On a Monday approximately one week after the summer long weekend, two things of opposing merit happen to Lucas. Chronologically speaking, the event that happens first is the shitty one.

It’s mid-morning and he’s at a site near the docks in London Docklands, of all places. They’re fixing the concrete barriers around a crumbling strip of access road - not the most inspired project, but the docks are pretty interesting to watch from a bit of a distance. Since its mid-July at this point, the heat is starting to rise from the pavement; he can already feel the sweat accruing in the middle of his back and is grateful that his work shirt is dark in colour, or else he’d have to wear his safety vest on the train home to hide the stains on his shirt.

The stupid thing is that he is paying attention when the accident happens. He may be doing a little musing - there’s a good fish market nearby that he’s been to before, and Lucas figures if he’s done early enough today to snag something half-decent on the way home, he can make fish tacos for dinner - but it’s no more daydreaming than usual. He’s focused on hauling away the stray smaller blocks of crumbling concrete that their larger equipment left behind, using his big hands and a reinforced wheelbarrow to grab and clear off the sheared pieces - and then it happens.

There isn’t supposed to be anything in this path, but someone has obviously neglected to clear away all the old rebar, because Lucas’s work boot snags on a forgotten piece of the metal and he goes crashing to the ground. His grip on the wheelbarrow doesn’t release in time, it follows him to the pavement, and a hundred pounds of broken concrete pieces slam into his bicep. It’s really terrible, because Lucas is actually pretty intense about safety on the work site, and he’s never been injured before.

He gets sent to the hospital in a cab.

Really, it’s kind of an overreaction. His arm is bruised and he gets a few stitches near his elbow, but the scans are clear up there. Which is nothing: Lucas’s broken many a bone in his life, including one time shattering his wrist trying to jump off of Hamil’s roof on a dare, and he knows he could go back to work right away if it were just his arm.

His toes and foot are fine, thanks to steel-toed boots - this is why everyone is so up in arms about PPE, Lucas wants to shout - but the real problem is that according to the doctor, he has a hairline fracture on his ankle. So work is out for at least a few weeks, depending on how he feels and how healing is going. He has to fill out about a thousand reports for worker’s compensation, all of which are infuriatingly annoying, then he gets a big plastic boot to immobilize his leg, some painkillers, a pair of too-short crutches and a cab home.

The hospital takes forever, so by the time Lucas gets dropped off in front of his building, it’s well past lunchtime. He decides he’s not willing to cook anything, so he hauls his big plastic boot and his shitty crutches halfway up the block to the corner deli. He gets a half of a giant lumberjack sandwich, shoves it the ankle of the work boot he’s also lugging around, then struggles his way back home and up to the apartment.

Then, the second thing happens. This one is, objectively speaking, better.

Once he steps in front of the door, Lucas can hear music playing and immediately recognizes “Murder She Wrote”. Sarah must be working on school stuff at home today instead of the library, he figures, though usually when she’s working she demands absolute silence, so he’s a little surprised to hear the music. But hey, whatever works for her. He puts his keys in the door and hobbles inside.

He’s not delicate about it at all - not that he usually is, even without crutches and a boot - but the music is pretty loud, so Sarah doesn’t hear him right away. Which suits Lucas fine, because when he walks in, his roommate is in their small kitchen in front of a squared-off sheet of pastry dough, wearing a fitted white sundress with little blue flowers printed on it, wet hair tied up in a knot on her head, barefoot. And she’s dancing.

In the moment, Lucas can’t decide whether to be focused on how completely adorable it is or on how beautiful she looks. He’d managed to convince her to come to Portsmouth for a summer weekend and she’d seemed to have a good time (despite his total inability to keep his hands off of her, which he’s vowed to try to control; just because she’s polite about it doesn’t mean it’s welcomed), which he’s glad about. Sarah’s been so stressed lately, with this marathon she’s decided to run and with what he gathers are issues with her studies and he’s really happy to see her dancing around with a little smile on her face.

It doesn’t last long. Sarah turns slightly in his direction just as he’s setting his work boot-and-sandwich combo on the ground and shrieks when she notices she’s not alone.

“Lucas, god, make a little noise,” she breathes, one hand flying to her chest. Sarah pulls her phone toward her, taps a couple of keys, and the music turns off.

“No one’s ever had to tell me that before,” he jokes, flashing her his best grin. “Sorry to interrupt, Dalton, it looked like a good party.”

“Ha ha.” Sarah folds her arms. “I was just celebrating a little, I - oh my god, Lucas, what happened?”

Lucas hobbles a little more clearly into her view and looks around for a stool. He wants to get this other work boot off already. “It’s nothing, Sarah, don’t worry.”

She’s at his side a second later with one of the kitchen chairs. He sinks into it and leans over to untie his shoe, but Sarah swats at his hand and crouches in front of him. “I got it, Lucas.”

“Sarah, no,” he winces, very aware of the fact that his feet are going to smell. His first order of business probably actually should be having a shower - thankfully, this plastic boot comes off, and as long as he’s good to his ankle he should be able to do all of that normally - and the last thing that he wants is for Sarah to get a full whiff of the mid-July construction scent.

She’s more stubborn that he’d counted on, though, and she begins to unlace his shoe anyway. To her credit, if it does stink, she doesn’t let on - though when she sets the work boot aside, she does make a face at the sandwich that’s sticking out of the matching one. “Is this your lunch?” she asks, picking it up by two fingers like it’s made of fire.

Lucas shrugs. “Bought it on the corner. Mine got left at work when I got sent to the hospital, and I figured I was too lazy to whip up anything good here.”

Sarah shakes her head, then stands up and sets it on the counter. “So what happened?”

“Tripped over some rebar,” he answers. “Fell down, bunch o’ concrete came down with me. A couple of stitches on my arm, and it’s sore, it’s fine. My ankle’s got a hairline fracture, though, so I’m off work until that heals.”

“Oh no!” Sarah bites her lip. “With worker’s comp, I hope?”

Lucas nods. “Yes, should be. I had to fill out about a million forms.” He stands up, waving her away when she moves to help him. “I can walk, Sarah, I’m just supposed to keep off it for the most part.”

“Then let me help you! Lean on my shoulder.”

He chuckles. “I got crutches for that, Sarah. I’d probably crush you if you tried to hold me up.”

Sarah frowns. “Hey, I’m stronger than I look!”

“That’s cute. You asked me to open a jar of pepperoncinis literally yesterday.” Lucas winks at her; she sticks her tongue out at him. “I have to take a shower. I was vile before I took a bath in the concrete so I can’t imagine how much worse it’s gotten. But don’t throw out my sandwich, I’m going to eat that.”

“Oh, no you aren’t. I’ll make you something better.” Sarah watches him as he takes careful steps down the hallway. “Do you need help?” she asks, tone uncertain.

Lucas turns around and grins at her. “Like, nurse Dalton gives me a sponge bath?”

Her cheeks flush pink. “No, like - do you need to wrap the … this thing,” she says, taking a couple of steps toward him and pointing at the boot.

“No, it comes off, I just have to be careful.” Then, because he just can’t help himself, Lucas adds, “So you’re saying the sponge bath is off the table?”

The blush from Sarah’s cheeks has spread to her chest now. It’s so sweet, he can barely stand it. “We’ll have to see how bad you get,” she answers in a cool tone, eyes sparkling. “Now go, shower.”

“Okay, okay,” he agrees, and hobbles away.