwave set tucked between the seats, fiddles with the dial. “Come on, come on….”
There’s a burst of static, and then:
“....repeat, storm’s hit harder than expected. Anyone on the pass, turn back….if you can. Visibility’s gone to zero. Weather crew’s….” “....completely cocked it….” “....no ploughs until morning….”
The transmission dissolves into white noise.
You look at Richard. “That’s back the way we came.”
He nods slowly. “So forward it is.”
You both go quiet again.
Outside, the world becomes a blur of white and shadow. The storm gets aggressive. Snow slaps the windshield in horizontal waves, and the wind howls like something living. But he drives like he’s wired into the mountain itself—steady hands, sharp eyes, every subtle twitch of the steering wheel precise. You don’t tell him you’re impressed. You are, but you don’t say it.
Instead, you brace one hand against the door and ask, “Do you always just wing it like this?”
“Not always,” he replies, not looking over. “Only when someone’s watching.”
“Wow,” you say, voice dry. “Did you practice that line, or does it come naturally?”
He almost smiles. Almost. “Come on. A bit of danger makes the day more interesting.”
“I work in logistics and terrain safety. I like my days boring and predictable.”
“And yet here you are,” he murmurs. “In a Defender. With me. In a blizzard.”
You scowl out the window. “I have made several mistakes today.”
Forty Minutes Later
The storm doesn’t let up. If anything, it doubles down. The Defender crawls uphill, tyres crunching over unseen obstacles. You’ve stopped bothering to check your GPS every five minutes. It gave up half an hour ago. Neither of you has spoken for ten minutes. Not because you’ve run out of things to say, but because all of it would come out edged and useless. The tension has turned inward. Muted. Like even the arguing is muffled by snow.
Then….
“There.” You sit up straighter, pointing through the fogged glass. “Signpost….left side.”
He squints. “What does it say?”
“It’s in German. Or... Swiss German. Possibly a threat, possibly a hotel.”
“Great.” He turns down the narrow track without hesitation. “Let’s risk death and cultural confusion.”
The wheels crunch up a slope for what feels like ten years. The drive is uneven, climbing steep and winding between snow-choked trees. Finally, just as you’re about to suggest turning back….there it is.
A cabin.
Not a modern one, either….timber logs, shutters drawn, roof heavy with snow. Smoke long gone from the chimney. No lights. No obvious sign of life.
“Could be a ranger outpost,” you say, hopeful. “They sometimes leave them unlocked for emergencies.”
Richard parks. Kills the engine. “Or it’s where the Blair Witch spends her off-seasons.”
You both get out at the same time, boots crunching deep into the snow. The cold is immediate and bone-deep. You pull your coat tight as you trudge toward the cabin’s low front door. He reaches for the handle. It turns.
Unlocked.
Inside, it smells like old timber and forgotten winters. There’s a fireplace to the right, a rusted woodstove in the corner. A kettle. A stack of firewood, miraculously dry. A table. A few battered chairs. A single bed tucked into an alcove. You both take it in. Slowly. Silently.
And then, quietly: “There’s only one bed.”
You turn your head to look at him. “Well spotted, Sherlock.”
He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly looking very interested in the fireplace. “Right. Fire. I’ll... sort that.”
You drop your bag near the table and exhale, hard.
“This isn’t ideal,” you mutter.
“No,” he agrees. “But you’ve got your protein bricks. I’ve got crisps. We’ll survive.”
You glance at the door, then at the bed. “We are not sharing that.”
“I didn’t say we were.” He looks smug. “I’m quite small, actually. Very portable. I’ll just curl up in the glove box or something.”
You snort despite yourself.
He kneels by the fireplace, coaxing a flame to life, and for the first time since the snow started, there’s a strange sort of stillness. Not calm, exactly. But something like it.
You unzip your coat, stretch your stiff legs, and say, “Tomorrow, you owe me coffee. And a full explanation of how your navigational instincts betrayed us so thoroughly.”
He glances back over his shoulder, firelight catching the curve of his smirk. “Only if you admit I was right to pack the crisps.”
The fire crackles, casting amber light across the small wooden cabin. You’ve taken your coat off but kept your boots on, because it’s that kind of cold, the kind that settles in your bones, even with the heat licking at the walls. Richard’s crouched near the stove, fiddling with a stubborn latch on the flue like it personally insulted him. You’re pacing. You don’t mean to be, but your body won’t let the frustration go.
“I still can’t believe I agreed to this,” you mutter.
He doesn’t look up. “Agreed to what? A scenic drive with a world-class presenter and occasional national treasure?”
You spin to face him. “You said you knew the way.”
“And I did! Mostly! How was I supposed to know Switzerland would try to kill us with weather?”
“It’s the Alps, Richard. That’s what they do! You made a stupid bet and dragged me along for the fallout.”
He finally turns around, eyes narrowing. “No one dragged you. You volunteered to supervise. Like always. Miss Always Prepared.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He stands now, brushing his hands off. “It means you never trust anyone else to get it right. You’re always double-checking. Triple-checking. Watching everyone like we’re idiots.”
You laugh sharply. “Oh, I’m sorry, does it bother you that I like to be prepared? That I make sure people don’t go flying off icy roads or wandering into unstable terrain?”
“It bothers me that you treat the rest of us like we’re reckless children! Just because you’ve got a clipboard and a survival kit doesn’t make you infallible.”
“At least I don’t pretend to know things I don’t!”
“Really? Because you pretend you’re not smug every time you’re right. Like you don’t love it.”
Your jaw tightens. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re impossible.”
Something sharp flashes in his eyes, and suddenly it feels like too much. Too sharp. Too close.
He gestures wildly toward the door. “Maybe the crew should’ve sent anyone else. Hell, send Jeremy, at least he’d have made it entertaining.”
You take a step forward. “And maybe I would’ve enjoyed being stranded with literally anyone else, someone who doesn’t crash every conversation like it’s a challenge on Top Gear.”
“God, you’re so…” he cuts himself off.
You’re toe-to-toe now, too hot under the collar for how cold the room still is.
“Go on,” you snap. “Say it.”
“Difficult!” he barks. “You are infuriatingly difficult!”
“Better than being a walking midlife crisis in a leather jacket!”
That hangs there.
A breath.
Two.
Too far.
He exhales slowly. You feel it like a shift in pressure.
“Right,” he says, voice quieter. “Fine. That’s... good. Let’s just….” He waves a vague hand, then turns away, dragging one of the chairs near the fire and slumping into it.
You retreat to the other side of the room, jaw clenched, heart pounding. For a long stretch of silence, the only sound is wind battering the windows and your breathing. You start opening cupboards just to do something with your hands.
“Great,” you mutter. “We’re snowed in. We hate each other. And we’re going to starve.”
“Speak for yourself,” Richard says. “I have an open packet of cheese and onion that’s still edible if you ignore the smell.”
You don’t answer. You’re too busy rooting through a bottom shelf.
And then….miracle.
“I found tins,” you call out. “Stew. Two of them, as well as some tinned peaches and even beans.”
A pause.
“And...” You pull out a crumpled paper bag. “...Chocolate. Actual Swiss chocolate.”
You hear his chair creak as he stands. “All right, I’m listening.”
There’s cookware too, some cast iron pans, blackened with age, but serviceable. You put the stew on the stove without another word. He helps. Sort of. He finds a wooden spoon, pokes at the stew, makes a face.
“This looks like dog food.”
You look up from breaking the chocolate into squares. “You ate a petrol station sausage roll in Albania and said it had ‘complex flavour.’ Your standards are meaningless.”
He grins, finally. A real one. Not smug, not snide.
“Fair enough.”
It’s quiet again, but not heavy this time. More... tentative.
Eventually, he says, “I didn’t mean what I said. About you being impossible.”
You glance over. “I didn’t mean the leather jacket thing. Much.”
He laughs, and it’s low, surprised. You feel it somewhere annoyingly warm. The stew bubbles gently.
You pass him a plate. “It’s probably fine. As long as we don’t think about the expiration date.”
He sits beside you on the floor by the fire, legs stretched out. “You ever wonder how many bad tinned meals we’ve eaten on location?”
“Enough to qualify for hazard pay.”
You both eat in relative silence. Until….
“Okay,” he says, pointing at you with his spoon. “Serious question. Best comfort film. No wrong answers, but if you say something like Fight Club I will mock you.”
You don’t hesitate. “The Princess Bride.”
He freezes.
Drops his spoon.
“You’re joking.”
You raise an eyebrow. “I’m dead serious.”
He looks at you like you’ve grown a second head. “You? Miss Tactical? You love The Princess Bride?”
“It’s perfect. Sword fights, true love, quotable dialogue. Why is that surprising?”
He throws a hand up. “I just assumed yours would be something grim and realist. Maybe with subtitles.”
“I contain multitudes,” you reply, deadpan. “Besides. ‘As you wish’? That’s cinema.”
“Okay, no, hang on,” he shifts to face you properly, eyes lighting up. “Tell me you know the fencing scene. Like know it.”
“Of course I do.”
You both say at the same time:
“‘I admit it, you are better than I am.’”
“‘Then why are you smiling?’”
You grin, mid-mouthful.
And he says it, almost to himself: “Bloody hell, you’re actually human.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling too. It’s hard not to.
“Don’t get used to it,” you murmur. “Storm’s not over yet.”
And neither of you says it, but it hangs in the warm air between you, just under the sound of the fire:
Something else isn’t over either. Something’s just beginning.
By the time the stew’s gone and the chocolate has been rationed into bite-sized diplomacy, the fire’s burned hot and steady, casting the cabin in flickering amber light. Outside, the wind howls like it’s looking for someone to blame. The radio on the table crackles now and then, taunting you with bursts of static and broken syllables but never anything useful.
You fiddle with the dial again anyway. “Still dead.”
Richard leans back on his elbows near the fire, legs stretched out. “Well. There goes my plan to phone in a rescue helicopter and be hoisted out like Tom Cruise in Mission: Impossible.”
You glance over your shoulder. “You’d trip halfway into the harness.”
“Gracefully.”
“You’d knock yourself out on the skids.”
“And still look amazing doing it.”
You shake your head, trying not to smile. You’re not supposed to enjoy this. And yet….
“You really think we’re stuck here all night?” you ask after a minute.
He nods, the joking slipping off like a coat. “It’s a full whiteout. If they can’t reach us, they’re not sending anyone until morning. And we’re already the only idiots high enough up the mountain to qualify as missing in action.”
You glance out the tiny window. Snow lashes at the glass. Thick. Relentless. A world erased.
A long breath leaves your lungs. “All right,” you say. “So we make camp.”
He pushes himself to his feet, joints cracking a bit as he stretches. “You take the bed,” he says, already moving toward the fire. “I’ll take the floor.”
You blink. “You don’t have to….”
“Didn’t say I have to. But you’re the one who’s always going on about survival, so I’m guessing you’ll sleep better if you’re not curled up in a ball of resentment.”
“Only slightly,” you mutter, trying not to smile again.
He strips off his coat, then the heavy wool sweater underneath, tossing both onto the nearby chair. Underneath, he’s wearing a long-sleeved blue Henley, soft and slightly rumpled from the layers. It clings in just the right places, broad shoulders, lean arms, torso tighter than you’d expect for someone who lives on crisps and adrenaline.
And his forearms. You’re not the type to get distracted by forearms. At least you weren’t. But they’re right there, tan and dusted with just the right amount of dark hair, sleeves pushed back to his elbows. Muscled, but not bulky. Like he could hold a steering wheel for twelve straight hours without flinching. You catch yourself staring and snap your head away like you’ve been caught committing a crime.
What the hell is that about?
He glances up from where he’s spreading a blanket by the hearth. “You okay?”
Your stomach jolts.
“Fine!” you squeak, way too quickly. “Totally fine. Yep. Just, tired. Long day. Storm. You know. The usual.”
You all but leap into the bed, dragging the heavy blanket over you like it’s a shield.
You’re definitely not thinking about the way the firelight flickers over his cheekbones, or how his hair’s gone a little wild in the heat, or how his jaw clenches just slightly when he moves, like he’s holding something back.
You’re not thinking about any of it.
Nope.
The bed’s cold, and the mattress is thin, and the pillow smells faintly like woodsmoke and old wool. You burrow down, trying to ignore the way your skin’s still buzzing like it’s caught in the aftershock of looking at him. From the floor, his voice floats up, casual but low.
“So. Favorite Top Gun moment.”
You blink at the ceiling. “You’re not sleeping?”
“Can’t. Too wired. Come on. You once said you loved it.”
You sigh, but it’s warm. “All right. The bar scene. ‘You’ve lost that lovin’ feelin.’ It’s pure chaos.”
“Wrong answer,” he says, smug.
“Oh really?”
He rolls to his side so he can look at you, propped on one elbow. “The dogfight at the end. Classic. ‘I’ll hit the brakes and he’ll fly right by.’ That's cinema.”
“Predictable,” you mutter. “You just like planes and bravado.”
“I like things that move. And blow up. And have big feelings under the surface.”
You glance at him. That last bit lingers in the air like unspoken meaning.
After a moment, you say softly, “Okay. What about Speed?”
He grins. “Don’t even start. It’s a masterpiece. Buses, bombs, Keanu looking confused, it’s everything.”
You can’t help it, you laugh. It bubbles out of you like a spark cracking off the firewood.
“You’re such a dork.”
“Says the woman hiding in a cocoon because she can’t look at me without blushing.”
Your heart stutters.
You look over sharply, but he’s already turned back toward the fire, grinning into the blanket like he didn’t just say that.
Your cheeks go hot. Again.
“I’m not blushing,” you mutter.
“Of course not,” he says lightly. “Must be the altitude.”
You roll over, facing the wall. “Shut up, Hammond.”
“Sweet dreams, Scout.”
And even though the wind still screams outside, and the blizzard rages on, and the room smells faintly of stew and damp wool and something you’re not willing to name, you find yourself smiling into your pillow.
Just a little. Just enough.
You didn’t sleep. Not even a little.
The bed was lumpy, the blanket was thin, and cold seeped into your spine like spite. You’d spent most of the night flipping from one side to the other, trying not to listen to the maddeningly steady sound of Hammond snoring, soft but consistent, like he was cuddled up with a chainsaw on low power. At some point you seriously considered pelting a protein bar at his head. Now, as dawn tries and fails to bleed through the frosted windows, you’re bundled in the blanket and peering out the cabin’s front door. It groans on its hinges as you crack it open.
White. White everywhere.
The Defender is buried in at least two feet of snow, only the curved outline of its roof betraying where it is.
You exhale a thin, unimpressed “Hah.”
Behind you, the man on the floor snuffles, shifts, and groans.
“Oh no,” you mutter, turning around just in time to see him stretch like a cat, languid, satisfied, annoyingly smug about it.
He blinks up at you, hair a tousled mess, voice still thick with sleep. “Morning already?”
You glare. “Did you sleep well?”
“Like a baby on a cloud made of dreams.” He grins. “You?”
“Like a corpse in a walk-in freezer.”
He laughs, pushing himself upright. “Could’ve joined me on the floor. I had a blanket and a vintage copy of Speed playing in my dreams.”
“Shut up, Hammond.”
You stomp over to the shelf, grab a tin of fruit and two protein bars, and toss one at him with deadly precision.
“Breakfast,” you say.
He eyes the bar like it might be poisoned. “This again?”
“‘This,’” you say primly, “is why some people are prepared for the unexpected.”
He opens the fruit tin and makes a face. “We’re sharing this, right? Otherwise I’m going to look like someone who eats peaches in syrup straight from the can.”
“You are someone who eats petrol station sausage rolls. This is an upgrade.”
He smirks. “You know, I’m starting to think you secretly like me.”
You raise a brow. “You’d know if I liked you.”
He goes quiet for a beat, then pops a piece of peach into his mouth with an exaggerated wink. “Someday. You’ll see.”
Before you can answer, the radio crackles, startling both of you.
You dart over to it and fidget with the knob until the voice comes through clear:
“There you are. Finally. You two all right?”
You both lean in.
“This is Scout, we’re fine. Cabin’s solid. Still snowing.”
Richard adds, “Defender’s buried. Radio’s been dead ‘til now.”
The director sighs on the other end. “Yeah, well, you’re not going anywhere. Roads are blocked solid. Ploughs won’t get up that high ‘til at least tomorrow, maybe longer.”
You groan. “How much longer?”
“Storm’s not slowing down. Sit tight. Stay warm. Try not to murder each other.”
You click the radio off and slump into the chair.
Hammond stares at the fire. “Brilliant. More quality time.”
“Don’t sound so thrilled.”
“Oh, I’m ecstatic. Trapped in a cabin with a woman who thinks I’m a navigational menace and an emotional plague.”
You hold up your protein bar in a toast. “To mutual loathing.”
He taps his fruit tin to it. “Cheers.”
Later That Day The fire has burned low twice now, and you’ve both taken turns feeding it. But the main stack of firewood is almost gone.
“We’re going to need more,” you say, glancing out the side window.
He joins you. “Didn’t you say there was a stack outside?”
“There is. Behind the cabin. Covered in snow.”
You both stare at the wall like you can will the wood inside.
“Right,” he says finally, clapping his hands. “Let’s be heroes.”
You bundle up like Arctic explorers, scarves, gloves, boots, the works. The second you open the side door, snow comes at you like a slap.
“Oh brilliant,” Hammond grumbles. “It’s up to my bloody thighs.”
“Now imagine being five foot three.” you mutter, lifting your legs through the drifts.
“Wait, are you five three?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
He grins. “I always thought you walked like you were taller.”
You glare at him, teeth chattering. “Focus. Firewood. Now.”
You reach the pile around the side of the cabin, half-buried under a sloped wooden lean-to. It’s dry, thank god, but the wind keeps trying to throw you both backward.
“Okay,” you pant. “Grab what you can, I’ll hold the tarp.”
“On it.”
He yanks a few logs loose, loads them into a bucket, grabs another armful, then missteps. It’s not a dramatic fall. It’s more like a sudden thud as he disappears into the snow like a disgruntled gopher.
“Ow. Bloody hell.”
You burst out laughing. Loud and sudden. “Did you just fall straight down? Like a sinkhole?”
“Maybe. Shut up.”
You try to help but the snow shifts under you too, and with a spectacular flail, you go down….
Right on top of him.
There’s a whuff of air and then you’re both tangled in a heap, flat on your backs, helpless with laughter. His arm’s under your shoulders, your knee’s somewhere near his hip, and snow is in your socks, but for a moment you can’t stop laughing.
You gasp between breaths. “This is... this is the stupidest rescue mission I’ve ever done.”
“I’m blaming gravity,” he wheezes. “And hubris.”
Your faces are inches apart, breath steaming in the cold.
Then you realize exactly how close you are.
Your heart skips.
His grin falters, just a fraction, but his hand lingers at your waist for a beat too long before you both remember yourselves.
You scramble upright, brushing snow off your sleeves. “Right. Logs. Inside.”
He coughs. “Yes. Good. Excellent plan.”
You manage to get the load inside between fits of giggling, both of you soaked, exhausted, and windblown.
You collapse near the fire, side by side, steam rising off your clothes.
“That,” you say breathlessly, “was tragic.”
“Speak for yourself. I was magnificent.”
“You got taken down by snow.”
“Snow is treacherous.”
You laugh again, softer this time. And even when the room falls quiet, something else stays warm between you. It’s not just the fire. Not anymore.
The wind has settled into a constant, low howl around the cabin. Night has fallen, though it’s hard to tell with the thick storm still raging beyond the shuttered windows. The fire’s burning steady, casting a soft gold glow across the wooden walls. You’ve hung your wet things near the hearth to dry—boots steaming gently, your coat draped across the back of a chair. The air smells like smoke, snow melt, and the tin of beans simmering on the stove.
“Fine dining,” you say, passing him the dented pot and a bent spoon.
“Poshest place I’ve been all week,” he replies, raising an eyebrow as he digs in.
You both sit cross-legged on the floor, facing the fire, your backs to the one sagging bed like it’s not a topic of silent, ongoing negotiation. Hammond has added three small bags of crisps to the table like a dragon guarding its hoard.
“I call these the side dishes,” he says.
You glance at the labels. “Cheese and onion, prawn cocktail, and... what the hell is ‘steak and ale pie’ flavoured?”
He grins. “A crime against humanity, probably.”
You eat in silence for a few minutes, sharing the spoon, trading crisps like currency. It’s not good, but it’s hot, and you’re warm, and for once you’re not sniping. Not quite.
He licks bean sauce from his thumb and says, “Right. What would you actually eat, if you could have anything right now?”
You consider it. “A full roast. Crispy potatoes. Gravy. Buttered green beans. And a Yorkshire pudding the size of my head.”
“Strong start,” he nods. “Me? Spaghetti carbonara. The proper kind. Not the sad version with cream. Real pancetta. Black pepper. The good parmesan.”
You groan dramatically. “You monster. Now I want pasta.”
“We’re not done,” he says, eyes bright. “Dessert?”
You grin. “Sticky toffee pudding. With extra sauce.”
“Wrong,” he says. “The correct answer is: chocolate lava cake, served by a French supermodel who’s legally required to call me ‘Mon Hammond.’”
You snort into your spoon. “You are such a child.”
“Which brings us to tonight’s entertainment,” he says, rising to his feet with a flourish. “The one-man retelling of a classic literary work, as performed by Richard Hammond, cold, hungry, and possibly losing his grip on reality.”
You blink up at him. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes,” he says, striking a pose. “I give you, Pride and Prejudice, as rewritten for modern petrolheads.”
You shake your head, grinning. “Please don’t.”
“Too late. It begins.”
He paces the room like it’s a stage. “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a large estate must be in want of... a Lamborghini.”
You burst out laughing.
He points at you, deadly serious. “Mr. Darcy, you see, is not brooding, he’s just frustrated because Elizabeth Bennet keeps insulting his car collection. And frankly, her bonnet is dented.”
You’re wheezing.
“Lizzie, meanwhile, is not so much strong-willed as she is deeply irritated that no one appreciates her vintage Land Rover rebuild. She's emotionally closed off because her last boyfriend drove a Vauxhall Corsa.”
“Oh my god,” you laugh. “Stop!”
“I will not.”
He struts dramatically to the stove. “At the pivotal moment, Darcy confesses his undying love by saying, ‘You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love... your custom exhaust system.’”
You’re actually crying.
“And instead of letters, they exchange MOT reports. Her rejection is harsh but fair, he had aftermarket spoilers and poor tire alignment.”
You fall back onto the floor in a heap of laughter as he bows, one hand to his chest.
“Thank you,” he says grandly. “I’ll be here all night. Literally. Because we’re stuck.”
You manage to sit up, wiping your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”
He plops back down beside you, his grin softening just a little. “Takes one to laugh at one.”
There’s a silence, not awkward, just... full.
The kind that feels like it wants to go somewhere.
After a beat, he glances sideways at you. “Why do we rub each other the wrong way so much?”
You blink. “That’s a gear change.”
He shrugs. “Been wondering since yesterday. We work together. We’re both, mostly functional. But every time we’re in the same room, it’s like someone lit a fuse.”
You hesitate. “I don’t know. You just, irritate me.”
“How flattering.”
“I mean it. You’re smug. Cocky. You don’t think anything through.”
“And you’re tightly wound, bossy, and allergic to fun.”
“Exactly.”
“But you don’t hate me.”
You glance at him. “No.”
“Right,” he says. “So what if, just a theory, it’s because we secretly want to shag each other?”
The words hang in the air like a grenade. You freeze. His tone was casual. Half a joke. But something in you shifts like the floor’s dropped out from under it. Because oh god. That’s it. You do.
You absolutely, annoyingly, desperately do. And the realization hits too fast, too raw.
Your defense snaps up like a drawbridge. “You’re unbelievable.”
He blinks. “What?”
“You can’t take anything seriously, can you? Not even this. You think everything’s just a joke you can charm your way through.”
He stares at you. “Whoa. That’s not what I….”
“No, you wanted a laugh. You wanted to get a rise out of me and feel clever, and guess what? You did.”
“Bloody hell,” he mutters, standing up. “You can’t even have a conversation without armoring up like we’re going to war.”
“You’re such a childish jackass, Hammond.”
He’s flushed now, eyes hard. “And you’re so scared of being wrong you won’t even admit what’s right in front of you. You think I don’t notice the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching? You think I don’t feel it too?”
You open your mouth, and close it.
He steps closer, not threatening, just there. “When you grow up, and stop pretending this is about anything else, I'll be here. Happy to help you scratch that itch.”
The words are soft. Too soft. And somehow, that makes them hit harder.
You step back like you’ve been slapped. “Go fuck yourself.”
You turn, stomp to the bed, and yank the blanket over your head. The silence that follows is heavier than anything the blizzard outside could bring. But beneath it, your thoughts spin like wheels in snow, and you can’t stop hearing him say it.
When you grow up.
Scratch that itch.
And worse…. You can’t stop thinking about how right he is.
You lie on your side, staring at the uneven planks of the cabin wall, wrapped in a thin blanket that might as well be made of tissue paper. You haven’t said a word in hours. Not that he’s tried to. He’s been quiet too, just the occasional sound of him shifting by the fire, stoking it once or twice, probably too angry or too smug or too right to come near you again. And still, you can’t sleep. Partly because it’s freezing.
But mostly because your mind is a goddamn minefield.
You close your eyes. You try not to think about what he said. You fail. All you can see is his face, too close in the firelight, too smug when he said it, too calm, too certain. Like he already knew you wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it.
“I’ll be here. Happy to help you scratch that itch.”
Your stomach does this slow, awful flip and you roll onto your back, teeth clenched. It doesn’t help. Because now you’re thinking about what if. What if you did? What if you kissed him, dragged him down by the collar of that stupid Henley, got a hand in his hair just to shut him up for once? What if you pressed your thighs around him and let that maddening, smirking mouth do its worst?
Your breath hitches. No. No, absolutely not. You roll again, shoving your head under the pillow, trying to smother the thoughts as much as the cold. But you’re shivering now. Hard. Your teeth start chattering, silent at first, then more obvious. You bury deeper, still shaking. Goddamn altitude, thin blankets, and one idiot with smug eyes and excellent arms.
Then….
You hear it. A sigh. Followed by movement. Blanket shifting. Floorboards creaking.
“Don’t,” you mutter before you even see him.
But it's too late. He walks over in long strides and crouches at the side of the bed.
You twist, defensive. “I said don’t.”
He ignores you.
Without a word, he lifts the entire blanket, with you in it, and scoops you up like it’s nothing.
You yelp. “Put me down!”
“I can hear your teeth chattering,” he says, deadpan. “I’m not letting you freeze to death out of sheer stubbornness.”
“I hate you!”
“That’s fine,” he says, carrying you back toward the fire like you’re no heavier than a rucksack. “You can hate me from a safe body temperature.”
“You’re such an ass!”
“Yup.”
He reaches the fire and unceremoniously deposits you on the folded blanket you both used earlier, the one still warm from when he slept on it. Then, without asking, he drops beside you and throws the other blanket over both of you, pulling it snug around your shoulders.
You twist to glare at him.
“You can’t just drag me over here.”
“I didn’t drag,” he says, stretching out behind you. “I lifted. It was very dignified.”
You mutter every curse you know under your breath. He’s lying so close his chest brushes your back every time he breathes. You hold yourself rigid, arms crossed.
“I’m still angry,” you snap.
“Of course you are.”
“And you’re smug.”
“Always.”
“I don’t need you.”
“Nope.”
“This means nothing.”
“Sure.”
Silence falls. The heat starts to bleed back into your skin. Not from the fire, but from him. From the warmth of his chest at your spine. The steady, infuriating calm of him. The smell of woodsmoke and soap and that faint citrus he always seems to carry like a cologne he never admits to wearing. You hate how solid he feels behind you. You hate how right it feels not to be cold anymore. And you hate that your breathing is starting to match his. He doesn’t say another word, just stays there, warm and steady and maddeningly quiet.
Your body betrays you first, shivers easing, tension draining from your jaw, from your shoulders, from your clenched fists. Then your mind follows. Not all the way. Just enough. You’re still angry. Still flustered. Still wildly, violently aware of him. But the heat settles in your bones, and your eyes slip closed.And just before sleep takes you, you feel it. A tiny, infuriatingly gentle press of his hand, resting lightly at your waist. Not a grab. Not a move.Just... there.
Like he’s grounding you.
You don’t react. But your last conscious thought before the dark takes you is:
God help me, I’m not going to survive this trip.
The radio crackles before you’re even fully awake. You blink, disoriented, the sound dragging you slowly out of the deepest, warmest sleep you’ve had in days. For a moment, you can’t move, can't figure out why you’re so warm. Then it hits you, warm breath against your neck, a heavy arm slung across your middle, a knee between yours.
Oh.
Oh no.
You tense. So does the arm. Behind you, Richard shifts with a quiet, almost strangled sound. He pulls his face back from where it had been, resting against your hair, apparently, and mutters into your shoulder, “…fuck.”
“Yeah,” you say hoarsely, not moving. “Pretty much.”
The radio crackles again, clearer this time:
“Scout? Hammond? Come in. You two still alive up there?”
You both scramble apart like teenagers caught in the act, limbs untangling in awkward, flailing silence. You sit up, yanking the blanket around your shoulders, and shoot him a look. He’s rubbing his eyes with one hand and holding the radio with the other.
“Still alive,” he says, voice rough with sleep. “More or less.”
“Good. Snowplough’s heading your way tomorrow. Should be there by midday. Storm’s moved on. Sun’s out. Sit tight and enjoy the view.”
He sets the radio down. Neither of you speaks for a minute. Outside, the world is blindingly white. The sun streams through the frost-glazed window, throwing dappled light across the floor, your tangled blankets, and the outline of two people who very clearly forgot how to stay on their own sides of things. You look at him. He looks at you.
“Morning,” he offers, dry as toast.
You sigh. “Morning.”
Breakfast is half a tin of peaches eaten straight from the can, no banter, no jabs. You sit on the floor facing the fire, knees almost touching, but not quite. The silence isn’t tense. It’s just… fragile.
You find your bag, pull out the bar of soap, and clear your throat. “I’m going to, um, wash a bit.”
He lifts his hands. “By all means. I’ll stare directly into the fire like a Victorian chaperone.”
You roll your eyes but say nothing, turning your back and kneeling beside the pot of melted snowwater still warming on the stove. The sponge bath is quick and practical, but the fire makes your skin prickle with self-consciousness. You’re hyper-aware of the shifting silence behind you, the way he isn’t looking, and also how much of you he could see if he did.
When you’re done and dressed in slightly less damp clothes, you murmur, “Okay. Your turn.”
He nods once, then grabs the soap and shrugs off his shirt without a word. You turn away quickly. Too quickly. Because even the glimpse of his bare back and shoulders, golden in the firelight, is enough to make your brain short-circuit like faulty wiring. You stare out the window as he washes, efficient, quiet, and blessedly not talking. You hear the water slosh, the occasional splash, the rustle of fabric. You keep your gaze locked on the snowdrifts outside, telling yourself you are not wondering what he looks like wet and shirtless.
Nope.
Not even a little.
You both settle again by the fire once he’s done, him freshly dressed, hair damp, and still shirtless because he’s letting it dry by the hearth. You sit in silence for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, he speaks.
“You know,” he says, picking at the edge of his crisps packet, “I hate to admit this, but if it weren’t for your magic bag of tricks and twenty-seven emergency rations, we might’ve turned feral.”
You glance at him. “Feral?”
He nods. “Fully Lord of the Flies. I’d be trying to eat my own boot leather. You’d be sharpening a stick.”
You huff a small laugh. “I did consider smothering you with a pillow.”
“See? Savagery.”
You smile into the peach tin. “You’re welcome.”
He grins. “And I’ll say this, your protein bars taste like damp cardboard, but they did stop me from dying. So I suppose I’m grateful.”
You eye his crisps. “Your cheese and onion ones weren’t completely revolting.”
He presses a hand to his chest, dramatically. “You like my crisps.”
“I said not revolting. That’s not the same as like.”
“Oh, I’ll take it.” He leans back against the chair, eyes closed. “Progress.”
You nod, more to yourself than to him. Because something has shifted, the sharp edges have softened. The storm outside is over, but something else is just beginning to stir inside you. Warmth. A strange kind of peace. Or maybe just the quiet knowing that when you wake up tangled around someone and you don’t feel angry anymore, it means you’re in more trouble than you thought.
The second night settles over the cabin more gently than the first.
The storm has passed, leaving behind an eerie sort of silence outside—thick snow blanketing the mountain, moonlight turning everything silver-blue beyond the frosted windows. The wind still whispers through the trees, but softly now. Tired. Inside, the fire crackles steadily. And you and Richard… exist around each other.
Not arguing. Not exactly talking, either. Just there.
He spends most of the afternoon fiddling with the radio, poking uselessly at the Defender once he shovels enough snow to reach it, and pacing the cabin like a bored border collie. You try reading your book by the fire, knees tucked beneath a blanket, but the words keep sliding off the page. Not because the book’s bad.
Because every few minutes you become painfully aware of him. Of the sound of his boots on the wooden floorboards. The absent little hums he makes while thinking. The way he runs a hand through his hair when he’s frustrated. And, annoyingly, how good he looks doing absolutely nothing. You hate it. You don’t want this.
You don’t want to be attracted to Richard Hammond. You don’t want to think about kissing him, or what his hands would feel like if they stopped being accidentally warm and started being intentionally warm. You especially don’t want to remember waking up tangled together that morning. Unfortunately, your brain seems committed to treason. You turn a page in Persuasion for the third time without reading a word.
Across the room, Richard groans dramatically.
“Oh my god,” he mutters. “I’m going to start talking to the chairs.”
“Try not to lose the argument,” you reply absently.
He points at you. “See? This is why you’re my favourite hostage.”
You snort despite yourself. A few more minutes pass.
Then….
“What are you reading anyway?”
You glance up. “Persuasion.”
He stops pacing immediately. “Jane Austen?”
“Yes.”
He squints at the cover like it personally offended him. “Voluntarily?”
You lower the book slowly. “Careful.”
“I’m just saying,” he says, wandering closer, “I’ve never understood the obsession. Nothing explodes. Everyone just stares emotionally across drawing rooms for three hundred pages.”
“That’s because men don’t understand subtext.”
“Oh, here we go.”
You sit up straighter, pointing the book at him. “Jane Austen is about tension.”
“So are car crashes.”
“Not the same kind!”
He drops into the chair opposite you, grinning. “Explain it to me then. Why do women love Austen so much?”
You narrow your eyes suspiciously. “Are you actually asking, or are you gearing up to mock me?”
“Bit of both.”
You sigh theatrically and tuck a leg beneath you. “Fine. Austen’s not really about romance.”
“It literally is.”
“No, it’s about people. About how they misunderstand each other. Pride and ego and timing and all the things people don’t say.”
He props his chin on his fist. “You say plenty.”
“I say what I mean.”
“That is categorically untrue.”
You ignore him. “And the romance matters because the men in those books actually listen. They pay attention. They learn the women as people.”
Richard blinks. “That’s your big fantasy? Being perceived?”
“Yes,” you say flatly. “Shocking, I know.”
He considers that for a moment.
Then: “Still sounds exhausting. Everyone yearning at each other while eating soup.”
You laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he says smugly, “you continue explaining Austen to me instead of throwing the book at my head.”
“That option remains available.”
He points at the cover again. “So what happens in Persuasion?”
You eye him suspiciously. “You genuinely want to know?”
“I’m trapped in a cabin with no television. I’ll listen to literally anything.”
You hesitate, then start talking despite yourself.
“There’s this woman, Anne Elliot. Years earlier she falls in love with this naval officer, Wentworth, but her family convinces her not to marry him because he’s poor and not important enough.”
Richard makes a face. “Rude.”
“Years later he comes back successful and rich, but he’s still hurt that she rejected him.”
“Ah,” he says. “So now they’re both emotionally constipated.”
You point at him. “Exactly.”
“I do understand Austen.”
“They spend the entire book circling each other and pretending they don’t still love each other.”
He tilts his head slightly. “That sounds horrible.”
“It’s romantic.”
“It sounds like torture.”
You shrug. “That’s because men think romance is buying flowers and revving engines.”
“That is romance.”
“It absolutely is not.”
He grins lazily at you from across the fire. “You know what your problem is?”
“I’m sure you’re dying to tell me.”
“You think tension is more interesting than honesty.”
The words land harder than they should. You look down at the book.
“Maybe honesty’s overrated,” you mutter.
“Maybe,” he says softly. “Or maybe it’s just terrifying.”
The fire pops between you. Outside, snow slides softly from the roof, and for a long moment neither of you speaks. Then Richard suddenly leans forward, eyes bright with mischief again.
“Read me some.”
You blink. “What?”
“Go on. Out loud.”
“You were mocking it thirty seconds ago.”
“I contain multitudes,” he says solemnly. “Plus your reading voice is weirdly soothing.”
You stare at him. Then, despite every instinct telling you not to encourage him, you open the book, and as the fire burns low and the mountain settles around you, you begin to read while Richard Hammond listens with his chin propped on his hand, watching you more than the pages.
Which is, frankly, a problem.
