Typical five times type fic. Just five times that a member of the public meets Scott Tracy.

Disclaimer: Most certainly not mine. I'm just playing a little bit and I'll give Scott back when I'm done with him. It could be a while.

First Time.

The first time I see him we are in a Grab-It-Kwik at a gas station and there is a line of people waiting to be served. A long line. He is tall, muscular, with dark hair, a chiselled jaw and blue eyes that would stop a woman dead in her tracks just to look at them. In a sense, this man is a god, an olympian, the kind of man that any girl would be proud to take home to her parents. The high end jeans and good quality button down shirt only help to reenforce that impression.

It's the run up to Christmas, I have just finished a particularly gruelling shift and all I want to do is to get home, eat, get a shower and crawl into my bed, I'm not really particular about the order in which those tasks are actually achieved, as long as I manage it. Gas stations these days are supposed to have this fancy new pay at the pump system installed to save on this kind of thing, the guy behind the counter is only there to deal with the purchase of the over priced gas station snack type goods. This particular establishment seems to be going through a mass melt down, all of the card systems have gone down and people are paying in cash. This in itself should have been a clue that all was not well LaLa Land.

Everyone here, however, is tired, everyone here wants to get home, and everyone here is woefully unprepared for what happens next. What happens next involves guns, shooting, shouting and the sudden whoosh of air from my lungs as Mr. Olympian Blue Eyes pulls me to the ground and covers me with his body. There is screaming, there are hands everywhere and I hear Blue Eyes tell me, in a low voice that shakes me to my very core, to keep down, keep quiet and not panic. There is an order there and it sounds like he is used to obedience. I take a moment to absently wonder if he is military.

We stay down and when we are ordered to hand over our wallets and jewellery it occurs to me for a moment to say no. It seems to occur to Blue Eyes too because he looks up at them, defiant and angry, and I realise that this could get very ugly very quickly if he refuses. I look straight at him, will him to meet my eyes.

"Just give them the cash, honey," I say, hope that he will get the hint and not dispute it as I reach for my own purse, "Amy needs her daddy at Christmas more than she needs the gifts." I get a cuff across the top of my head for this from the man with the gun, his face covered in a black ski mask and it is unimaginative, but effective. Blue Eyes wraps an arm around me, keeping up the pretence I think, hands over his wallet and watches them leave with an expression that speaks of murder and pain. I sincerely hope that I am never on the receiving end of that.

Later, once the police have interviewed us all and I have finally made it back to my little out of town apartment complete with house mate and cat, I wonder what his name was and dream of his face, his body and his eyes, blue eyes.

Second Time.

The next time I see him it is a little over a year later and I have procured the final cup of black coffee from the cheap hospital vending machine. My head is not really in the sort of space that notices little details like that, however, my sister is in a hospital bed down the hall and she is in a bad way. She has survived three days since her attack, the doctors don't think that she will survive another.

I recognise him, even though it's been a year, it would be hard not to recognise the face of the man who prevented me from being shot. He does not seem to recognise me, however, and I decide not to say anything, not really up to talking to anyone, but not ready to go back to my sister's bedside just yet either. As I hover between walking away and just standing in the corridor I hear a fist strike the side of the coffee dispenser, turn and see him jabbing angrily at the black coffee button like he cannot tell that it is all gone. I look at my coffee wistfully, then shrug and put a hand on his arm.

"Here," I hand it to him, "you look like you need this more than I do." He stares at me, like he doesn't expect this sort of kindness from a total stranger. "I can get another, after three days caffeine is pretty much caffeine no matter the form." To back up my statement I reach for the machine and select one of the sickly sweet coffees that has enough powdered milk in it to make a body gag. Caffeine, like I said though, is most definitely caffeine and I need the kick right now.

I linger next to him, hiding a grimace as the stickiness of the liquid hits my tongue and slides lukewarm down my throat. It's not because I want the company, my mother is in the room with my sister so it's not that I am doing this alone, there is another reason, one that I do not want to admit to.

"I should go back in," he says and I nod my agreement, gesturing that I should do the same and still neither of us moves. "It's just seeing him in that bed, all hooked up to those tubes..."

"It's hard. Watching a machine breathe for her, wondering if she'll ever wake up at all..."

"He looks so small in that bed, nothing like the way he normally does."

"No one knows what to say and you sit there in silence and wonder..."

"How did it happen?" He finishes and I realise that we are talking about the same thing without even realising it. I try for a smile and know that it comes out as shaken and worried as his.

"It's my sister," I say suddenly, "my baby sister. Doctors say she's never going to wake up."

"My brother," he responds, "one of them. Younger. Doctors are telling us that it'll be a miracle if he wakes up, and if he does he might never walk again." We stand in silence for a long moment and then I meet his eyes one last time, knowing that he sees my agony there. We part in silence, he heads towards the more private part of the wing and I go to the little room where my sister's life will end.

I doubt I will ever see him again.

Third Time.

The third time I see him is at work and is nearly eighteen months later. The small town book store that I work in is holding a signing for a bright new up and coming astronomer who managed to make it an interesting subject even for me. His name is John Tracy, his hair is sun blonde and his eyes are twin pools of blue brilliance that are eerily familiar. I find out why when one of my colleagues escorts Mr. Blue Eyed Olympian himself around the corner.

"Hey, Scott," John greets that dark haired man and they share an embrace, clapping one another on the back and with the sort of relieved grins that show that they have not seen one another in a while.

I hand the blonde his coffee with a smile, seeing a flicker of recognition in the eyes of the one I now know is called Scott. The smile I flash in his direction is not as bright as it could be, my memory of him is still clouded a little by the last time I saw him, by the fact that it was on the day that my sister died. I turn to leave, catching a snippet of their conversation as I walk out of the office and back into the store.

"How's Gordon holding up?" John asks, voice vibrating a little in concern and I wonder if Gordon is the name of the brother who was injured the last time I saw Scott.

"You know our brother," Scott responds, voice still that deep syrup that goes straight through me and leaves me quivering, "he's like a cat."

I leave them to it with the brief thought that at least one of us got a relatively happy ending.

Fourth Time.

The fourth time I see him is only three weeks after the last, waiting to board a plane to visit my mother in Los Angeles. Scott does not see me and that is something for which I find myself profoundly grateful. I am sat in the airport lounge, coffee clutched tight to my chest as though I expect someone to take it away from me. If one were to listen to my colleagues talk about the amount of the stuff I consume, no doubt many would remove it from my hands and never let me drink it again.

I am grateful that the blue eyed man does not see me because it gives me a chance to look at him, really look at him, this man who became my saviour in a run down gas station, this man who gave me an anchor at a time when my life and family were coming apart about my ears, the man who showed me that someone, somewhere, will get the happy ending that I probably do not deserve.

I watch the way that he walks with a purpose, the way that his shoulders are straight and fixed as though he has burdens that he carries with ease. I watch how his obviously expensive jeans fit him like a glove in all the right places and the way that his leather jacket seems to shine in the sunlight, soft and supple and I let myself wonder what it would feel like under my hands.

I watch as he climbs into a small private jet and feel a thrill of surprise when I realise that he is the one who is going to fly it. I let myself watch as he taxis to the run way, let myself follow the upward glide of his little plane and think that this will most definitely be the last time I see him. I think about the way that a pair of blue eyes in the right face can make such an impression on me and I let myself indulge in a moment of fantasy before dragging myself back to reality and putting the name and face of Scott Tracy from my mind as though he is meaningless.

In reality he means something to me. He did save my life once after all.

Fifth Time.

The fifth time I see him it is most definitely the last place that I expect to. I am trapped in the carriage of a train that is supposed to be one of the most up to date and state of the art modes of transport to date. Luxury style without the price tag and now I understand why.

The carriage is filling with acrid smoke, black and thick with the stench of burning plastic and damaged metals. The heat of the flames to one side of the glass and metal between me and it sears one side of me, a flicker of orange in a haze of stinging darkness and a part of my brain says that this is the place that I am going to die. Oddly I feel nothing but the soft embrace of peace at the thought.

I don't recognise him at first, the air too filled with smoke and my eyes gritty and dry from the heat. My head is swimming and my chest is tight and all I really notice are the gloved hands that help me to my feet, the kind voice that comes from behind the helmet of a fire resistant suit as he guides me from the deceptive safety of my hiding place between seats and into the dark heat of the tunnel. It is his voice that soothes me when I panic about leaving the train and his soft touch, even with gloves, that assures me that he knows what he is doing, that there is true salvation awaiting me just a few steps to the right of the door he has made for me.

He is right and even though I cough violently as I step into the clean air of the great machine, where one of his friends is waiting for us, I turn to thank him all the same. I meet blue eyes that stand a very real chance of stopping my already faltering heart as he removes his helmet and I cannot help the soft noise of recognition that I make when I see them. It has been two years, but somehow I know that he recognises me as well.

He does not say anything as he places an oxygen mask over my face and I hardly know what to do or where to look. It would seem that the man who saved my life in that gas station almost five years ago is the same Scott Tracy as the one knelt before me, the Scott Tracy who is a member of one of the most secretive organisations in the world.

The Scott Tracy who is a member of International Rescue.

He and his companion do little talking on the way out of the tunnel, either to myself or to the other survivors, beyond gentle instructions and reassurances that we will be well taken care of by emergency services once they get us outside.

For a moment I think about how I could make a fortune from this story, how I could tell everyone that I know the identity of at least one member of International Rescue. That thought fills me with instant shame, it is no way to repay a man who has saved me twice, no way to pay a debt that I know he will deny me ever owing. I resolve to keep my silence and wish that there was a way to tell him, wish that I could say that I know who he is but that I will never tell another soul his name, his identity.

Instead when he helps me from the machine they used to rescue me I grab his arm, press my too dry lips to his cheek that is streaked with dirt and ash, and whisper a thank you. I thank him for saving my life, for being there, and then I walk away from him with my head held high and my soul aflame.

I walk away with the memory of a pair of blue eyes that will haunt me for the rest of my years. I walk away knowing that I owe him my life twice over. I walk away knowing that I will protect him in every way that I can and I walk away knowing that this is truly the last time I will see him.

I walk away proud that I ever met him in the first place.