albionscastle

[albionscastle]

#krypto stole the whole show

[albionscastle]

DAVID CORENSWET as CLARK KENT in SUPERMAN (2025) dir. James Gunn

[albionscastle]

CLARK KENT in Superman (2025)

[albionscastle]

TOP GEAR | POLAR SPECIAL

[albionscastle]

[albionscastle]

Red Dust and Trouble Part 3

A salt pan, snakes and Hammond meets a dinosaur.

I was happier with the original version of this but I accidentally deleted the entire fic, (chalk it up to working 3rd shift for 12 hours a day 10 days straight). With luck I haven't completely botched the rewrite.

Fic Materlist

Salt and Solitude

Ten hours on the road had worn thin even the most seasoned travelers.

The desert stretched on in every direction, a vast ribbon of scorched bitumen slicing through nothingness. The only signs of movement were the long curling dust trails kicked up by their utes and the occasional buzz of a drone tracking their progress from above.

There were no stunts scheduled. No planned banter. Just pure footage—cinematic shots of outback travel, the heart of the journey captured in silence and dust.

They rolled into Lake Hart in the late afternoon.

It looked like the world had cracked open and poured salt into the wound. A sprawling, bone-white pan stretched to the horizon, flat and shimmering. The light refracted off it like glass, haloing the entire site in a surreal glow. The ghost of a train line ran nearby, rusted and quiet.

No trees. No fences. No shade.

Perfect.

The crew got to work fast. Tents rose like paper cranes, the production truck unfolding into a makeshift kitchen. Batteries were swapped, cameras positioned. There was the usual rhythm to it all—chaotic, but choreographed.

And then, the boys revealed their utes.

May went first, pulling back the canvas on his tray with a flourish.

“A mobile library-slash-cocktail bar,” he announced proudly.

Books lined makeshift shelves. A battered leather armchair was bolted to the tray. A bottle of gin rocked gently in a hammock of netting.

Clarkson was next. His generator coughed, sputtered, then roared to life in a cloud of diesel smoke.

With dramatic flair, he pulled back a tarp to reveal a portable jacuzzi already gurgling ominously.

“You’re going to poach yourself,” Hammond muttered.

“Like a rich lobster,” Clarkson replied smugly.

She snorted behind the camera. “Please tell me you’re not actually getting in that thing.”

Clarkson ignored her entirely.

Then it was Hammond’s turn.

There was no showmanship. No dramatic curtain-pull. He simply unlatched the side of his tray, flipped it down, and rolled out a thick canvas bedroll beside a tidy little stove. A small table folded open, two enamel mugs already resting on top. A compact cooler. A lantern. One tightly rolled wool blanket and a proper sleeping bag.

“See,” he said to the camera, “this is how you actually camp.”

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t funny.

But it worked.

She passed behind the crew, arms full of cables. Hammond caught her eye and she nodded once, approving.

It felt better than any punchline.

Later, while Clarkson’s spa burbled feebly and May argued with a sound tech about wind interference, Hammond watched her set up her own tent off to the side of the crew.

It was a small, sharp-angled one-person thing. She had it up in under five minutes—tight lines, proper tension, bedroll already unfurled. No help asked. None needed.

There was a quiet efficiency to her that he admired more than he could explain.

She moved like someone who had done this before. A lot.

She caught him watching.

“Don’t tell me you brought an actual billy,” she called, pointing to the little pot steaming beside his stove.

“Proper tea, the proper way,” he said, lifting it proudly.

She wandered over, kicking up little flurries of salt. “Is this your protest against the Jacuzzi Industrial Complex?”

“Something like that.”

She crouched beside his setup, warming her hands by the flame. “Do this often?”

“Camping?”

She nodded.

“Used to,” he said. “Not so much anymore.”

“Why not?”

He hesitated, then shrugged. “It stopped being fun on my own.”

The truth slipped out so easily it startled him.

She looked at him, and for a beat, her expression softened in a way that made his chest ache.

“Well,” she said quietly. “You’re not alone tonight.”

It shouldn’t have meant so much.

But it did.

Dinner was chaotic and thrown together as usual—tins of chili, sausages, bad attempts at pasta in Clarkson’s spa water. Someone passed around a Bluetooth speaker until the battery died on Midnight Oil’s “Beds Are Burning.”

They ate cross-legged in the dirt, laughing and bickering.

As the sun dropped below the horizon, the salt turned a soft, surreal pink. Like the world had blushed and frozen that way.

Afterward, one by one, people disappeared into their tents. The fire died low.

Hammond sat on his roll, arms behind his head, staring up at a sky he hadn’t seen in years—endless, brilliant, scattered with stars.

That’s when he saw her.

Perched on a small rise of salt not far off, silhouetted against the last of the light, watching the sky.

He got up and walked over, boots crunching on the brittle ground.

“Planning an escape?” he asked softly.

She smiled. “Tempting. But no. Just taking a minute.”

He dropped down beside her, the salt hard and cold beneath them. They stared at the stars in silence.

Then she said, very casually, “Don’t freak out. But there’s a snake behind you.”

He froze.

“What.”

“Little one. Probably a Stimson’s python. Harmless.”

He turned, slowly. Sure enough, a slim reddish snake was weaving a lazy path about three meters away.

“I hate this place.”

“You love it.”

“…Maybe.”

They laughed—quiet, breathless, careful not to spook the snake or the moment.

When it slithered off, he sighed and leaned back.

“Thanks for the warning.”

“Thanks for not screaming like Clarkson would’ve.”

“I did. Inside.”

She nudged his shoulder. “You’re alright, Hammond.”

He glanced at her.

So was she.

They didn’t touch. Didn’t need to.

But as they walked back to camp, her hand brushed his.

And, she didn’t pull away.

“The Goanna Whisperer”

The sun had only just broken the horizon when Lake Hart came alive again.

Tents rustled. Boots crunched over salt and dust. Crew members emerged bleary-eyed from their shelters, shrugging on jackets against the dawn chill and muttering into steaming mugs of instant coffee.

May, still in his pajama bottoms and a too-tight band T-shirt, poked listlessly at a can of baked beans with a titanium spork. Clarkson was swearing at the percolator he’d stolen from someone’s supply crate.

And Hammond… well, Hammond shuffled blearily out of his truck like a bear emerging from hibernation. His hair was sticking up in about eight directions, his shirt was backwards, and he had the unmistakable air of a man who wasn’t fully convinced he was awake yet.

He paused halfway through a yawn.

“Why are you two staring like that?” he mumbled, blinking toward Clarkson and May, who were standing motionless, mouths slightly open.

“Don’t move,” Clarkson said.

“Don’t speak,” May added.

“Why? What’s happening? Are we being hunted?”

May pointed silently across the salt flat, to a patch of red earth near the edge of the camp.

There, crouched comfortably in the dirt, was her.

And directly in front of her—less than two feet away—was a goanna the size of a golden retriever.

It was monstrous. Thick tail, mottled scales, long claws. Its tongue flicked in and out as it delicately accepted bits of meat from her hand like a lizard-shaped houseguest at brunch.

She was talking to it, voice soft and calm, like she was discussing politics over coffee. The enormous lizard blinked slowly in response, entirely unbothered by the camera crew filming from a cautious distance.

“She’s feeding it,” Clarkson said flatly.

“She’s talking to it,” May corrected.

“She’s bonding with it,” Hammond added, incredulous.

As if on cue, the goanna flicked its tongue again and took another dainty bite from her hand.

“She’s lost her mind,” May said.

“She’s Australian,” Clarkson replied. “There’s overlap.”

“She’s something,” Hammond muttered, rubbing a hand down his face.

The three of them stood like birdwatchers at the edge of a nature documentary, silently calculating how close they could get without getting their ankles shredded.

She glanced up, finally noticing them. Her face split into a bright, cheerful grin.

“Oh good, you’re awake!” she called.

“More or less,” Hammond said weakly.

“Come say hi.”

Clarkson made a strangled sound.

“No,” he said. “Absolutely not. That thing could eat a toddler.”

“Or a small presenter,” May added, backing up a step.

“I’ll pass, thanks,” Clarkson said. “I prefer my breakfast without the risk of mauling.”

She turned to Hammond, one brow raised.

“What about you?”

He hesitated. Still slightly dazed. Still in his socks.

Then he sighed. “Yeah, alright. What the hell.”

“Richard,” May warned, horrified. “Think about your knees.”

“Think about your life,” Clarkson added. “That’s a dragon.”

“It’s fine,” she said as Hammond approached, careful in the dust. “He’s just hungry. And a bit of a show-off.”

“Who does that remind me of?” Hammond muttered.

“Flatterer.”

Up close, the goanna was even bigger. Its claws left little trenches in the red dirt, and its eyes tracked Hammond with ancient, lizardy disdain. She offered him a strip of something vaguely beef-colored from a Ziploc bag.

“Hold it low,” she said. “And still.”

“You’re alarmingly calm about this.”

“So is he,” she said, gesturing to the goanna. “He only hisses at people he doesn’t like.”

“Comforting,” Hammond murmured, extending the meat with steady hands.

The goanna looked at him. Tilted its head.

And then—very delicately—took the offering from his fingers.

Hammond stared in wonder. “Huh.”

“See?” she said, beaming. “Easy.”

“I’ve fed a lemur once. This is significantly more intense.”

The camera crew was definitely filming now, catching the moment from a respectful distance as the goanna gave a final flick of its tongue and turned, sauntering back across the salt with all the pride of a creature who’d just owned the entire morning.

Hammond exhaled.

Clarkson clapped sarcastically. “Lovely. Well done. I suppose we’re all feeding reptiles now.”

“I thought we already were,” May said. “We work with Jeremy.”

“I heard that.”

She stood, brushing off her hands, and gave Hammond a satisfied nod.

“Not bad,” she said. “You didn’t flinch.”

“I’m asleep,” he said. “I’ll probably remember this around lunch.”

She laughed, falling into step beside him as they wandered back toward camp.

He looked over, lips twitching.

“You realise you’re officially the most terrifying member of the crew now, right?”

“I was trying to ease you all into it slowly,” she said. “But then the goanna showed up and ruined the surprise.”

They shared a look. That easy, warm thing again. A rhythm.

Then May shouted something about scalded beans, and Clarkson started ranting about kangaroo bacon, and the moment folded gently into the background noise of a new day.

But Hammond glanced over one last time as she poured coffee from a battered thermos into a tin cup.

She was laughing to herself.And all he could think was: God help me, I think I’d feed a crocodile if she asked.

[albionscastle]

The Ties That Bind ~ Chapter Twenty-Three

Summary: Although Erebor is his once more, Thorin knows there is still a great threat to the peace of Middle Earth. Azog is gone, but another has taken his place and has sworn to finish what Azog began. Erebor is back, but it’s sadly lacking in protection and as much as he hates the thought of it, Thorin knows there is one thing that will guarantee the safety and continuation of his line.

War is coming and all Eirlys of Mirkwood wishes to do is fight alongside her brother Legolas and the other elves, united with Men and Dwarves in their attempt to quell the renewed tensions between them and the orc army of the north. But, her father, Thranduíl has other plans. Unite his kingdom with the newly reestablished kingdom of Erebor and use the power of both to defeat the orcs.

An arranged marriage that neither side wants, but both sides need. But what happens when the two sides realize that maybe—just maybe—being together isn't quite as bad as they'd thought...

Pairing: Thorin x ofc Eirlys of Mirkwood

Warnings: None

Rating: T

Word Count: 2.6k

Read on AO3

While Thorin was busy with Bard of Dale, Eirlys didn't really know what to do with herself. She didn't know her way around much of Erebor yet, not that it mattered. What business would she have down in the forge or in the laundry or in any part of the kingdom, really? 

Which meant that she had nothing to do. Madris had gone off to the laundry, but since she really had no reason to follow, Eirlys remained in the Great Hall, and with no where to go, she chose a chair in the far corner, where she was certain to be out of the way.

“What are you doing here alone?”

She looked up as Dís came into the Great Hall, her black brows knit as her gaze fell upon her. Although she was the only one in the cavernous room, Eirlys still looked around, then pointed to herself. “Me?”

“Yes,” Dís chuckled, her eyes brightening as she drew near, “you. Did you need something?”

“No,” Eirlys shook her head, “I don’t need anything at all. Am I somewhere I’m not supposed to be?”

“My dear,” Dís drew out the chair across from her and sank into it, “you are the queen. There is nowhere in Erebor you are not supposed to be.”

“Is that so? For it doesn’t quite seem that way to me.”

“Why? Has someone said something to you?”

“No. I mean, Thorin has told me not to go out into the courtyard but other than that, no one speaks to me unless I initiate the conversation and I’m afraid I’m not entirely used to that.”

“You’re their queen.”

“I know that, I was the princess of Mirkwood back home and everyone there always talked to me, even if it was just to bid me a good morning.” Eirlys shrugged. “Here, they only stare and wait until I pass by before whispering about me.”

Dís’ smile wavered, but remained in place. “You are new here, remember. And dwarves are taught to not trust elves, just as I’m certain elves are warned not to trust dwarves.”

“We are warned to take care where anyone non-elven is concerned,” Eirlys replied slowly, tapping her fingertips against the table. “But we rarely stare as if we’ve never seen a dwarf before, even when some of us haven’t.”

“Give them time. First, you are an elven princess. Second, you are an elf. Third, you’ve married the king—a dwarf more than one young dwarrowdam had had her sights set on. You must be patient, for you will, in time, win them over, I’m sure. Just,” a winsome smile rose to Dís’ lips and her blue eyes sparkled, “as you’ve won my brother over.”

Those words sent a strange warmth through Eirlys and she couldn't help but return Dís’ smile. “Have I, won him over, that is?”

“Why wouldn’t you? He seems happy to me, and happy is not something Thorin is altogether familiar with.” Dís rested her clasped hands on the table. “He’s known so much sorrow and grief, it’d wonderful to see him so happy now.”

“He doesn’t speak much of his past.”

“No, I don't imagine he does,” Dís replied softly, the colored glass beads in her beard clacking softly with each word. “I think he’d rather forget it all if it were possible.”

“He took me up to Ravenhill earlier.”

“He did? He normally avoids that place at all costs. I don't think he’s been up there since the battle—” Dís’ eyes grew shiny and she pressed her lips together for a long moment, and Eirlys didn't press her. Her sons had nearly lost their lives at the fortress as well. That memory had to haunt Dís to a certain extent, even though both men had survived.

Still, Eirlys was nothing but sympathetic as she let her hands come down atop Dís’. “We don’t have to speak of it, if you’d rather not.”

“No, it’s fine,” Dís whispered. Then, she cleared her throat and her back straightened. “My boys lived to tell their tales, and for that I shall aways be thankful. But, that doesn’t mean I like thinking about those tales, you know.”

“I can only imagine. But, while we were up there, I offered to erase those memories from his mind, only to have him rebuff my offer.” Eirlys offered up a sheepish smile. “And I was wrong to offer it, even if I meant well.”

“Thorin didn't always learn from his mistakes. Hopefully now, he will.” 

“His mistakes?”

“Oh, yes. He’s made a few, to be sure. At times he can be extremely bullheaded.”

“Is there a man alive who isn’t?”

Dís chuckled. “Fair point, Eirlys. I’m assuming you’ve seen that stubborn side of him, then?”

“I have. But, to be honest, I can be just as bad at times.”

“No one is like Thorin, though. He is stubborn to a fault, although it is usually because he thinks he is acting in the best interests of his people.”

“Then he is no different from other rulers. My father is proof of that. He’s quite stubborn himself.” 

“Well, hopefully he doesn’t drive you too mad with it.” Dís’ expression grew serious once more. “Why did you ask him to go up to Ravenhill?

“I didn't ask him, he offered and would not hear of my saying no. Although, I must confess, I was curious about it. I wasn't allowed to join the battle, you know.”

“It’s just as well. From what I understand, it was an ugly day.”

“I know, but…” Eirlys paused, unsure as to how to explain why she’d wished so badly at the time to join the fray. Dís had almost lost her only two children in that battle, along with her only remaining brother. She might not understand any reason for wanting to join in a brutal fight.

“But what?”

Eirlys sighed softly. “I trained alongside my brother from the time I was old enough to wield a blade. But when the time came…” She shrugged. “I was not allowed to leave Mirkwood. I stood by and watched as even Tauriel was dispatched to Dale. Only my maid remained in the palace with me.”

“Your father probably wished only to keep you safe.”

“Be that as it may, I wanted to stand alongside the others and fight with them, and that’s probably why I was curious about Ravenhill. And as I said, I offered to remove Thorin’s memories of it, but he said no.” Eirlys sat back with another shrug. “But, it was a nice outing, just the same.”

“Until Dwalin appeared.”

Eirlys hesitated, not at all certain she should agree. But then, she nodded. “I know Thorin has his duties and one of them is taking meetings even if they happen at inopportune moments, but I’d be lying if I said it didn't trouble me.”

“Which is understandable, and I’ll wager Thorin wasn't too happy, either. Bard isn’t exactly one of his favorite people.”

“Is there bad blood between them?”

Now it was Dís’ turn to hesitate. “There was, yes, but Thorin was not entirely himself when it happened, so… so I think you should probably ask him about it, for it is not my story to tell, suffice to say that he and Bard managed to bury the hatchet, so to speak, and now are not entirely friends, but I think it safe to say they are allies.”

“My father has had dealings with Bard of Dale, both now and when he was in Esgaroth, but I never heard of anyone aside from the former Master of Esgaroth having trouble with him.”

“I’ve not had much in the way of dealing with him at all,” Dís told her, “and I prefer to keep it that way.”

Eirlys chuckled as she bobbed her head. “You and me, both. Although, it most likely won’t matter, as I don't think Thorin will be including me in much of his royal matters.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure, if I was you,” Dís told her seriously. “In time, I imagine he will see and treat you as an equal partner, if he isn’t already.”

“Why would he? We’ve only just come to know each other, and our courtship was that in name only, as we met and were married within a few days.”

“True, but I know my brother.” Dís offered up a serene smile. “He will be including you in any and all decisions he might make. You might be of Erebor, or of our people, but make no mistake, you are the queen and he would never make a decision without at least consulting you.

“But,” her smile faded and her expression grew serious, “that doesn’t mean he will alway do what you suggest. He will always put the interests of Erebor and his people first.”

“You say that as if I should expect him to bow down to my wishes at every turn,” Eirlys replied, shaking her head, “but I would never expect such a thing. He knows your people far better than I ever will and while I’ve not known him a long time, I would have to be blind to not see how he leads and how seriously he takes that duty. I think it’s why he and my father butted heads. They are very much alike.”

“Don't let Thorin hear you say that.”

Eirlys couldn't help her laugh. “Nor would I let my father hear it, either. But, that doesn’t make it any less true.” She sat back. “Does Bard visit here often? I know you’ve said there was bad blood between them.”

“Often enough. Back when the dwarves first arrived at Esgaroth, my fool brother offered them a share in this mountain’s wealth.” Dís raised her hands to slowly arc them over her head and down. “Very well, I don't suppose it would cause any harm to tell you why there was that bad blood, as it came about in the aftermath of Smaug’s attack, but I assume you know of that? I’d imagine word bus have spread in regards to it.”

“No,” Eirlys confessed softly, “I’m afraid I don’t know much about it, really. My father kept me fairly well sequestered away from what was happening here, too afraid I’d ride off after Legolas and Tauriel and get myself killed.”

Dís hesitated then. “Perhaps you should but ask Thorin about that. It’s a part of his history that he isn’t entirely comfortable with.”

“The dragon sickness?” Eirly offered, keeping her voice low. “No, I don't need to ask him about that, for it was the one thing my father spoke of before he rode out to Dale to offer aid to the survivors of Esgaroth after the town burned.”

Dís nodded slowly. “Yes, Dragon sickness. A terrible thing, that. Smaug had made his home here for nearly a century and that taints gold and treasure unlike anything other in the world. It wasn't his fault, of course, but it clouded his judgement and made him greedy, just as it did our grandfather. 

“But, he’s since recovered, thankfully, and in the process, his greed has waned and he has made good on his promise to help rebuild both Esgaroth and Dale. Which was quite fair, really, when you consider how he and the Company unleashed that blasted dragon upon them to begin with.”

“So, Bard is here because he is in need of more money?”

“No, not likely. Thorin has been more than generous when it comes to that.” The beads in dis’ beard clacked with more force with this shake of her head. “No, it’s probably trouble with vendors or tradesmen. After the fire, so many scattered to the four corners of Middle Earth and left behind were those not quite so skilled, or more interested in making a quick piece than doing actual work. The last time Bard appeared on our doorstep, it was because the lumber man was trying to charge twice his quoted and agreed upon price. He backed down very quickly when Thorin turned up on his doorstep.”

“I can only imagine.”

Dís’ eyes flicked up, above Eirlys’ shoulder, and she smiled. “And seeing as how he doesn’t look ready to pull someone’s head off, I’d say the meeting went well.”

Eirlys twisted about to see Thorin standing in the arched doorway to the Great Hall with a dark-haired man who stood nearly a foot taller. Bard of Dale, no doubt. Both men looked to be in a fair mood, and whatever Thorin was saying to him, the Master of Dale’s white teeth flashed in a smile in response. 

Then Thorin glanced over and Eirlys’ heart skipped a beat at the slow smile that lifted his lips. She couldn't help but return it, a teasing heat rising in her cheeks when Bard glanced over, most likely to see why Thorin smiled the way he did, and he smiled as well.

Man and dwarf parted ways there, with Bard disappearing from view, heading toward the entrance, no doubt, while Thorin came into the Great Hall and crossed over to them. “Dís, tell me you are not interrogating my bride so soon after our arrival.”

“I’m doing no such thing. In fact,” Dís smiled as she rose from her chair, “she and I were just having a lovely chat. And now, I will leave the two of you. I have some correspondence that I need answer.”

“Enjoy. And tell Dáin he still owes me for the two barrels of mead he pilfered the last time he was here.”

“I will. Eirlys, I wholly enjoyed talking with you. I hope we might do it again sometime, perhaps over tea?”

“I’d like that,” she replied with a smile. 

“As would I.” Dís turned to her brother. “Thorin, I’ll see you at supper.”

“Enjoy the rest of your afternoon.”

As Dís took herself off, Eirlys turned back to Thorin. “I hope your meet with Bard went well.”

A low sigh leaked through Thorin’s teeth as he sank into the chair next to hers. “It did, but it’s exhausting, working with some of these tradesmen. There are days when I’d gladly like to tell them all where they might go and get them out of my hair for good.”

“Dís has mentioned you’ve had less than pleasant dealings with them.”

“I’ll be glad when Esgaroth and Dale are both restored to their former glory. Then the Bowman will remain in Dale and not show up on our doorstep on a weekly basis.”

“Bowman?”

“That’s who he was when I met him. He only became the Master of Dale when Esgaroth burned and the Master there was killed. He is a competent enough leader, fair and mindful of the needs of his people, but he is also stubborn and not fond of being flexible.”

Without thinking, she leaned her head against his shoulder. “That sounds like someone else I know.”

The low rumble of his chuckle vibrated through her. “You’ve come to know me well, mesmel.”

“What does that mean?”

“What does what mean?”

“Mesmel. You use it so often, but I don't know its meaning.”

“Come,” he told her, rising and holding out a hand, “I promised you a place where you could safely go to see the sun and sky, and I’ll tell you when we get there.”

“When we get there?” She rose alongside him, letting her hand come to rest in his. “Is it far?”

“Not far at all.” His fingers tightened about hers. “You’ll see.” 

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[albionscastle]

I'm so mad at myself right now, I just posted chapter two of a finished fic....and then accidentally deleted it...the whole fic, gone. It's the first time I've written straight into a doc without handwriting it first, I'll never make that mistake again. Off I go to rewrite it.......

[albionscastle]

Red Dust and Trouble 2

Sorry for the delay, I had to get a new laptop because writing and editing on my phone and/or tablet was just not working for me.

This chapter is a continuation of the group's journey through the Australian Outback complete with drag races, heat and scary wildlife stories. #tw: mentions of spiders.

Fic Masterlist

Dubbo at Dawn

The sun was barely up, and it was already forty degrees.

Richard wilted slowly into his breakfast like a Victorian heroine on the fainting couch. Sweat beaded along his hairline and trickled down his back beneath the collar of his shirt, which had once been crisp and was now limp with resignation. He nursed a mug of bad hotel coffee and stared out across the quiet terrace, watching the air shimmer off the tarmac like it was personally offended by their presence.

Birds screeched in the distance. The scent of eucalyptus and melting asphalt hung heavy.

He hadn’t spoken yet this morning. Didn’t trust himself to. It was 5 a.m., and the heat was already so thick he felt like he was breathing through a sock.

The others were still inside. May, deeply committed to tea and a crossword. Clarkson, loudly interrogating the buffet staff about whether the bacon was real. But Richard had ducked out early, desperate for a bit of quiet before the day’s planned chaos: a race on a blazing-hot runway, followed by another long drive into nothingness.

He sipped his coffee, tried not to melt entirely, and then, he saw her.

She stepped out onto the terrace with a paper cup in one hand and a plate balanced in the other. Her hair was in a braid today, a loose thing trailing over one shoulder, and she looked maddeningly fresh. Awake. Sharp-eyed and upright like the heat had decided to leave her alone out of respect.

Sturdy khakis again, dusty boots, and a white gauzy shirt that caught the sunrise in a way that made his thoughts grind to a halt. It was just see-through enough in the light to hint at lace beneath, and Richard—mid-coffee sip—nearly choked.

She didn’t seem to notice.

Or worse, she did, and was just kind enough not to say anything as she made her way to his table.

“Morning,” she said, setting her plate down across from him.

Her voice was chipper. Criminal, at this hour.

“Is it?” he muttered. “I hadn’t noticed.”

She smiled, peeled the lid off her coffee, and blew across the surface. “You look like someone wrung you out and left you on a line.”

“Thank you. Always a treat to feel attractive before sunrise.”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly in that way that always made him feel like she could see through him. “I didn’t say you weren’t attractive. I just said you looked a bit… damp.”

He blinked. “That’s a horrifying sentence.”

“Mm. Accurate though.”

He couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. She was radiant and infuriating, all cool composure and hidden thorns.

She bit into a slice of toast like this wasn’t a moment he’d remember later—like she hadn’t just completely re-ordered the temperature of the day just by being in it.

She was halfway through her toast when the sound of the sliding doors whooshed open behind them.

“Oh good,” came Clarkson’s voice, already at full volume despite the hour. “We’ve relocated to the surface of the bloody sun.”

May followed, fanning himself with a paper napkin. “Is it actually forty degrees or is that just how death feels?”

Clarkson flopped into a chair and jabbed a finger at the sky. “This heat is unnatural. Biblical, even. I think my spleen’s melting.”

“I told you not to eat the scrambled eggs,” she said mildly, sipping her coffee. “They looked suspicious.”

“I like living dangerously.”

“You like buffet bacon that’s been under a heat lamp since 4 a.m.”

May looked at Hammond, already resigned. “How are you so sweaty? We’ve been outside for five minutes.”

“I sweat proactively,” Richard said dryly. “It’s a system.”

She snorted. “Very efficient of you.”

By 6:00 sharp, they were all packed up and pulling into the edge of Dubbo’s airport—a flat, shimmering stretch of tarmac cleared just for them. The director waved them over, drones buzzed overhead, and a line of production assistants stood ready with clipboards, walkies, and water bottles.

The utes rumbled into position like beasts in a paddock. Matte black, garish orange, and one painted a hideous shade of blue that only May could love.

Richard was already slipping into performance mode, sunglasses on, voice just a little louder, a little more clipped. The kind of thing the cameras ate up. The kind of thing that used to come easy.

“Welcome to scenic Dubbo,” he said, gesturing broadly. “Known for...absolutely nothing except dust and a mild sense of despair. Perfect place for a drag race.”

The director barked a laugh behind the lens. Clarkson revved his engine aggressively. May sighed.

They lined up—three utes, three grown men ready to risk heatstroke for bragging rights.

The first race was a surprise.

May won.

He didn’t so much race as float, his truck finding some bizarre sweet spot in the surface that left the other two choking in his dust.

Richard stared, open-mouthed. Clarkson yelled something rude.

May stuck his head out the window and shrugged.

“I don’t understand it either.”

The next two races went as expected.

Hammond found his rhythm, the truck roaring beneath him, tires screaming against the sunbaked tarmac. He felt it in his chest—control, momentum, the thrum of satisfaction when the world narrowed down to speed and grit and a perfect gear shift.

He took the next two wins with flair, throwing up a cloud of dust and throwing his arms out of the window like a rock star pulling into an encore.

The cameras loved it.

He loved it a little more.

After the last run, when the dust had settled and Clarkson was still loudly protesting the fairness of literally everything, Richard coasted back toward the convoy. She was standing beside the line of parked utes, clipboard under one arm, her braid now slightly frizzed from the rising heat but her energy completely undiminished.

He swung out of the truck and walked toward her, still grinning.

“Two out of three,” he said. “Please hold your applause.”

She didn’t look up from her checklist. “I’ll send a card.”

“You’re very chipper for someone who’s been awake since before the sun.”

“Comes with the territory.”

He leaned a little closer, squinting in the glare. “How do you do that? The sun’s trying to kill us and you’re out here like it’s spring in the Cotswolds.”

She looked up at him then, finally. There was sweat at her temples, a sun flush across her cheeks, but her eyes were sharp and bright.

“I’ve lived here my whole life,” she said simply. “My body’s used to it. Heat doesn’t faze me.”

“Jealous,” he muttered.

She smiled, lifted a small cooler—an eskie, she called it—and popped the passenger door of his ute open. Inside went a cold bottle of water, and beside it, a can of some vaguely neon sports drink labeled Body Armour: Citrus Surge.

“Alternate these,” she said, with the confidence of someone who’d delivered that same advice to stubborn men before. “The electrolytes and potassium help. And if they don’t, the placebo effect might.”

He stared at the can. “It looks radioactive.”

“Deliciously so.”

“I’m skeptical.”

She gave him a knowing look. “And yet you’ll drink it.”

He grinned. “I will. But only because you told me to.”

“Good. That means if you pass out, I can tell the paramedics you were warned.”

He laughed and shook his head, but his fingers lingered on the bottle for a second longer than necessary. She was already moving down the line, checking supplies in May’s truck and rattling off sunscreen reminders like a drill sergeant.

And Richard?

He was still smiling, even as sweat trickled down his spine and the wind picked up dust across the runway.

Something about her made him feel like maybe—just maybe—forty-nine wasn’t the end of the road.

Maybe, it was just a turn.

By 10 a.m., the sun had gone from aggressive to downright hostile.

They rolled out of Dubbo in a loose convoy: utes in the lead, camera cars close behind, and a trail of dust thick enough to blot out the horizon. The tarmac stretched endlessly ahead of them, black and blistering, cutting through scrubland and sunburnt paddocks.

It was eight hours to Broken Hill, and between here and there was mostly nothing. A handful of blink-and-miss-it towns, some roadkill, and the occasional defiant gum tree.

Hammond drove with the window half down and the air con wheezing, a damp tea towel tucked behind his neck like a pensioner on a cruise. He alternated obediently between the cold water and the fluorescent Body Armour in his cup holder. It helped. Barely.

They stopped for fuel and a lunch break just past Nyngan—one of those dry, dusty service stations that sold everything from bacon sandwiches to car batteries and was manned by a teenager who looked like he’d been trapped there since the 90s.

The café had plastic chairs out front and a sad little palm tree trying its best in the corner. They inhaled sausage rolls and cans of Solo, half-listening as Clarkson ranted about the price of unleaded and May got into a serious conversation with a truck driver about the local birdlife.

Richard sat back in the shade, eyes half-lidded, and watched her.

She was standing by the vehicles, talking with one of the camera operators and pointing at a printout. Her braid swung behind her as she moved, and the loose white shirt—creased now, sun-kissed—flapped a little in the warm breeze.

She didn’t stop moving. Ever.

One minute she was handing out replacement batteries. The next, checking tire pressure or confirming the rest stop timings on the radio. The crew moved around her like she was magnetic north, and he realized, slowly, that it wasn’t just him.

They all watched her. All listened when she spoke. Every single one of them—camera crew, sound techs, drivers, even the grizzled local production manager—followed her lead like she was the only one keeping the whole trip from flying off the rails.

It struck him then, between bites of overcooked meat pie and sips of electrolytes: she was.

This wasn’t just a job. This was survival.

And out here, survival meant more than remembering sunscreen or staying hydrated. It meant knowing which petrol stations actually had clean fuel. Which roads looked open but weren’t. Where to find water, how to spot heat stroke before it hit. She moved through this land like she belonged to it—and it to her—and the rest of them were just visitors bumbling through a terrain that could kill you if you stopped paying attention for too long.

It stirred something in him. A strange mix of admiration, curiosity, and something he wasn’t ready to name yet.

They pulled into Nyngan around midday for what the director called “a scenic detour-slash-photo op” at The Big Bogan—a towering steel cutout of a singlet-wearing Aussie man holding a fishing rod and a beer.

It was ridiculous. Naturally, the boys loved it.

Within seconds, the camera was rolling, and all three of them were performing.

May did his best impersonation of a regional librarian on holiday: awkward, sun-sensitive, full of disapproval.

Hammond went full larrikin—slouched stance, exaggerated accent, making up facts about his ute and pretending to crack open an imaginary tinnie.

But it was Clarkson who won, shambling up to the Big Bogan with his shirt half untucked, holding an actual sausage in one hand and a packet of Tim Tams in the other.

“Oi,” he said in his best bogan grunt. “Youse lot seen me thongs?”

The director laughed so hard he nearly dropped the camera. The take was a lock.

As the others cackled and gathered around the statue for a group shot, Richard’s eyes strayed—again.

There she was, off to the side, scribbling something in a notebook while fielding a radio call. Her shirt was damp at the collar now, a smudge of dirt on one cheek, but she still looked maddeningly composed.

He felt it again—that tug in his chest, low and quiet.

She didn’t look at him. Didn’t need to. She was always three steps ahead.

The road continued west.

They stopped again twice—once for a drone shot over a ridge, once to get footage of Clarkson squinting theatrically at a dead snake on the verge.

Each time, Hammond found himself scanning the crew.

Each time, his eyes found her first.

Sometimes she caught him. Sometimes she didn’t. Once, she offered him a water bottle before he could ask. Another time, she radioed in to remind him his taillight camera was loose before the ADs even noticed.

By the time they rolled into Broken Hill just before dusk, he was dusty, sunstruck, and completely done in.

But he was also starting to understand something.

He was in trouble.

Because this wasn’t just a crush.

Not anymore.

Spider Tales at The Palace

The Palace Hotel in Broken Hill was a world away from the dusty roads and roaring utes outside. The carpets were threadbare, the air conditioning wheezed like an asthmatic wombat, but the walls—oh, the walls—were something else entirely.

Massive Renaissance-inspired murals stretched across the interior, depicting the Australian landscape in dramatic, almost fantastical ways. Kangaroos leapt like mythic beasts, the red desert sky swirled with gold and violet, and there, unmistakably, was the iconic pink bus from Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, painted with such loving detail it almost seemed to shimmer in the dim light.

Hammond stepped inside, blinking up at the artistry as though seeing the hotel for the first time.

“Bloody hell,” he murmured. “It’s the Palace from Priscilla.”

She looked up from the bar, a half-pint in hand, her eyes lighting with surprise.

“You’ve seen Priscilla, Queen of the Desert?”

“Of course,” he said, crossing to her. “Incredible costumes. Excellent soundtrack. Plus, I’ve got a soft spot for buses.”

She grinned. “Didn’t peg you for the type.”

“I contain multitudes.”

“Multitudes and very questionable driving habits.”

Clarkson and May ambled in a moment later, grumbling about room sizes and complaining loudly about which of them got the one with the leaky showerhead.

They found a long wooden table under an overhead fan that didn’t so much circulate the air as suggest movement. Dinner was simple—steaks, chips, ice-cold beers—and the mood lightened as the food arrived and the heat of the day finally began to bleed away into the desert night.

It was one of those golden crew nights, where nobody had anywhere to be, no cameras were rolling, and everyone could just breathe. The table filled slowly—PA’s, camera ops, drivers, even the grumpy sound tech who never smiled unless someone fell over during a shot.

By the third round of drinks, someone launched into a horror story about waking up to a goanna trying to get into their kitchen through a dog flap.

That set the tone.

From there it became a game: who could tell the most horrific true(ish) story about Australian wildlife?

“Had a blue tongue lizard climb me like a bloody tree once,” said one grip, deadpan. “Thought I was a gum tree. Wouldn’t let go of my shirt for an hour.”

“Was it chasing something?” Hammond asked, horrified.

“Chasing me, mate.”

Everyone roared with laughter.

Another crew member told a story about a magpie that dive bombed him every day on his walk to school for a month. “Started wearing a saucepan on my head. Didn’t help.”

May, wine glass in hand, blinked owlishly. “Are these… normal things here?”

“Oh, this is just the warm-up,” she said cheerfully.

Clarkson, two beers in, was already fanning himself with a coaster. “If one of you says the words ‘funnel-web’ I’m leaving.”

She raised her glass. “Challenge accepted.”

Everyone leaned in.

“You want nightmare fuel?” she said, biting back a smile. “Try this on for size.”

Richard turned toward her instinctively, already bracing.

“I was sixteen,” she began, “living with my mum and nan at the time. One summer afternoon, my Nana decided to hose down the pergola because there were cobwebs gathering along the beams.”

Clarkson raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess. They weren’t just cobwebs.”

“Oh, they were webs,” she said sweetly. “But what dropped out of them? A massive black mouse spider. Right onto the table.”

There was a collective noise of disgust around the table. May gagged quietly into his beer.

Richard paled. “That’s the one with the fangs, isn’t it?”

“Huge fangs,” she confirmed. “Venomous. Aggressive. Jet black. Nana screamed, I screamed—then she got this brilliant idea to spray the whole area down with bug spray.”

“Ah,” Hammond said faintly. “I see where this is going.”

“She hosed the entire pergola,” she continued, voice full of mock solemnity. “And then…”

She paused dramatically.

“…they started falling. Dozens of them. From everywhere. Hitting the ground like awful little plops. Some were still twitching.”

The table erupted into a chorus of horrified laughter.

“Dozens?” May squeaked. “You had a colony of them?!”

“We called an exterminator that afternoon. He said he’d never seen anything like it. I refused to go out into the backyard for a year. Nana, of course, went back out the next day with a fly swatter and a vengeance.”

Clarkson stared at her. “Your grandmother is a terrifying woman.”

“She was the mild one.”

Even Richard laughed then—helpless, caught between nausea and awe.

“You know,” he said, wiping tears from his eyes, “I was almost over my fear of spiders. Almost.”

“Well,” she said, raising her glass to clink against his, “consider this a timely reminder to stay humble.”

He smiled at her, warm and grateful, and didn’t quite look away fast enough.

The rest of the night passed in a blur of terrible stories and worse jokes. The kind of night that stitched something into memory without trying—easy and chaotic, filled with heat and noise and the flicker of something else, something quieter, threading beneath it all.

Later, as Hammond climbed into his room and peeled off his shirt to collapse beneath the fan, he couldn’t stop hearing her voice—laughing, teasing, full of fire and sunlight and bloody spider stories.

It stayed with him.

Along with the creeping suspicion that his nightmares tonight would be full of eight legs and braids and a smile that made his heart ache.

[albionscastle]

i just finished "the Man from Rome" and it was alright, but riCHARD IN IT HOLY FUCKING SHIT

yes i'm a simp and i don't care who knows it

[albionscastle]

[albionscastle]

[albionscastle]

Acropolis, Athens (Greece)

[albionscastle]

The Mummy (1999) dir. Stephen Sommers

[albionscastle]

NORTH AND SOUTH (2004)

dir. brian percival

[albionscastle]

[albionscastle]

Red Dust and Trouble 1

So, I'm moving home to Australia next year after 25 years in the USA and I'm so excited for it. I had this ridiculous idea of the boys doing a challenge in the Outback while I was planning a trip I'm going to take when I get back. This isn't a novel length fic but it is long enough that I'm breaking it into chapters because it is waaaaayyyyyyy too long to post as one. Plus I've only edited this first part so far. I wrote it in 3rd person from Hammond's point of view, thought it would be an interesting take. And since he has said that he's been having a bit of a midlife crisis I went with it....so he's a bit vulnerable.

There will be spice, just not yet.

Fic Masterlist

Red Dust and Trouble

Arrivals and Awakenings

Richard Hammond stepped off the plane in Sydney and immediately regretted everything.

The heat slapped him in the face like a scorned ex. His back ached, his head ached, his knees felt like they’d aged ten years during the flight, and even though he’d slept six hours propped against a neck pillow that smelled vaguely of wet dog, he was still bone-tired.

He reached for his bag at the luggage carousel and winced when the strap caught on his shoulder.

“Brilliant,” he muttered. “Falling apart before we’ve even started.”

Behind him, Clarkson was arguing with a customs officer about the confiscation of something—probably food. May looked like he’d gone through the spin cycle of a washing machine and come out rumpled and grumpyl.

Hammond rubbed the back of his neck and checked the terminal for their contact. They were supposed to meet someone here, a local wrangler-slash-poor-soul-chosen-to-herd-the-Three-Stooges-across-the-Australian-outback.

He expected a clipboard. A bored expression. Possibly a walkie-talkie.

What he got was her.

She stood just off to the side of the arrivals gate, hair in a messy pile, arms crossed over a battered brown leather satchel. She was wearing jeans and a tank top that managed to be both casual and absurdly flattering, and her wide, curious eyes scanned the incoming crowd with laser focus.

Then she spotted them.

Or rather, him.

Her expression shifted. A little grin tugged at the corner of her mouth, like she knew something he didn’t. It did odd things to his pulse.

“Richard Hammond?” she called, voice warm, laced with amusement.

“That’s me,” he said, stepping forward before the others could catch up.

“Happy belated birthday,” she said with a wink. “Forty-nine, right?”

He blinked. “That’s either extremely flattering or slightly terrifying.”

“I do my homework.” She extended a hand. “I’m your wrangler. You can call me whatever you like—most people just go with Oi, you.”

He laughed before he realized it. “You’re not what I was expecting.”

“Oh, I know.” She looked him up and down, clearly unfazed by the travel-weary version of himself currently drooping like a houseplant. “You’ve got a little more silver in the fox than the last time I saw you on telly. But still charming.”

He opened his mouth to retort—something witty, something flirtatious—but his brain stalled at still charming.

She turned her attention to Clarkson and May, who had finally caught up.

“Mr. Clarkson,” she said, with the tone of someone who’d already planned how to survive him. “Mr. May. Welcome to Sydney. I’m the one responsible for making sure you eat, sleep, show up to filming on time, and don’t die in the desert.”

May gave a polite nod. Clarkson looked suspicious. “You seem alarmingly competent.”

“I am,” she replied. “It’s why they pay me the big bucks.”

Hammond caught her glance back at him, a spark of something light-hearted and knowing dancing in her eyes. His lips curled before he could stop them.

She gestured toward the exit. “Come on, gentlemen. You’ve got rooms waiting, food vouchers pre-loaded, and roughly twelve hours to become human again before I have to start cracking the whip.”

As they walked, Clarkson muttered something about needing a steak and a bottle of something strong. May began musing about the historical geography of Coober Pedy, as if anyone had asked.

But Hammond wasn’t listening.

He was watching her.

The way she walked—confident, purposeful. The ease with which she handled the others. The way her smile came fast, but her eyes held that flicker of mischief, like she was always one line ahead in the conversation.

He liked her. Immediately.

It threw him.

He’d spent the entire flight quietly stewing in birthday blues and existential dread. He was approaching fifty, single, greying, and increasingly aware that his metabolism had retired sometime around 2017. He hadn’t felt truly wanted in years, beyond the flashes of attention, the occasional flirtation that fizzled out because he was, well... him.

Too much for some. Not enough for others.

But she—this woman he’d known for all of ten minutes—made him feel seen. Not like Richard Hammond: The Hamster. Just... Richard. Slightly grumpy. Unshaven. Thinking too much.

She’d called him charming.

He was probably imagining it.

But as they reached the hotel and she handed them each a room key with a practiced flick of her wrist, she looked him in the eye again, warm and no-nonsense.

“You, specifically,” she said, “are under strict orders to eat something and sleep at least eight hours. No gallivanting. No room service whiskey binges. And if I catch you trying to sneak out to flirt with reception, I will tase you.”

“I’d never—” he began.

“You would,” she said, laughing. “But not tonight. Go. Rest.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

As he turned to go, he couldn’t help a final look back.

She was talking to Clarkson now, giving him a laminated itinerary like it was a weapon. Her brow was furrowed, her expression animated, her hair catching the last rays of sunlight through the lobby windows.

Something stirred in his chest.

Not lust. Not quite.

But something close.

Something dangerous.

Something hopeful.

He didn’t know it yet—but Richard Hammond was in so much trouble.

Utes and Understatements

Richard Hammond did as he was told.

He’d eaten the good, but unremarkable hotel food, had a glass of water like a responsible adult, and fallen asleep sometime around 10:30, curled around the flimsy hotel pillow like a man three decades older than he was. It was a small victory in the ongoing war against middle-aged insomnia. Still, he woke at six with a crick in his neck and a vague sense of foreboding, the kind that only ever came when you knew cameras would be rolling before your coffee even kicked in.

The hotel breakfast was a blur of bacon, eggs, and James reading aloud from a tourist brochure about the Sydney Harbour Bridge. But Hammond wasn’t really paying attention.

He was watching her.

She moved through the morning chaos like a general in a very strange army. Clipboard in one hand, coffee in the other, sunglasses perched on her head. She was dressed in sturdy trousers and a pale blue shirt rolled to the elbows—practical, sure, but he’d never seen someone make khaki look that good.

She barked orders at a production assistant who’d forgotten a spare SD card, then turned and—without missing a beat—took the piss out of May for mispronouncing “Coober Pedy” three times in a row.

“She’s terrifying,” May muttered under his breath.

“She’s magnificent,” Hammond muttered back before he could stop himself.

James raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

They were already assembling in the lot when the first hiccup of the morning occurred.

“Where’s Clarkson?” she asked, scanning the crowd. “We’re supposed to be on the road in fifteen minutes.”

May checked his watch. “Still not down. Probably face-down in a minibar.”

She made a noise halfway between a sigh and a growl, shoved her sunglasses on, and stalked toward the lifts.

Hammond tried not to stare as she disappeared. He failed.

It took another ten minutes, but when they emerged, Clarkson was rubbing sleep from his eyes and blinking in the light like he’d been dragged from the underworld. She was beside him, expression grim.

“No coffee until you explain how exactly you missed four wake-up calls and ignored my very polite ‘GET UP OR I WILL END YOU’ text.”

“It was all in caps,” Clarkson muttered.

“You’re lucky it wasn’t in blood.”

Hammond snorted. May choked on a pastry.

Clarkson gave them both the finger, but obediently climbed into his ute without another word. She gave May and Hammond a nod, her expression businesslike, but there was a faint twitch at the corner of her lips that made Richard’s pulse tick up.

He slid behind the wheel of his own truck—a beast of a thing, matte black with a snorkel and a flatbed already rigged for chaos and survival and waited for the signal to roll out. The morning sun was already sharp, bouncing off the city glass and warming the black dashboard like a stove top.

The earpiece buzzed in his ear.

“Right, Hammond,” came the voice of one of the assistant directors, “we’re leading with you today. Take the left exit, head toward the bridge, and let’s get some hero shots of you weaving through traffic like a caffeinated squirrel.”

He gave a thumbs-up, started the engine, and rolled out of the lot.

As he pulled into the chaos of Sydney traffic, he saw her again—in the camera car just beside him. She was leaning slightly forward, talking with one of the crew members, a pen between her fingers and the ever-present clipboard on her lap.

He had no idea what they were talking about. He couldn’t hear her voice. But just the sight of her made something in his chest settle.

She had their backs.

All three of them.

She was watching for danger, logistics, mechanical failures, spider bites, road closures, Clarkson tantrums. She was the one who’d make sure they didn’t drive into the Outback and disappear like amateur prospectors. She had a quiet, unshakable calm that Richard, who always lived at just above a low hum of anxiety, found impossibly reassuring.

He liked her.

He really liked her.

Which was stupid.

She was younger. Smarter. Definitely saner. Gorgeous in a way that made his throat go dry. And absolutely, totally uninterested in a middle-aged adrenaline junkie with grey in his hair and one too many years of metaphorical road wear.

Still, the connection was undeniable. It wasn’t even about flirting: though the banter, when it happened, was effortless. It was something quieter. Easier.

She made him feel like himself. Not the TV version. Not the caricature.

Just Richard.

It was dangerous.

Predictably, Clarkson noticed by mid-morning.

They were stopped for a quick drone shot on a lookout point, sipping water and squinting at the road ahead when Clarkson sidled up, sunburn already blooming across his forehead.

“She’s a looker, that one,” he said, far too casually. “Bit out of your league, though, wouldn’t you say?”

Richard stiffened. “Bugger off.”

“Oh, don’t get your knickers twisted. I’m happy for you. Really. I just think it’s adorable you’ve got a little crush on your babysitter.”

Hammond rolled his eyes. “She’s just doing her job. And doing it better than you’ve ever done anything.”

“Touchy.”

“Piss off, Jeremy.”

May wandered over at that moment, helpfully distracted by a lizard on a rock and muttering about evolutionary patterns. Hammond took the opportunity to stalk off toward his truck before he could punch Clarkson in the shins.

He climbed into the cab, exhaled, and gripped the steering wheel until the tightness in his chest eased.

It was fine. He was fine.

It didn’t matter that she’d smiled at him that morning. That her hand had brushed his arm when she passed him the shot list. That she’d remembered his birthday.

It didn’t mean anything.

...Right?

Mudgee and Double Takes

Mudgee.

It wasn’t exactly the pinnacle of exotic adventure, but after several hours rattling down straight highways in a Frankenstein ute that handled like a drunken goat on roller skates, it was a welcome pause.

The town unfolded in a haze of sun, red dust, and the kind of low-slung buildings that seemed determined not to stand out. A small cafe—half diner, half petrol station, all charm—welcomed the convoy with the scent of hot chips and mystery meat pies. Beyond Dubbo, they were heading into sparse, wild country. This would be their last taste of civilization before Broken Hill, and everyone was treating it like a layover in Monaco.

They parked the utes in a line, camera cars behind them, crew vehicles dotting the edges like a strange touring circus pulling into town. Hammond stretched, feeling his spine pop like bubble wrap, and watched as she jumped out of the lead camera SUV.

She didn’t bounce. She was too grown-up for that. But there was a kind of lightness in the way she moved, the way she flicked her sunglasses down and made a beeline straight for the table where the three of them had flopped like dying fish.

"Right," she said, setting a stack of paperwork down with a thunk that startled May into almost dropping his can of Solo. "Lunch. Eat something other than petrol station jelly babies or I swear I’ll start administering protein intravenously."

Clarkson, with grease on his fingers and crumbs in his beard, raised a brow. "Do threats of force-feeding usually come on the menu here?"

"Only for people who behave like feral toddlers," she said sweetly, flipping through the stack. “Which, unfortunately, applies to all three of you.”

Hammond, despite himself, grinned.

He tried not to look too hard at her,sweat, slick hair pulled back, her shirt open now over a tank top, pink this time, a wrist full of Fahlo bracelets, but it was impossible. She was, objectively, stunning. And even if she'd just spent the last hour wrangling permits, fuel receipts, and a very belligerent drone operator, she still had that look about her: like she could bend the Outback to her will if she really put her mind to it.

As they all tucked into steak sandwiches and chips under a warped café umbrella, she sat across from them with her clipboard, walking them through what she affectionately called the “stupidity docket.”

“Tomorrow,” she said, tapping her pen against her lip, “you three will be racing each other on the airstrip in Dubbo. 6am on the dot, they’re only keeping the airport closed for us till 8am. Then on to Broken Hill, that’s only seven hours and most of that will just be pick up shots of you guys driving and of course scenery.Thursday, you’ll take a ‘spontaneous’ detour,” Hammond huffs a tired laugh as she actually air quotes the word. “A challenge to Uluru, technically a 17 hour drive but we are going to stretch it out over a few days. This is where the camping in your rigs will come in so double check that you have everything you need before we leave Broken Hill. You’ll get one night of camping reprieve in Coober Pedy along the way. Director wants to film you lot having a rally race around an unused opal mine as well as digging for opals in the most hilarious way possible. Have fun with it, think Priscilla, Queen of the desert with less glitter and if you haven’t seen the movie, please rectify that in your rooms this evening.”

“Are there snakes?” May asked, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"Yes," she said cheerfully. "Probably in the tents. Maybe in your socks."

“Lovely,” Clarkson muttered.

“Also—kangaroo wrangling,” she said, glancing up with a particularly wicked grin.

“You’re joking,” Hammond said.

“Nope.”

“I thought that was one of May’s fever dreams.”

"It is," May confirmed, dabbing his forehead with a napkin.

She laughed. “Too bad, because it’s happening.”

They groaned in unison, and she rolled her eyes before handing out updated supply checklists, reminding them to hydrate, wear sunscreen, and for the love of God, stop leaving their walkies in the trucks when they wandered off for filming.

By the time they’d finished lunch, half the crew had peeled away to check gear and fuel up. Clarkson and May wandered off, ostensibly to “reorganize” their trucks but more likely to poke things with sticks and argue about tire pressure.

Hammond remained at the table, picking at the edge of his bread roll, the warmth of the day making him sluggish and thoughtful.

He felt it creeping back in again, that familiar little cloud that had hung over his birthday a few weeks ago. Forty-nine. Practically fifty. Everyone around him was either married, remarried, or raising kids who already knew how to drive. And him? Alone. No family. Just a garage of fast cars and a career that revolved around blowing things up in foreign countries.

He loved the work. He loved the chaos of the show, the unfiltered madness of being on the road with James and Jeremy.

But lately, he’d been wondering what came after.

That’s when she returned.

She slid into the chair next to him with a bottle of water, nudging his elbow with hers as she opened it.

“You’re quiet,” she said, not unkindly.

He gave her a half-smile. “Just conserving energy.”

“Are you solar-powered now?”

“Possibly. Might explain the crankiness when it’s cloudy.”

She laughed, eyes crinkling behind her sunglasses, and for a moment it felt so easy between them he forgot what self-doubt even felt like.

She sipped from her bottle, then leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You holding up okay?”

He shrugged. “Just tired.”

“You sure?” she asked gently.

And damn her, she meant it. Not just the polite you okay? of a colleague, but the real kind, the kind that noticed the slump in his shoulders, the faraway look in his eye. The kind that made his throat tight.

“Yeah,” he said, softer this time. “Just...long drive. Long year.”

She nodded, then nudged his leg with hers under the table.

“Well, lucky for you, I happen to be an excellent distraction.”

“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow, trying not to sound too hopeful.

She smiled, casually confident. “Absolutely. I’m hilarious. And also, this might come as a shock, I think you’re rather good-looking.”

He blinked.

“Wait, what?”

She smirked. “What, you didn’t know?”

“I….no, I mean….” He struggled, completely blindsided.

“I figured you must get swarmed by local women on shoots like this,” she added with a wave toward the dusty street. “Charming British accent, sexy glasses, that whole rugged survival thing you’ve got going on.”

“Rugged survival thing,” he repeated blankly. “I got bit by a possum once.”

“Hot,” she said, deadpan.

He laughed, a real, from-the-belly sound that startled even himself. She knew exactly what to say to get him out of his head and back into reality.

For a moment, they just looked at each other.

Something unspoken hung in the air, warm and a little electric.

Then she straightened, brushing her fingers lightly across his forearm as she stood.

“Come on, Top Gear Romeo. Time to get back on the road before Clarkson turns the utes into battering rams.”

He watched her walk away, the sun catching her hair, and suddenly lunch in Mudgee felt like the most important pit stop of his entire life.