#OR A DETOUR | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

postracehair · 11 days ago

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detour

george russell x reader | 1.8k

you get in a car crash. a very handsome and very familiar man stops to help.

cw: fem!reader, car crash, blood, minor injuries. george is the star, alex in the background because he's a sweetie. hospitals and some flirting. short and sweet!

a/n: first time trying him out, but any excuse to write george saying blimey. --

Later, you'll be able to recall it in flashes.

The empty road, the voice telling you which way to go slightly patchy due to weak signal. The setting sun coloring the sky a brilliant pink, a sense that you might be lost. Waiting for the light to turn green, not a car in sight. It does, and you ease your way through the crossroads. Then -- an awful sound, spinning, closing your eyes and bracing yourself. A sharp pain, no air in your lungs, an eerie silence and then the squeal of tires.

In the moment, it takes you a few breaths to figure out what's happened. One thing at a time, you think. Wiggle toes -- check. Fingers? Check. You can see that the airbag has deployed, which explains the soreness of your chest but it doesn't hurt to breathe. Slowly, you unbuckle your seatbelt and notice that there's blood down the front of your shirt.

"Fuck," you mutter. Your forehead is tacky with it and you wince. Your neck feels a bit stiff and when you turn your head to the side too quickly your vision swims. "Oh, god."

A few moments to rest, then. You need to find your phone and call for help. The sun is almost down and there are no cars back here -- how on earth did someone hit you and drive away?

The longer you sit there the more your head starts to pound. A whisper says you shouldn't fall asleep because -- why? You can't find the word. What were you meant to be doing? Oh, your phone. Where is it? You don't see it by the gear shift, maybe it fell under the seat. God, bending over sends a rush of blood that has you groaning. Plan B. Sit here a little longer.

You're trying valiantly to keep your eyes open when you hear it -- an engine. It gets closer and closer and you expect it to pass you by but the car comes to an abrupt stop and someone gets out.

"Call 999!" they shout. Sounds like a man. "Blimey, there's blood on the window."

A shape appears and the car door opens and there stands -- a man. A tall man. He crouches down so you can see his face. Big blue eyes and a square jaw, pieces of fringe curling over his forehead. Pretty, your bruised brain supplies.

"Hello," he says gently. "Are you alright?"

"Where did you come from?" you ask. His features swim a bit but something is nagging at you. "I think I know you."

His brows furrow. "Alex," he calls behind him. "Are they coming?"

"Yeah," someone shouts back. "They're asking how she is."

The man's attention returns to you. "I'm George, and that's Alex. We're going to help you, okay?" You grunt an assent. "Now, I'm not a doctor," he says, "but do you think you can tell me where you're hurt?"

You try to focus. "I don't think anything is broken. But my head --" You reach for your forehead again but George catches your wrist with long fingers before you can.

"Think you hit it on the window," he explains. "Best not to touch it. Bit of a nasty cut."

Suddenly, you're desperate to get out of the car. "Can you -- I need to --" You tug at the seatbelt.

"George," the other man calls. Alex.

"Concussion," George says. "I think. Mate, I don't know. She's not slurring, but she's confused."

He reaches over you and unbuckles the seatbelt. You swing your legs out of the car and try to stand up. George quickly grabs your hands as you sway.

"Woah," he says. "Are you sure you want to --"

This close it's apparent how tall he is and recognition sparks once again. "I swear I know you from somewhere," you repeat, but it comes out as a croak.

"Do you?" he says lightly. "Alex, can I have the water bottle?"

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, trying to focus. Fuck, your head hurts. It's like the ability to think clearly has simply left you.

"Yeah, you --," you look at him again. He's got a plastic bottle in one hand now, black with a teal wording on it that you recognize. "You...drive cars."

"Well done," George says, smiling. "Do you want some of this?" He hands it to you when you nod and you take slow sips. He keeps a hand lightly on your elbow.

Something occurs to you. "You didn't hit me, did you?" You're pretty sure he didn't but everything is so muddled.

"No," he says, firmly. "No, I promise I didn't." He gently turns you so you're facing the car. It's not a pretty sight. "I think some wanker clipped you at the rear and send you spinning into the pole."

The driver's side tail light is totally shattered and you see that he's right -- the light pole is firmly lodged into the passenger side door.

"Fuck," you whisper. "Where's the other car?" you ask. You know this, you think, but can't put the pieces together.

George lets out an angry huff. "Drove away, looks like."

You frown. "Well, that's not very nice." Your head pounds again and you groan. "I think I need to --"

"Woah, woah," George says. "Let's sit down."

He guides you to his car and helps you down into the passenger seat. You keep your feet firmly on the ground and take more sips of his water.

"What's your name?" he asks, crouching down to speak to you. He's so tall you're almost eye level. "Can you remember that?"

"I'm not that bad off," you scoff, and tell him. "And you --" The piece slots into place. "You're George Russell."

He grins at you. "I'm flattered," he says. "How's the head?"

You press your eyes closed tight. "Hurts," you say. "Am I still bleeding?"

"Not terribly," he replies. "It'll be alright. I think I hear --"

The siren hits your ears, cutting him off. "That's loud," you mutter. George squeezes your knee and stands.

He takes a step towards your ruined car. "Where are you going?" you ask. It sounds like a whine but you can't find it in you to care.

"Just going to get your things," he says lightly. "So you have them in hospital."

"Oh," you breathe. You allow him to walk across the road and lean into your car, searching for your stuff. He manages to find your phone and sets your purse at your feet just as the ambulance pulls up, siren blessedly off.

You look up at George. "Thank you," you say. "Thank you so much --"

He waves you off. "Please," he says. "Listen, I've put my contact in your phone, and I'll get your car sorted, alright?"

"Are you --" Before you can ask him more, the paramedics take over. You're asked questions, given a few quick tests, while George speaks to one of them off to the side. They load you into the back of the ambulance.

"I'll see you later, okay?" he calls. You just nod and lean back on the bed. The doors are shut and you're on your way.

"Nice bloke," one of the paramedics says. "Never met him before. More of a Red Bull man, myself, but glad he was decent. Do you know him?"

You blink. It's very bright in here. "No," you say. "No, he just stopped to help."

"See?" the man says again. "Decent sort. Now, if he could just get a decent racing car --"

Since George gave you your stuff, you manage to call the necessary people to tell them what's happened.

"Few bruises tomorrow," the nurse tells you. She's cleaned your forehead and butterfly bandaged it. "But no stitches. You're a lucky one. Now, that blow to your head isn't too bad, but do try to take it easy. Nothing more than some walks and stay off your phone and TV if you can help it for a week or so."

You nod, thankful for the painkillers she's had you swallow. The throbbing has dulled and you can think a little more clearly.

"Now, last thing," she says. Is she...smirking at you? "You said you've got a ride, but there's a very handsome man waiting for you, too."

"What?" you say. You've called a friend and she's going to pick you up but...is George here?

The nurse taps her nose and tells you you're free to go.

You slowly walk back to the waiting room, unsure of what you'll find. But as soon as you're through the doors, you hear your name.

George unfolds himself from one of the chairs and you meet in the middle. You really thought he'd just call, or something, to tell you about the car. But he's here.

"There you are," he says, as though you've been parted for eons. "I wanted to make sure you're alright."

"I'm alright," you tell him. He smiles and takes a step towards you, eyes on your forehead.

"That doesn't look too bad now," he says. "Shame about your shirt, though." His hand hovers in the air near your face like he wants to touch you, but he doesn't.

He's right about your shirt -- it's a lost cause. Collar soaked in blood and the front looking like you were an extra in a horror movie.

You shrug. "Not how I thought my day would go."

George winces. "I'd imagine not," he says. "Listen, I've sorted the car. A tow company has it and I'll send you their information. It's a bit of a lost cause, the bloke said, but I've given them your name and number and if you call your insurance --"

You put a hand on his arm. He's warm through the fabric of his sweater. He stops speaking immediately.

"George," you say, softly. "Thank you." He blinks at you, eyes remarkably blue, before he gives you an easy smile.

"Of course," he says. "I'm just glad we came along."

"Me too." You let him go and swallow.

"Do you need a ride?" he says, suddenly. "Alex has just gone to get petrol but he'll be back and we can take you anywhere you need to go."

Your chest tightens with regret. Objectively unnecessary, since you don't know this very famous man, but you wish you could say yes all the same.

"I've called my friend, actually," you say gingerly. "She's coming to get me."

"Good." George runs a hand through his hair, that brown fringe falling over his forehead the way it did when he crouched next to you back at the accident scene. "Good, I'm glad."

Today has been wild, absolutely the last thing you expected. A car crash, meeting this man, ending up in hospital. It occurs to you that anything is possible. You're lucky the crash wasn't worse, and maybe that spurs you to say it.

"I'd love to thank you for today," you say to him, shoulders square. You make yourself look him in the eye. "Alex, too. Lunch, maybe? Once I'm over this concussion?"

You've surprised him, if his expression is anything to go by. Then he grins. "Yes," he says. "I'd love that." His grin shifts into a smirk. "Alex might be busy, though."

You grin back. "Is that so? Too bad."

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