Archive of Our Own

The last echo of Hammond’s laughter bounced off the concrete pillars of the car park and vanished into the cold. It was a ridiculous sound in a ridiculous place, half-choked and wheezing after three hours of trying to film an “informal acceleration test” between a Porsche and something Jeremy had cobbled together out of fiberglass and sheer arrogance.

“Right,” Jeremy grunted, slamming the boot of the film car. The sound reverberated like a gunshot. “That’s it. I’m finished. My knees are made of gravel, my coat smells like petrol, and I’ve inhaled enough exhaust to qualify as a diesel engine.”

“Serves you right,” James said, tugging his scarf tighter. “You were the one who insisted we do a burnout demonstration on the third floor of a car park. Which, I remind you, is not what car parks are for.”

“It’s entertainment, James,” Jeremy said, stretching his back with the creaks of a ship in distress. “You wouldn’t understand—your audience is just people who enjoy watching beige cars reverse into hedges.”

“My audience,” James said, “doesn’t require ear protection.”

Hammond, leaning against the bonnet with his arms folded, grinned wide enough to show teeth. “I dunno, I thought it was quite good fun. You should’ve seen Clarkson’s face when the traction control actually worked for once.”

Jeremy turned, pointing an accusing finger. “That was not traction control. That was divine intervention.”

“Divine intervention doesn’t usually come with a ‘check engine’ light.”

James snorted under his breath. “Come on, children. Before someone from security asks why there’s rubber melted into the tarmac.”

They began the long trudge toward the exit, their footsteps echoing in syncopated rhythm through the cavernous levels. The cold bit at their fingers. A few distant car alarms provided the ambiance, an urban symphony of fatigue and machinery.

“Where’s the stairwell?” Hammond asked, squinting at the nearest wall sign. The arrows pointed toward a grim-looking door chained off with a laminated OUT OF ORDER notice.

“Perfect,” Jeremy said. “The one bit of exercise I was willing to endure, and it’s closed.”

“Guess we’re taking the lift then,” Hammond said, nodding toward the service elevator at the end of the corridor. It was an uninviting slab of grey metal, flickering bulb above it like it owed rent.

“Oh, wonderful,” James muttered. “A service lift. Because nothing says ‘luxury motoring journalism’ like sharing air with a stack of bins.”

“I’m not walking down seven flights,” Jeremy declared, already marching toward it. “I refuse to die of cardiac arrest on level three of a Reading car park. The tabloids would love that.”

As the doors clanged open, the smell of stale metal and faint oil wafted out. Hammond hesitated for the smallest fraction of a second before stepping in after them.

“Cozy,” Jeremy said, pressing the button for the ground floor with a flourish. “Now all we need are candles and a jazz playlist.”

“Do you want me to press the children’s version for Hammond?” James said dryly, pointing at the lower row of buttons.

Hammond shot him a look. “Very funny. You’re just jealous because I can actually fit in cars designed after 1980.”

Jeremy barked a laugh. “You’d fit in the glovebox of a modern sports car, Hammond. That’s your evolutionary advantage.”

Hammond grinned back, but it was a little too sharp, a little too rehearsed. “At least I can reach the pedals without adjusting the seat, mate.”

The doors clanked shut. The world outside disappeared in a dull clang, leaving them in a box of brushed steel and humming machinery.

The elevator began its slow descent with a mechanical groan.

Jeremy sighed dramatically. “Ah, the lift that time forgot. Probably powered by one of James’s beloved carburetors.”

“Hmm,” James said, tapping the wall. “Given the noise, I’d say mid-1970s, made in Birmingham, hasn’t been serviced since Blair was in office.”

“Lovely,” Jeremy said. “So it’s one of your people, then.”

“Shut up.”

Hammond laughed again, but it came out oddly thin. The hum of the lift vibrated through the soles of his shoes, up through his legs, settling in his chest. He shifted his weight, leaning against the back wall. The air was colder in here, tinged with machine oil and something faintly metallic.

His reflection in the steel door caught his attention—distorted by scratches, stretched slightly at the edges. He looked…off. His grin didn’t reach his eyes. He blinked and tried to focus on the reflection of Jeremy instead—tall, talking with his hands, filling the space effortlessly. James, calm as ever, checking the panel like he could diagnose it with a look.

They were fine. It was just a lift.

He told himself that twice, for good measure.

The floor indicator blinked slowly down from seven to six. Somewhere above, the sound of a rolling trolley echoed faintly through the shaft. The low hum of the motor was steady, until it wasn’t.

The lights flickered.

Just once.

Just long enough for Hammond’s stomach to clench before the world returned to its dull, fluorescent normal.

“Brilliant,” Jeremy muttered. “Nothing like a near-death experience to round off a Tuesday.”

James rolled his eyes. “It’s just the wiring.”

“Everything’s just the wiring with you,” Jeremy said. “Next you’ll be telling me the Titanic was fine, it just needed better electrics.”

Hammond forced a laugh again. It came out too quick, tripping over itself. He could feel the back of his neck damp with sweat, though the air was freezing.

He adjusted his jacket collar, pretending to brush at imaginary dust. The hum of the lift seemed louder now, vibrating through his bones. There was a faint chemical tang in the air, machine lubricant probably. But something about it made his pulse skip, his breath catch in his throat.

James noticed the movement. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” Hammond said, the word tight and airy. “Just—bit stuffy in here, innit?”

Jeremy snorted. “It’s a lift, Hammond, not a sauna.”

“Yeah,” he said again. “Right.”

The indicator ticked down another floor. Hammond rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking to the lights overhead. For a second, his vision swam, not from motion, but from memory he couldn’t name.

He stared at the brushed metal again, at his own distorted reflection. His chest felt too small for his lungs. The air smelled faintly of warm circuitry. Of fuel.

James was still talking—something about lift safety certifications—but his voice felt muffled, like it was coming through a layer of water. Jeremy said something sharp and amused. Hammond nodded automatically, not hearing the words.

The lights flickered again.

Longer this time.

A blink too slow to be normal.

The elevator’s hum deepened to a groan. Hammond’s heart gave a startled kick in his chest. His hand, without him meaning it to, gripped the railing behind him.

James glanced sideways, brows knitting. There was sweat along Hammond’s temple now, too much for the mid-autumn cold.

The light steadied.

The lift kept humming.

Everything was fine.

Except it wasn’t.

The air was heavier now, pressing in. Hammond shifted again, trying to hide the tremor in his hands. Jeremy didn’t see, but James did.

The mechanical drone filled the silence between them.

The elevator then gave a sudden, violent lurch—a metallic shriek of stressed machinery—and then everything stopped.

The hum died. The air went heavy.

For one long, frozen moment, there was nothing—no movement, no sound, just the faint tick of cooling metal. Then, with a stuttering buzz, the lights went out.

A second later, dim emergency lighting flickered on—harsh and red, throwing long shadows against the steel walls.

“Bloody hell,” Jeremy barked, grabbing the side rail for balance. “Did it just die?!”

James squinted at the panel. “Looks that way. Probably a power fault. Or the mechanism jammed. These old systems—”

“Wonderful,” Jeremy snapped. “We’re stuck in an iron coffin. Brilliant. Hammond, tell me you pressed the alarm before it—”

He stopped.

Hammond wasn’t speaking.

He wasn’t doing anything.

He stood pressed into the far corner of the elevator, eyes wide and glassy, one hand frozen halfway between his chest and the wall like he’d forgotten what it was for. His breathing was shallow—short, rapid pulls of air that sounded like he’d just run a sprint.

James straightened. “Richard?”

No answer.

Jeremy, ever the first to cover discomfort with mockery, gave a short laugh that sounded too loud in the cramped space. “Oh, great. Trapped between floors with the nation’s least helpful rescue team. May’ll analyze it, and Hammond’ll—Hammond?”

Nothing.

James frowned. “He’s not joking, is he?”

Hammond blinked once, slow. The red light flickered across his face, turning his skin sallow and strange. His mouth twitched—half-formed words that never made it out.

Jeremy’s smirk faltered. “Hey. It’s fine. It’s—what? A temporary outage? They’ll get it sorted.”

James moved closer to the panel, pressing the emergency button. It made a dull, lifeless click—no reassuring ring, no voice from above.

“Well, that’s bloody marvelous,” Jeremy muttered. “We’ll die of boredom before rescue even—”

The sound that came from Hammond wasn’t a laugh or a word. It was a small, broken exhale.

They both turned to look at him properly then.

He was pale, unnaturally pale, and his chest was rising and falling too fast. His hands had found the wall behind him, splayed wide, fingertips pressed hard into the metal. The faint tremor running through his body was visible now.

“Hammond?” James said, quiet but firm this time. “Look at me.”

Hammond didn’t. His eyes weren’t focused on them at all. They were locked somewhere else—somewhere far away, and the reflection of the red light made them seem wet and bright, like glass catching firelight.

The hum that had filled the elevator began to distort in his ears, stretching thin and high-pitched. The metal box around him blurred, not the dull steel of a lift anymore but something tighter, smaller. The seatbelt across his chest. The cockpit canopy above him.

The air smelled wrong.

Burnt rubber. Acrid fuel. Hot oil.

He could taste it in the back of his throat.

There was a sound, faint at first—a rhythmic beeping, steady and relentless. It wasn’t in the elevator. It was inside his head. The echo of a hospital monitor. He could hear breathing that wasn’t his own, a rasping hiss of oxygen through a mask. The walls pressed closer, the red light brightened to blinding white—

The hum beneath his feet shifted pitch, twisting into a mechanical whine. He could hear it again: the engine screaming, wind tearing past at three hundred miles an hour, the smell of fuel leaking somewhere it shouldn’t—

He sucked in a sharp breath that turned into a choke. His hand went to his chest as if he could push the air back in.

“Richard,” James said again, stepping closer. His voice was careful now, low and even. “You’re all right. You’re just in a lift. You’re with us.”

The words didn’t land. Hammond’s head jerked slightly, like he’d heard something but couldn’t make sense of it.

Jeremy crouched down beside him, trying to make his voice gruff but not unkind. “Oi. Hamster. It’s just a bloody lift, all right? Stop being dramatic.”

The word lift seemed to snap something. Hammond flinched violently, pressing both hands to his ears. “No—no, it’s—” He stopped himself with a strangled gasp.

Jeremy’s eyes widened. He looked at James, lost for once. “What’s—what’s happening to him?”

James shook his head slightly, eyes fixed on Hammond. “It’s not the lift.”

Hammond’s breathing had gone erratic now—short, panicked bursts, like he was drowning on dry air. His fingers dug into his hair, knuckles white. His eyes darted across the walls that weren’t walls anymore.

The sound of the jet engine roared in his mind, impossibly loud, swallowing everything else. There was a second where he swore he could feel the vibration of the tires against the runway again. He could see the flash of tarmac beneath him, the blur of the speedometer as it climbed, the sickening lurch of something going wrong—

He heard a voice shouting—someone calling his name—but it came through like radio static.

He wasn’t in an elevator anymore. He was there.

The cage of metal. The smoke. The heat.

The silence after the engine cut out.

He smelled the fuel. Heard the high-pitched beep of a monitor that wasn’t really there. His stomach twisted. His lungs refused to fill. He slid down the wall, curling into himself, shaking hard enough that the sound of his teeth clenching echoed in the small space.

James moved forward, slow and deliberate. He crouched next to him, not touching him yet, just close enough to be in reach. “Richard. You’re all right. You’re not there. You’re here. Look at me.”

Hammond didn’t respond.

Jeremy, trying to do something, reached out and gripped his shoulder. “Come on, mate, you’re fine. You’re fine. It’s just a—”

Hammond flinched so hard his head hit the wall behind him. He made a sharp, panicked sound—half-breath, half-yelp—and pulled away. His pupils were blown wide; his gaze darted from corner to corner like he was trying to find an exit that didn’t exist.

Jeremy froze, his hand half-raised. His face went pale under the red light.

James shot him a look that silenced whatever words were about to come out.

The lift was too quiet now, except for the sound of Hammond’s gasping breaths.

Each inhale was a fight. Each exhale a tremor.

The air felt thinner by the second, filled with static and the low, dying hum of the motor.

Jeremy leaned back against the opposite wall, watching with a kind of helplessness he wasn’t built for. His instinct—to joke, to argue, to move—was useless here. This wasn’t the kind of problem you could shout at.

James stayed crouched, voice low and steady, like he was reasoning with an engine mid-stall. “Richard, it’s all right. You’re safe. You’re not in the car. You’re here. You’re in a lift. We’re with you.”

But Hammond wasn’t hearing him.

He was staring straight ahead, eyes unseeing, lips moving in silent fragments. Numbers. Pleas. Half-sentences. His hand clawed weakly at the air like he could grab onto something solid.

The red light flickered again, pulsing against his face. His skin shone with sweat, pale and clammy. His breath caught on a ragged sob he didn’t seem to notice making.

Jeremy exhaled slowly, the sound unsteady. “He’s not—this isn’t just panic, is it?”

James shook his head. “No. This is a flashback.”

They both fell silent.

The lift felt smaller by the second. The air too dense. The hum in the walls too close to that remembered roar.

Jeremy and James shared a look—the rare kind that bypassed every word, every defense.

Something was wrong. Not he’s-being-dramatic wrong. Not even TV-incident wrong.

This was real.

The air was still, thick with the weight of what neither of them could fix.

The lift hung there—between floors, between years—while the hum of the motor thrummed like a heartbeat trapped in steel.

Hammond was still down on the floor, knees tucked up, hands trembling against his temples. His breath came in short, broken bursts—half gasps, half sobs—like his lungs couldn’t figure out how to do the one thing they were built for. The elevator’s low hum filled the silence, almost masking the sound of him choking on air.

Jeremy scooted closer in front of him, movements stiff and uncertain. “You’re fine, Hamster. We’re fine.”

The word fine felt useless the second it left his mouth. It fell flat, brittle, echoing in the cramped metal box.

Hammond didn’t even blink. His eyes were glassy, pupils wide. He looked past Jeremy—past everything—like he was watching something only he could see. His fingers twitched against his knees, clutching and unclutching at the fabric of his jeans.

“Fine,” Jeremy said again, quieter this time, like repetition could make it true. “We’re fine. You’re just having a—”

He stopped when Hammond’s lips moved.

Barely a sound came out at first—just a rasp of air—but then the words formed, disjointed and terrified. “No, no, please, I can’t—get me out—get me out, please—”

Jeremy froze.

James was already moving, sliding closer beside Hammond, his tone shifting—gentle, measured, nothing like his usual dry composure. “Richard, listen to me.”

No reaction. Hammond’s eyes darted, unfocused, as if tracking something through smoke.

“Richard,” James repeated, firmer but still low. “You’re not there. You’re here. You’re with us.”

The red emergency light pulsed faintly overhead, making the shadows sway like heat ripples. Hammond’s chest heaved with every breath, shallow and rapid, a sound that clawed through the silence.

Jeremy swallowed hard. His hands twitched uselessly at his sides. The longer it went on, the more wrong it felt—like watching a car crash in slow motion and realizing there was no steering wheel to grab.

James kept his tone even, soft enough to cut through the panic without feeding it. “You’re all right, Richard. I need you to listen to my voice, okay? Just this one thing. Hear me.”

But Hammond was somewhere else entirely.

“Fuel leak—” he whispered, voice cracking. “It’s leaking—I can smell it, I can—”

His words broke into a strangled sound. His body jerked as if bracing for an impact that wasn’t coming.

The elevator wasn’t an elevator anymore—not in his head. It was the cockpit. The smell of burning oil was back. The metallic taste of blood. The distorted whine of the jet engine climbing, climbing, climbing—

The walls were too close. The heat was back.

The memory didn’t fade—it engulfed.

Jeremy’s breath hitched. He looked at James, voice low but sharp. “What do we—what the hell do we do?”

James didn’t answer right away. His attention never left Hammond. “We keep him here. Keep him now.”

Jeremy nodded, jaw tight, though it was clear he didn’t understand how. “He’s not—he’s not listening, he’s gone.”

“Then we bring him back,” James said simply.

Jeremy’s voice cracked under the strain. “For God’s sake, Richard! Snap out of it!”

The words came out louder than he meant. Desperate, not cruel.

But Hammond flinched like he’d been struck. His hands shot up, covering his head, a small, strangled sound escaping him.

Jeremy froze—guilt washing over his face like a bucket of cold water. “Shit. Shit, no, I didn’t—”

“Stop,” James said, voice low but cutting. “Don’t shout.”

Jeremy exhaled shakily, the fight draining from him. He leaned back against the opposite wall, rubbing his hands over his face, muttering, “I wasn’t shouting, I was—” He stopped. He had been. And now Hammond was folded into himself tighter, gasping harder.

The lift hummed faintly beneath them, indifferent.

James shifted closer, careful not to startle him. He placed one steady hand on Hammond’s shoulder—not gripping, just anchoring. “Richard,” he said, slow, deliberate. “Look at me.”

Nothing.

He waited.

“Come on,” James murmured. “You can do that. Just look at me. That’s it.”

A flicker. Hammond’s eyes moved—not fully focused, not seeing him exactly, but reacting. His breathing stuttered, caught, then broke again into shallow gasps.

“That’s it,” James said, his tone a quiet rhythm. “Stay here. You’re not in the car. You’re in a lift. With us.”

Jeremy stayed silent now, watching, his expression tight with something halfway between fear and guilt.

James leaned in slightly, keeping his voice firm but not loud. “You don’t have to fight it. Just breathe. Can you do that?”

Hammond’s fingers twitched.

James adjusted, tightening his hand just enough to ground him. “In through your nose,” he said softly. “Like that. Slow as you can.” He took a breath himself, exaggerated, almost comical in its slowness. “See? Like that. Come on, mate.”

A shaky inhale.

It wasn’t much—but it was something.

Jeremy blinked, almost disbelieving.

“Good,” James murmured. “That’s it. Again.”

The next one came a little steadier, though it caught halfway through.

James nodded. “There you go.”

The red light flickered overhead again, washing the space in pulses of shadow. Hammond blinked like he was surfacing through layers—through smoke, through glass, through memory. His lips parted, and he whispered, hoarse, “You’re okay… and I’m fine…”

James froze, recognition flashing across his face.

It was the phrase—the one they’d used back then. A stupid bit of reassurance traded through hospital walls, when Jeremy had sat pale and shaking in the waiting room, and James had been the one to speak through the glass: You’re okay. I’m fine.

James’s expression softened. “That’s right,” he said quietly, finishing the loop. “You’re okay, and I’m fine.”

Hammond’s breath hitched once more, then steadied. Still too fast, still shaky, but the rhythm was there. The wild panic in his eyes dulled, replaced with confusion—like someone waking up in a room they didn’t remember entering.

Jeremy let out a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh—more like a release of pressure. He ran a hand through his hair, his voice rough. “Christ, mate. You gave us a scare.”

Hammond blinked slowly, eyes darting between them. “What—what happened?”

“You had a bit of a… moment,” James said, gentle but firm. “But you’re all right now.”

Hammond swallowed hard, gaze dropping to his hands. They were still trembling. “I—yeah. I don’t—sorry. I don’t know what—”

“Don’t,” Jeremy interrupted, shaking his head. His voice cracked again, the bluster gone. “Don’t apologize.”

The lift was still stalled, humming faintly. The emergency light above flickered again, soft red washing their faces.

For a while, no one said anything. The only sound was their breathing—uneven but real.

Hammond leaned back against the wall, eyes still glassy but clearing. James stayed beside him, hand still resting lightly on his shoulder, like if he moved it, Hammond might slip back under.

Jeremy let out another shaky exhale, looking everywhere but at them. “If we ever get out of this thing,” he muttered, “I’m buying you both a drink. A strong one.”

James huffed a short, tired laugh. “Make it two.”

The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable, exactly—but it wasn’t unbearable anymore.

The emergency light dimmed, flickering one last time before holding steady. The air felt heavier, but it was real again.

Hammond blinked slowly, like coming back from underwater. The sound of his breathing was quieter now. His shoulders lowered, the trembling easing.

James stayed right there, grounded, steady, until Hammond finally looked up at him.

“Still here,” James said softly.

“Yeah,” Hammond whispered, voice raw. “Still here.”

Jeremy exhaled—one long, rough breath that filled the whole lift. “Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

The world around them felt fragile but alive again—the hum of the motor, the flicker of the light, the space between them charged with everything unspoken.

Then, without warning, the elevator shuddered a mechanical groan vibrating up through the floor. The emergency light flickered, then steadied.

For a moment, none of them moved. The sound of the motor returning—grinding, reluctant—was the most beautiful noise they’d ever heard.

Then the box began to move.

Jeremy broke the silence first, voice rough. “About bloody time.”

The words should’ve landed like a joke, but they didn’t. The tone was too flat, the edges too soft. It wasn’t irritation anymore—it was exhaustion masquerading as humor.

James stayed where he was, still crouched beside Hammond, his hand hovering at the younger man’s shoulder but not quite touching now. Hammond was upright but leaning against the wall, his breathing steadier but still shallow.

“Nearly there,” James said quietly, as if narrating for Hammond’s sake, not his own.

Hammond nodded once, slow. His face was pale, eyes glassy, still trying to rejoin reality. His hand flexed on his knee—he needed something to hold, but the cold metal walls offered nothing.

The lift juddered again, a small bounce that made Hammond tense automatically. James steadied him instinctively. Jeremy’s eyes flicked to the movement, then away.

When the doors finally slid open with a hiss, the cold air hit them like surfacing from deep water.

Hammond blinked against the dim fluorescent light of the car park. Everything looked too big, too bright, too loud after the claustrophobic hush of the elevator.

Jeremy stepped out first, squinting. “Well,” he muttered, shoving his hands into his coat pockets, “that was fun.”

James gave him a sharp look—one that said not now—but Jeremy ignored it, moving just far enough to give Hammond space to breathe.

Hammond didn’t stand right away. He stared out past the open doors, like there was an invisible line between “in there” and “out here” that he wasn’t sure how to cross.

Then Jeremy turned back, extending a hand. “Come on, you dramatic sod.”

It was an attempt at normalcy—gruff and half-hearted, but it was something.

Hammond hesitated. His hand twitched, then finally reached out and took it. Jeremy pulled him up, slow, careful not to yank. Hammond’s legs were unsteady, his balance slightly off. But thankfully held steady by James as he followed up right behind him.

“Cheers,” Hammond muttered, voice thin.

“Don’t mention it,” Jeremy said, trying for flippant. The effort came out tired.

They stepped into the car park together. The doors slid shut behind them with a muted clunk.

The silence that followed felt cavernous.

Only the hum of the city filtered in—distant cars, the faint whoosh of air vents. Their footsteps echoed across the concrete.

Hammond leaned against a nearby pillar, his shoulders hunched, head tipped back as if the cold concrete behind him could keep him from floating off. The night air bit at his skin, grounding in its sharpness.

James lingered nearby, arms crossed, watching him with that quiet, analytical look he got when something serious needed saying but words felt intrusive.

Jeremy busied himself with his phone, pretending to text. The performance was paper-thin, but it was a kindness—his way of giving Hammond privacy without leaving.

Nobody spoke for a while. The world around them was dim and oddly peaceful, the car park’s fluorescent lights humming like distant bees.

Hammond finally broke the silence. His voice was rough, hesitant. “Sorry. I didn’t—I thought I was over it.”

James’s expression softened immediately. “You don’t just ‘get over’ things like that.”

The words hung there, plain and true.

Jeremy exhaled, still staring at his phone. “You don’t have to be over it,” he said gruffly. “You just have to not die in a lift, preferably.”

It took Hammond a second to process it, then he gave a small, broken laugh. “I’ll—try to remember that next time.”

The sound cracked halfway through but didn’t fade. For the first time since the panic hit, it sounded real.

James smiled faintly, though his eyes were still shadowed. “That’s the spirit.”

Jeremy pocketed his phone with a grunt. “Next time, we’re taking the stairs.”

“Next time,” Hammond echoed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. The skin there was clammy, still cooling from the panic. His fingers found the edge of the concrete pillar and pressed into it like he needed to confirm it was solid.

James stepped closer, tilting his head. “You all right to drive?”

Hammond hesitated. “Yeah. Think so. Just—give me a minute.”

James nodded, no argument. “Take all the time you need.”

Jeremy made a small sound in agreement, something between a grunt and a sigh. “We’ll wait.”

That, more than anything, seemed to steady Hammond.

He looked between them—Jeremy with his fake irritation, James with his quiet steadiness—and felt the edges of the moment slot back into place. Familiar. Safe. Imperfect, but solid.

After a few minutes, he pushed himself upright, brushing his hands on his jeans. “Right,” he said softly, more to himself than to them. “Back to the hotel, then?”

“Yeah,” James said.

Jeremy nodded, glancing at him sideways. “And if you faint halfway there, I’m not cleaning the seat.”

It was said with just enough edge to sound like Jeremy again. That was the point.

Hammond’s mouth twitched into a tired smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

They started walking toward their cars. Their footsteps echoed softly, the rhythm of three men who’d done this a thousand times—but tonight, it felt different.

Hammond lagged half a step behind, his breath visible in the cold air. His head still felt fuzzy, but the ground was firm under his feet. Every sound—the click of Jeremy’s keys, the scuff of James’s shoes—anchored him back to now.

James glanced back once, checking. Hammond caught the look and nodded faintly.

“I’m fine,” Hammond said quietly.

James didn’t press. He just gave a small nod. “Good.”

Jeremy opened his car door, leaning on it like a barrier, and called over, “For the record, if you ever pull that stunt again, I’m fitting you with one of those kiddie harnesses.”

The words earned him another weak laugh. “Right. I’ll put it on my list.”

“Good lad.”

They stood there for a moment, none of them rushing to leave. The night was cold, still. The adrenaline had long faded, replaced with the hollow calm that always follows panic.

James turned toward his car, then paused. “Jeremy,” he said quietly.

Clarkson looked up.

“Thanks for not… making it too much worse.”

Jeremy blinked, caught off guard. Then he huffed. “Didn’t have much of a choice, did I?”

“You did,” James said simply. “And you didn’t take it with actual malice.”

A silence passed—something unspoken, raw, but understood.

Jeremy shrugged it off, grumbling, “Well. Don’t tell anyone. Ruins my reputation.”

Hammond’s smile was small, but it reached his eyes this time.

They climbed into their respective cars. For a moment, before starting the engines, Hammond sat still, staring through the windscreen at the empty expanse of concrete. The quiet pressed against the glass, heavy but gentle.

He let out a long breath, feeling the remnants of fear leave with it.

When he finally turned the key, the sound of the engine was grounding—steady, alive, normal.

Across the lot, Jeremy gave a brief honk, impatient as ever. James just rolled his eyes and started his own car.

Hammond smiled faintly. Back to normal, or something close to it.

As he followed them out into the cold night, the last echo of the elevator hummed quietly in his head—but it didn’t own him anymore.

He was still here.

And for now, that was enough.