Flameproof Fantasy

All around, loud even through the muffling effect of my ear plugs, the snarl of highly tuned car engines fills the air as the brightly coloured vehicles stream past, nipping at each other rear bumpers, trying to force their opponents into a mistake which will give them the chance to get ahead. From where I'm standing it's not clear who's winning, but then I'm not here to spectate anyway.

The howl of over-revving engines reaches me from down the track and I turn to see two cars - one red, one yellow - scream around the long curving bend side by side, both obviously intent on reaching the next corner further up the straight in front of the other. The red car looks like it's going to make it, pulling slightly ahead, just enough to make me think the driver of the yellow car will have to back off as he loses his automatic right to the racing line. But he really doesn't look like he's about to give in gracefully, and I find myself tensing in anticipation of what might happen.

Then suddenly, and so quickly I'm unable to see exactly how it happens, the red car lurches violently to one side, skidding and spinning with screeching tyres until its sideways momentum lifts two wheels from the ground and takes it airborne. It comes back to earth on its roof, tumbling over and over through the gravel trap to impact with the tyre wall forty yards away.

For a moment I can only stare in stunned fascination at the upturned car as it emerges from the dust cloud its journey has created, the three remaining wheels spinning lazily, but the sight of what could be a tiny flicker of flame and a puff of smoke from the bottom of the vehicle snaps me into action.

Snatching up the heavy fire extinguisher, aware of the yellow flags waving above me to warn oncoming drivers of the incident, I set off at a run, glad of all those extra hours I've been putting in at the gym the heat builds up under the layers of clothing I have under my orange flameproof overalls and sweat starts to break out from my exertions.

I can see through the cracked windscreen that the driver hasn't moved, still hanging upside down in his harness with his legs caught under the steering wheel, and I try to increase my pace despite the fact I'm already panting for breath. My fellow incident marshals are running towards me from the next post, and there are heavy footsteps behind me, but I'm determined to be on the front line on this one. It took a long time and a lot of hard work for me to qualify for this responsible role - not to mention overcoming the irritating natural instincts of my male colleagues to keep me away from anything even remotely resembling excitement - and I'm not about to let them outdo me.

We all reach the car at the same time, but a quick glance at the underside of the wreck makes the danger of fire look less likely, so I leave the others to get to work with their extinguishers and drop to my knees on the gravel to check on the driver through the open side window.

It's too hard to get a proper impression of his condition upside down, so I crawl closer and turn my head sideways to get a better view. His eyes are closed in the pale oval which is all I can see of his face under the balaclava and full-face helmet he's wearing - not a very encouraging sign, I think.

I run my own eyes down - or is that up? - over the green racing overalls covering what I can immediately see is a muscular and powerful torso, and I have to push aside the totally inappropriate thoughts that start to nudge at my mind about how it might feel to be pressed up against that broad chest.

I can see the name Chris embroidered in red across his left breast so I call out to him, asking him if he's alright, and I'm rewarded by a groan and the startling sight of a pair of intense, bright blue eyes snapping open to glare at me.

We stare at each other for far too long given the circumstances before I gather my oddly rambling senses enough to ask him if he's hurt, whether he's able to move, or if he needs medical assistance. I can't see enough of his face to get a real idea of how he's feeling, but the undercurrents in his voice as he tells me he's OK leave me in no doubt that he's pretty pissed off.

I turn back briefly to report on his condition to my fellow marshals, then move a bit nearer to offer him assistance. My stomach lurches to see that his eyes are closed again but they flare open as I call his name, my rising concern making the word louder than necessary. He tells me that he's OK, but that we have to get out of here - now - and as he raises a hand to fumble at the catch of his harness I extend my senses to examine my surroundings more carefully.

I'm immediately aware that something isn't right. There's an odd ticking noise that really shouldn't be there, not now I know the potential fire risk has been taken care of, and I'm instinctively sure that this man is not one who panics easily. But he seems to be struggling to get himself free, and I can see what looks suspiciously like desperation starting to colour his actions, those blue eyes losing focus as he concentrates furiously.

Squirming half into the car, I push his hands aside and slap at the quick release, pulling back as he drops the few inches to the inverted roof of the car and gets his shoulder under himself to roll towards me. For agonisingly long moments he fights to get his legs loose from under the steering column, then he's twisting round to try and find a way out. I reach to grip his arm, guiding him towards the open window, distantly aware of the power of the muscles bunching under my fingers.

I crawl back into the open air, tugging him with me, and as soon as he's free I haul him to his feet, yelling to the others gathered round the car to get clear. They look at me blankly, convinced as I was that the danger is past, but when he adds his voice to mine they seem to read something in his tone that gets them moving.

I can feel him swaying just slightly beside me and reach automatically to help him, wrapping my arm round the solid firmness of his waist and hustling him towards the safety of the armco barrier. He stops abruptly just before we reach it, though, stripping off his gloves and raising agile fingers to work at the chin strap of his helmet. He tugs the offending item off, followed by his balaclava, revealing a strong handsome face topped by short brown hair standing in sweat-dampened spikes.

I can feel myself staring, though I know we should be getting to better cover. But as I see him turn back to look at the car again, it all becomes far too late. There is an enormous explosion behind me and the shockwave picks me up and flings me into him. His arms catch me, pulling me into his protective embrace as we're lifted together and thrown to the ground, my body moulding to his, and my last coherent thought is that the feeling of being pressed against him is every bit as good as I'd imagined...

...I gaze up the blue sky, the solid weight pinning me down warm and protective. Noises buzz around me and faces appear between me and the sky, but my shocked brain refuses to translate any of it into meaningful sights or sounds. I slowly become aware of my cheek pressed firmly against someone's jaw, the scent of salty sweat and soap emanating from the warm yet clammy skin and hair, his breath whispering across the side of my neck.

I can feel someone trying to pull my hands away and realise that, with my muscles locked, I'm gripping my saviour to me quite literally for dear life.

And he's not moving.

Reality comes back with a resounding crash, and voices around me are commanding me to let go, sirens raging in the background. With some effort, I force my limbs to relax. A cold vulnerability sweeps over me as they carefully roll him off, but it's nothing compared the sudden lurch of fear that twists my stomach at his limp form.

I try to reach him but hands hold me back while a medic examines me, asking questions that I don't really hear. Bodies are in the way, and I can't see him and panic rises within me.

Someone pushes through the bodies and a gap opens up so that at least I can see what's happening. A dark haired man with ice-green eyes kneels down by Chris' head, concern prominent in otherwise glacial features. He gets the low-down from the medics that I don't hear then bends down to the prone man, whispering something.

Without otherwise moving a muscle Chris speaks, sounding almost petulant. "I'm not unconscious and I don't faint, Curtis. How many times do I have to tell you?"

The dark-haired man, Curtis, pats his friend on the shoulder and grins in relief. "Sure you don't, Chris. You just like giving me a heart attack."

"Shut up, Sam, you're giving me a headache. I was dreaming of an angel..." his soft, accented voice trails off as he opens bright blue eyes to look directly into mine. "Or maybe I wasn't dreaming after all..."

My heart leaps at his words and I can't help grinning like an idiot. He returns that grin, dimples flashing and eyes twinkling almost shyly. He brushes off helping hands, declaring that there's nothing wrong with him, he was just stunned, and then crawls the two paces over to me.

I'm still stunned.

He asks me if I'm okay and takes my hand, squeezing reassuringly. I nod, still grinning like a lunatic, unable to take my eyes off his and unable to let go of his warm hand, gently caressing mine. Curtis interrupts and Chris' face turns serious as the other man mutters something about catching up with someone. Chris nods and turns his devastating smile back on to me. "I'll be back," he promises.

As he joins his friend, jogging away towards the car park, people disperse and I feel woefully bereft in a manner that I haven't since... well, ever.

I ride in the ambulance back to the admin building where I mope around for the rest of the afternoon, knowing full well that I should get home and rest up. But how can I, when the mere thought of those flashing blue eyes and powerful body against mine send dancing sparks of excitement spiralling through me? If I go home he might not know who I am, where to find me. But I know who he is. I know which team at any rate, and my pass will get me into the pits.

No one in the team's garage can tell me where I can find Chris, so I loiter there for a while feeling a little lost. The team are clearing up, and as they begin to start shutting the place up for the night I decide to give up my foolish hope with a disappointment that drags me down.

I wander out back towards the car park and my heart skips a beat as I recognise two figures heading towards me, no, towards the garage, arguing.

"Chris, you have got to get yourself checked over. I'm taking you to the hospital right after we've spoken to..."

"Stop fussing, Sam, I'm fine. I just need a hot shower, is all. Listen, why don't you go talk to the guy while I shower and change." Neither of them look fine. Sam has acquired a split lip and a black eye, and while Chris sports no obvious injury, he keeps his left arm pressed tightly across his ribs. To my delight, he's still wearing the green flameproofs.

Sam stops and eyes Chris carefully. "I'm not leaving you alone, Chris. You're hurt and..."

"Sam - !"

I see my opportunity and go into Marshall mode, my goal to rescue and take care of my injured driver.

"Hiya!" I call, pleased that my voice doesn't waver as my stomach flutters with excitement. They look at me, Sam with faint disapproval and Chris with a bright smile that belies his underlying exhaustion. "I couldn't help but overhear," I shrug and turn my attention to Sam. "Why don't I take care of Chris while you go do whatever it is you have to do?" I suggest.

"Great idea!" The enthusiasm in Chris' mellow voice sends my flutters into a whirlwind and I stuff my hands into my pockets to hide their trembling.

"But -" Sam hesitates, uncertain.

"Go Sam, I'm taken care of." Chris sounds bossy as he shoos his reluctant partner away, then turns to me. "Rescuing me again, getting to be a habit with you."

I laugh, a little more nervousness than I would have liked tingeing the sound. "Don't think you're getting out of having a check-up," I tell him. "Your friend's right."

He pulls a face and looks incredibly child-like in his stubborn petulance. "Nag, nag, nag," he sighs, but he doesn't object, in fact quite the contrary as I lead him towards the changing rooms.

Inside it's empty for which I'm eminently grateful and, on a wicked hunch, I quietly lock the door behind us. He sits down on a bench, his movements a little stiff, and tries to reach his boots. The grimace of pain that contorts his face hurries me to kneel on the floor and undo them for him, taking them off.

He's giving me that shy smile again, and the fluttering whirlwind that has been growing inside me explodes. I slide onto the bench next to him and lean forward, demanding a kiss, my eyes searching his to tell me that I'm doing the right thing. The blue pools widen and soften as he meets me halfway, his lips full and soft, brushing mine. Tiny fireballs sear through my nerve endings, tingling my fingers and toes, scorching my nipples and crotch, as he tickles my lips with his tongue.

I slide my trembling fingers inside his overalls, pushing the top open, caressing his chest, smooth and moulded beneath the clinging cream Nomex he wears under the overalls. His hands work to untuck my shirt and he slips his hands up my back, feather light, following my spine as he deepens his kiss. The rampaging fireballs inside me burst, setting me on fire and, breath quickening, I answer his demands, knowing that his flameproofs aren't enough to protect either of us from the flames within.

FINIS