Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The energy in the paddock on Sunday was electric—a palpable buzz that reverberated through the air from the roaring crowds and the buzzing garages. The atmosphere was charged with anticipation as the drivers made their final preparations before the race, each moment tinged with the promise of high-speed drama. Mechanics and engineers darted around the sleek, powerful machines, meticulously checking and rechecking every detail to ensure peak performance. Amid this hive of activity, the drivers suited up, their faces excited and nervous.

Bucky, his helmet casually tucked under his arm, exuded an aura of unshakable confidence as he strode through the Red Bull garage. His posture was that of a champion, and his every step was a testament to the countless hours of dedication and hard work that had brought him here. He exchanged fist bumps and nods with his team. Each gesture was welcomed warmly by his team, which was eagerly awaiting the start of the race.

His walk through the garage was more than a simple walk; it was a proclamation. As the reigning world champion, he carried his title with pride and a commanding presence. This was his domain, and he wouldn't relinquish it for anything.

"Morning, Bucky!" shouted one of the mechanics, a wide grin on his face.

"Morning," Bucky replied, nodding. "Let's make today count."

As he neared his car, the sleek, polished machine that was both his weapon and shield, Bucky allowed himself a brief moment of reflection. He ran his fingers over the cool, smooth ridges of the car, each curve as familiar as an old friend. This ritual, seemingly mundane, was a grounding act, a way to calm the whirlwind of thoughts racing through his mind and to focus on the task ahead.

Bucky's race engineer, Crank, approached with a tablet in hand. "Everything looks good. We’ve made those adjustments you asked for."

"Great!" Bucky murmured, his voice a low rumble that conveyed both confidence and determination for the upcoming race. He leant closer to Crank, lowering his voice. "Just stick with the plan, and we’ll crush it."

Crank nodded, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You’ve got this, Bucky."

A slight smirk appeared on Bucky's lips, a flash of the cocksure bravado that had become his trademark. His eyes flicked over to the Ferrari bay, where his rival was surrounded by his crew, engaged in a tableau of quiet strategy and intense concentration.

"Let him plan," Bucky muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. "Let him ponder and probe for weakness. He won’t find any."

Crank raised an eyebrow. "Confident, are we?"

"Always," Bucky replied, his smirk deepening. The confidence was a veneer, concealing the nerves and adrenaline that coursed through him—emotions Bucky had learned to harness and control over his career. He knew all too well that in Formula 1, the margin between victory and defeat was as thin as the paint on his car’s chassis.

Christian walked over and grabbed his driver's face between his hands, making Bucky focus on him completely. "Don't get cocky, and we'll have this in the bag. Remember, we're racing for the third championship here. Don't risk it. Brady understands the strategy, so make sure you do too, John," Christian said, before pushing him towards the cockpit.

"Yes, sir," Bucky mock saluted teasingly. 

The moment was interrupted by the arrival of Bucky’s teammate, Brady, who clapped him on the shoulder. "Ready to show them how it's done?"

"Always ready," Bucky said, his tone light but firm, pulling on his helmet. "Let’s give them a race they won’t forget."

Brady grinned. "See you out there."

As Bucky settled into the cockpit of his car, the world outside faded away. It was just him, the machine, and the track ahead. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, feeling the familiar surge of adrenaline. The roar of the crowd, the hum of the engines, the buzz of the pit crew—all of it became a symphony of sound and sensation, a prelude to the race that was about to unfold.

"Radio check!" Crank's voice crackled through Bucky’s earpiece.

"Loud and clear," Bucky responded, his voice steady.

"Good luck, Bucky," Crank said, a note of smugness in his voice. "Let’s bring it home."

Bucky took a deep breath, the final seconds ticking away. "Let’s do this."

Today, it’s just me and the track, he thought. And maybe Buck. He chuckled softly to himself, a sound lost in the cocoon of his helmet. The rivalry with Buck was a fire that stoked his competitive spirit, a necessary edge that sharpened his focus.

As the engines started, a rumble that felt like an echo of his own racing heart, Bucky's thoughts crystallised into a single, piercing ambition—to win. Not just to affirm his own capabilities but to prove to the fans and his competition that he was still the master of the track and the one to beat.

And as the cars lined up on the grid, Bucky’s eyes fixed on the tarmac ahead. His body and mind were one—a serpent ready to strike. The race was no longer just about points and podiums. It was about legacy, rivalry, and the sweet taste of triumph that awaited just beyond the finish line.

The roar of the engines crescendoed into a symphony of speed as the race kicked off. Crofty's iconic call, "It's lights out, and away we go," marked the exhilarating start of the Monaco Grand Prix.

Instantly, Bucky surged forward from the pole position, his Red Bull car slicing through the air with predatory precision. Behind him, Buck's Ferrari roared to life, behind him. His teammate Brady was a few cars back but making steady ground.

"John Egan takes the lead as they zip past the paddock—what a start!" Crofty's voice boomed over the broadcast, and the excitement was intense. "Gale Cleven is in hot pursuit, but it’s the Red Bull of Egan showing early dominance!"

The streets of Monaco became a blur of colours as the cars threaded through the tight turns. Bucky, in his element, manoeuvred his vehicle with aggressive grace, pushing his car to its limits. Each corner was a calculated risk, and each straight was an opportunity to extend his lead over the rest of the grid.

Meanwhile, Buck settled into a rhythm three seconds behind, his eyes never straying from the Red Bull’s tail wing. His approach was methodical, waiting for any slip-up or small error from Bucky that he could exploit, knowing his Ferrari was no match for the Red Bull ahead of him by itself.

"Look at Egan. He’s absolutely flying, but don’t count out Gale Cleven yet," Martin Brundle chimed in next to Crofty. "He’s known for his strategic mind. It’s all about patience in a race like this here at Monaco."

As the laps ticked by, Bucky seemed to toy with his rival. Occasionally, he would slow down slightly, letting Buck catch up, only to accelerate swiftly in a burst of sheer power as Buck neared, keeping the Ferrari at bay. It was a psychological game, a show of dominance and power, and something else.

"Egan seems to be playing cat and mouse with Cleven out there," Crofty observed, the intrigue clear in his tone. "He’s letting Gale get close, but not too close—just enough to keep him on the edge."

The cameras often cut to the team principals, Christian Horner of Red Bull and Fred Vasseur of Ferrari, each displaying a cocktail of focus and calculation. The strategic decisions made on the pit wall could alter the course of the race in seconds, and both principals knew this.

On lap 20, as they approached the iconic Casino Square, Bucky executed a flawless defensive manoeuvre to block Buck, who had managed to reduce the gap to under a second. The crowd gasped, and the tension between the two was surmountable even to the casual observer.

"Gale is pushing hard, testing John's defences, but Egan is not giving an inch," Martin explained, his voice a mix of admiration and suspense. "This is more than just a race. It’s a battle of wills out there between the two leaders, and old childhood friends, now rivals."

As the race entered its final stages, the psychological warfare intensified. Bucky’s taunts over the team radio were not just for Buck but were broadcast live, adding a layer of drama for the spectators.

"Someone tell Cleven not to blink. He might lose me," Bucky’s voice echoed, a smirk in his tone audible even over the radio.

Buck’s call over the radio came thirty seconds later. "Egan is a madman. He's driving dangerously out here," Buck spat over the radio, annoyance edging over the comms.

The final laps were a masterclass in tension. Each time Buck seemed on the verge of overtaking, Bucky found an extra ounce of speed, his driving a blend of brilliance and pure aggression, a driver in his own league. The Monaco circuit, with its glamorous backdrop and notorious difficulty, was the perfect arena for their showdown.

As they rounded the last lap, the commentary team was on the edge of their seats. "And here they come, down the final straight," Crofty announced, his voice rising in pitch. "John Egan in the lead, Gale Cleven just behind—what a spectacular duel we’ve witnessed today!"

The chequered flag waved as Bucky crossed the finish line, two seconds ahead of Buck. The triumph in Bucky's voice was evident over the radio as he pumped his fists in the air. "Good race, team. Another one for the books," Bucky smiled, waving to the roaring fans.

"Today was about speed, strategy, and a class in psychology," Martin concluded as the drivers prepared for the podium ceremony. "And these two—they've given us a race to remember!"

The tension and excitement that had been building throughout the race finally reached its crescendo as the cars pulled up in the podium lineup area for the mandatory weigh-in. The air was thick with the scent of burnt rubber and fuel and the buzz of adrenaline-charged conversations from the crowd of team members and officials congregating around the finish line.

Bucky, the victor of the day, was the first to climb out of his Red Bull car, his body still humming with the rush of his victory. With a swift movement, he yanked off his helmet, releasing a cascade of sweaty curls that he quickly ran his fingers through, trying to cool off. His face was alight with triumph and relief as he dashed into the open arms of his team. Laughter and cheers erupted around him as they lifted him briefly in the air, celebrating their collective success.

A few feet away, Buck was extracting himself from his Ferrari with more composed movements. He took off his helmet and gloves methodically, each motion precise and practiced. His face, now visible, was flushed from the effort and intensity of the race, his eyes reflecting a complex mix of emotions—disappointment mingled with pride in his performance.

Buck walked over to his team, exchanging hugs and claps on the back. The Ferrari crew was clearly proud of their driver, rallying around him to celebrate their hard-fought second place. As the initial flurry of congratulations died down, Buck's gaze drifted across to Bucky, who was still revelling in the chaos of his team's celebration.

Their eyes locked in a silent exchange in the midst of the surrounding chaos. Bucky, his smirk full of cocky delight and respect, gave a nod towards Buck. In response, Buck's nod was curt, almost imperceptible to anyone not looking for it—a silent acknowledgement of "good race."

The moment was brief, but it spoke volumes. The rivalry that had fueled both drivers to push their limits on the track was still alive, tinged now with a grudging respect forged in the heat of competition. They were warriors in the same arena.

Bucky eventually turned back to his team, his smirk fading into a genuine smile as he celebrated with them. Buck, meanwhile, continued his quiet interaction with his crew, his demeanour calm but the fire of competition still evident in his quick, strategic discussions about the race and ways they can improve.

As the weigh-in concluded and the drivers prepared to step onto the podium, the atmosphere was electric. Fans cheered from the stands and from below, their voices blending into a cacophony of excitement and anticipation for the victory ceremony. Bucky and Buck, now standing side by side, shared another glance, this one longer, acknowledging not just the day’s race but the many that were still to come.

As the formalities of the weigh-in and initial celebrations concluded, the atmosphere near the podium was infused with both relief and exhilaration. The top three drivers—John Egan, Gale Cleven, and John Brady—stood on the elevated platform, each holding a bottle of champagne, a traditional symbol of Formula 1 victory. The crowd’s cheers rose to an ear-piercing roar, echoing off the circuit walls, as the trio prepared for one of the sport's most beloved rituals.

With a practiced twist, Bucky popped the cork of his bottle, the spray of champagne erupting into the air like a fountain of joy. Buck and Brady quickly followed suit, their bottles hissing as the pressure released, sending arcs of champagne across the podium. The three drivers laughed, the sound mingling with the crowd's roaring approval, as they aimed the frothy streams at each other.

Bucky, with a roguish grin, doused Buck from head to toe, the champagne soaking his already damp racing suit. Buck retaliated, the force of his spray catching Bucky square in the face, causing him to sputter and wipe his eyes, laughing all the while. Brady, the third-place finisher, wasn’t about to stand aside and miss the fun. He joined in, spraying both of the top drivers, his actions making it clear that he was thrilled to be part of this elite group.

The playful battle with champagne served as a brief respite from the intense rivalry on the track. It was a moment of unguarded banter shared in front of thousands of racing fans who relished seeing their heroes let down their guards.

As the champagne bottles began to sputter out, the trio shook off the excess fizz and prepared for the next official engagement—the post-race press conference. They exchanged quick, knowing looks, a silent agreement that they would return to their more composed, competitive selves once they faced the media.

Walking off the podium, they continued to joke among themselves, a few last droplets of champagne dripping from their hair and chins. The press area was buzzing with anticipation. Journalists from around the world were eager to capture their thoughts on the race, the season, and the dynamics that were unfolding with each Grand Prix.

The drivers took their seats, microphones positioned in front of them, as the room quieted down for the conference to begin. Bucky sat in the middle, his expression shifting to one of boredom, a stark contrast to the exuberant figure on the podium moments earlier. Buck, always more reserved, composed his features into a mask of calm professionalism. Brady, still new to the spotlight since joining Red Bull, looked slightly overwhelmed but excited to participate.

The air in the press room was thick with anticipation of the insights after one of the most thrilling races of the season. The reporters were poised with their recorders and notepads, ready to dive into the minds of the top three finishers: Bucky, Buck, and the young upstart Brady.

Lisa Wright, the experienced sports journalist moderating the press conference, had a keen eye for the undercurrents flowing between the drivers.

"Congratulations to each of you on a spectacular performance today," Lisa began, her voice echoing slightly in the packed room. "John, there was quite the show out there. It looked like you were almost toying with Gale at several turns. What was your strategy for keeping him at bay?"

Seated at the centre, Bucky leant forward, a practiced smile playing on his lips. The cameras loved him, and he knew exactly how to command the room. "Thanks, Lisa. It was definitely an intense race. Toying is a strong word—I was really just exploring the limits of our car and some of the new upgrades. Buck is an exceptional driver, and testing those limits is part of the game. It’s what makes Formula 1 so exciting, isn’t it?" His glance towards Buck was perfectly calculated—a subtle blend of smugness and teasing.

Buck, who had been quietly observing Bucky's response, gave a slight nod in acknowledgment. His face was impassive, giving away nothing of the irritation that flickered behind his eyes. "Indeed, it was an intense race," he agreed smoothly when it was his turn to speak. "My focus was on consistency and precision. Bucky here is a formidable opponent, and keeping up with him requires not just speed but a lot of strategy."

Lisa picked up on the subtle shift in dynamics as she turned to Brady. "And Brady, being the youngest here, what was it like competing against these seasoned racers?"

Brady's answer was enthusiastic, his admiration for the two leaders evident. "It’s incredible. Both have different approaches that are hugely instructive, not just for me but for all drivers on the grid and the upcoming guys over in formulas 2 and 3."

Returning her focus to the main event, Lisa addressed both Bucky and Buck again. "There seemed to be a mutual moment of respect after the race. Despite the fierce rivalry, do you find that you actually learn from each other?"

Bucky’s response was immediate and charming. "Of course, Lisa. What happens on the track is part of this sport. We push each other to excel—it’s a battle of wits and skills. Off the track, there’s no question—there’s a lot of respect. You can’t help but admire someone like Buck for his talent and dedication."

Buck’s reply was equally polished, though the tightness in his smile suggested the effort it took to maintain civility. "Thanks, Bucky. Yeah, the respect is mutual. Competitions like these are what drive us to be better. It’s about pushing ourselves to the next level."

As the conference wrapped up and the drivers stood to leave, the cameras caught them shaking hands—an image of sportsmanship that would be broadcast across the world. However, those closest to the front could see the tension in their grips, a silent show of the fierce competition that lay beneath the surface.

Walking back to their respective team areas, the façade of friendliness slowly dropped away. Bucky was the first to break the silence as soon as they were out of earshot of the cameras.

"Good race, Buck. But watch out—I’ll be pushing you even harder next time."

Buck turned to him, his eyes cold but his voice steady. "Looking forward to it, Bucky. May the best man win."

As they parted ways, the chill in their interaction was palpable—a stark contrast to the warmth of the televised handshake. In the world of Formula 1, the line between friend and foe was as thin as the finish line was fast.

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In his high-rise apartment overlooking the shimmering lights of Monaco, Buck sat engrossed in front of the large TV screen that displayed rerun after rerun of Bucky’s last races. The footage flickered across his face, casting sharp shadows that mirrored the turmoil in his thoughts. Next to him on the couch, Marge, his girlfriend, was absorbed in a book, occasionally glancing up to watch his expression more than the screen.

“Gale, come on, it’s getting late,” Marge finally said, her voice soft but firm. She stood and stretched, her hand reaching out to grab the remote and pause the TV. “You need to rest. Watching these won’t change the race.”

Buck let out a long, slow breath, his eyes still fixed on the paused image of Bucky’s car crossing the finish line. “Just trying to find something we might have missed,” he murmured, but he allowed her to pull him up from the couch.

As he stood, his gaze drifted to a small photo frame on a nearby shelf. It was an old picture of him and Bucky in their karting days, both smiling wide with trophies in their hands—before the competition had turned their friendship cold. He picked up the frame, tracing the outline of the younger versions of themselves.

“Things were simpler back then,” Buck mused aloud, not really speaking to Marge.

Marge came over and wrapped an arm around his waist, leaning her head against his shoulder. “Maybe,” she said quietly, “but you’ve grown so much since then. Both of you have.”

With a reluctant nod, Buck set the frame down and allowed Marge to lead him away from the past and towards the promise of a few hours of peace after enduring the storm that was Bucky.

Across town, Bucky’s apartment was a stark contrast to the vibrant streets of Monaco below. It was large and opulent, a sanctuary that screamed of success, yet it was filled with an almost tangible sense of loneliness. Trophies and accolades lined the walls and shelves, gleaming in the moonlight, each one a testament to his victories. Despite their brilliance, the room felt cold, echoing the emptiness of his personal life and the rest of his apartment.

The incessant buzzing of his phone on the glass coffee table broke the silence, angry messages lighting up the screen one after another. They were from his father, filled with critiques and harsh expectations, each word a sharp jab at his racing tactics. "You’re reckless," read one message. "It’s only a matter of time before you crash out if you keep this up," said another.

Bucky stared at the messages, his jaw clenched and anger burning in his eyes. He grabbed the phone and silenced it, tossing it onto the sofa with a frustrated sigh. Walking over to the window, he looked out over Monaco, the city that had brought him so much success yet so little joy.

Being the reigning world champion should have been the pinnacle of his life, a hero to millions, yet as he stood there alone, surrounded by the symbols of his triumphs, he felt an overwhelming sense of loneliness. Outside, Monaco buzzed with life and excitement from the Grand Prix, but inside, Bucky faced the cold reality of his existence—dominated by competition and devoid of any real connection.

The memories of today’s race flashed through his mind. The thrill of pushing his car to its limits, the rush of overtaking his rivals, the roar of the crowd—all of it felt hollow now. He was driven by a need to prove himself and meet his father’s impossibly high expectations, but at what cost?

“Is it all worth it?” he whispered, his voice barely audible in the stillness of the apartment. The trophies seemed to stare back at him, their glittering surfaces were cold and unfeeling, almost mocking.

The night deepened, casting long shadows across the room. As Bucky turned away from the window, the reflections of his trophies flickered like ghosts in the glass. Tomorrow was another day, another chance to wear the mask of the confident reigning world champion. But tonight, as he stood alone in his luxurious prison, he couldn’t escape the gnawing question that haunted him. Was the relentless pursuit of victory worth the sacrifice of his soul?

He sank onto the edge of his bed, running a hand through his hair. The weight of his thoughts pressed down on him, and he puffed out a shaky breath. He knew the answer lay somewhere on the track, in the roar of the engines and the thrill of the race. But for now, as he lay back and closed his eyes, the trophies continued to glimmer in the darkness, a haunting reminder of the price of glory.

Bucky sighed deeply, the familiar ache of loneliness settling in his chest. He pulled the covers over himself, wishing for the oblivion of sleep to take him away from the torment of his thoughts. The city outside continued its celebration, oblivious to the inner turmoil of its champion. And as the night stretched on, Bucky wondered if he would ever find a way to bridge the chasm between his two worlds.

Chapter Text

The heavy thump of the bass reverberated through the walls of Jimmy’z, one of Monaco’s most iconic clubs. The venue was packed, buzzing with energy, and infused with the smell of a mix of sweat and alcohol. It was the kind of electric night where the unexpected was not just possible but inevitable—a gathering place for those living life at breakneck speed.

Buck had never intended to find himself in such a setting. His ideal evening was far quieter, perhaps spent in a cosy, uncrowded spot where the music was a gentle backdrop rather than an overwhelming force on his eardrums, ideally with a good book in hand. Or better yet, just at home all together. However, his fellow drivers and longtime friends, Crank and Demarco, had a different vision for the night.

“Come on, Buck! Just relax, man. We're going to have fun tonight,” Crank insisted, practically dragging him out of his solitude. Buck had eventually given in, reasoning that a night out might help him shake off the pressure of the racing season and get his mind off of one John Egan, the stone in his shoe.

With the pulsing rhythm of the club as a backdrop, Buck found himself caught between the lively chaos of the night and his thoughts about the next race. The crowd moved as one, an undulating sea of excitement, yet Buck felt a world apart, longing for the peace that eluded him in the bass of Monaco’s vibrant nightlife.

As they navigated through the pulsating crowd of Jimmy’z, Buck’s eyes inadvertently landed on a strikingly familiar figure illuminated under the flickering strobe lights. It was Bucky, unmistakable with his tall, lean frame and that mop of tousled dark hair that seemed to catch the light with every sway of his hips.

"God damn it," Buck sighed when he saw who had also come out to the clubs tonight. There goes that plan of forgetting about one John Egan tonight.

On the dance floor, Bucky was a vision of carefree abandon and fluid grace. His body moved with rhythmic confidence, each motion seeming both deliberate and spontaneous at the same time. The fabric of his dark shirt clung to his torso, occasionally riding up, offering tantalising glimpses of his lean, muscled abdomen. His jeans fit him perfectly, moving with him as if they were part of the dance itself.

Surrounded by a throng of equally enthusiastic partygoers, Bucky seemed to be at the centre of the universe. His arms were raised, and his hips were swaying in sync with the bass-heavy music that filled the club. Occasionally, he would throw his head back and laugh, exposing the length of his neck, making him even more striking. The strobe lights caught the angles of his jaw and the gleam in his eyes, painting a picture of a man completely and utterly in his element.

Buck watched, mesmerised and conflicted. The Bucky on the dance floor was so different from the fierce competitor he faced on the track every weekend. Here, enveloped in the cacophony of sound and movement on the dance floor, Bucky looked like he belonged to a different world—one where the pressures of race strategies, podium finishes, and the championship melted away into the night air.

On the dance floor, Bucky was the undisputed centre of attention. He was magnetic, and his movements were effortlessly sensual. With the pulsating beat of the club’s music as his soundtrack, he navigated the space around him with grace. The guy behind him, tall and strikingly handsome, matched his rhythm seamlessly. His hands rested lightly on Bucky’s hips, guiding them with a gentle pressure as they moved in sync to the bass-heavy music. There was a palpable chemistry between them, their bodies fitting together like pieces of a well-tuned engine, moving in a harmonious grind that was both provocative and artful in its movement.

In front, the girl—her long blonde hair catching the light—was caught up in the moment, her body pressed against Bucky’s. Bucky’s arms encircled her waist, pulling her close with confident ease. He moved them both with a fluidity that made their trio seem like a single entity, dancing to a rhythm only they could hear. His movements, almost siren-like, led the dance with an alluring sexual intensity that was sending heat up the back of Buck's neck.

As the lights flickered and strobed across their bodies, Bucky alternated his attention between his two dance partners with a dazzling smile. He dipped the girl back, her laugh pealing through the air like a bright bell, then turned to share a conspiratorial grin with the guy behind him. There was an electric undertone in the exchange, a silent acknowledgement of the moment they were sharing.

Bucky’s ability to seamlessly integrate his movements with both the guy and the girl was mesmerizing. It was not just dancing—it was a performance that captivated the onlookers. The guy’s hands moved from Bucky’s hips to his waist, drawing him back into a closer, more intimate arch, while the girl in front swayed in rhythm with them, her hands exploring the contours of Bucky’s chest.

Buck’s gaze was fixed, a part of him yearning to be part of that world, if only for a night. To laugh and dance without the worries of sponsors and strategies, without the weight of a rivalry that dates back to their childhood. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine stepping into that carefree existence, leaving behind the relentless grind of racing for the intoxicating freedom of the dance floor.

This Bucky was carefree, his usually sharp and calculated gaze softened by the flashing lights and rhythmic beats. His body moved fluidly and effortlessly, as if each beat of the music was a pulse that he was connected to, a striking contrast to the precise, almost robotic precision with which he raced.

As Buck stood there, watching, he felt a twinge of something unfamiliar stirring within him. Was it jealousy? Admiration? It was confusing to see Bucky like this—so unguarded, so different from the image he projected on the track. Buck wasn't entirely sure right now if he was jealous of Bucky's dance partners or how carefree Bucky looked.

Bucky’s bright and genuine laugh cut through the ambient noise, pulling Buck from his reverie. There was an infectious quality to his joy, and for a fleeting moment, Buck wished he could extract that same laugh from Bucky.

But as Bucky’s eyes eventually swept the crowd and landed on him, the moment shattered. The connection was brief but intense—Bucky’s carefree expression faltered, replaced by the cold look of recognition. Yet there was a question in his eyes, a fleeting look of curiosity.

Buck’s heart skipped a beat. The inevitability of their confrontation loomed over him, now coloured by curiosity about the man behind the racer persona. As Bucky pulled away from his dance partners and began to make his way through the crowd towards him, Buck steeled himself, preparing for whatever might come next, yet intrigued by the new light he had glimpsed in John Egan tonight.

Panic flared briefly in Buck’s chest. He wasn’t ready for this—not here, not now. He turned to Crank and Demarco, ready to suggest they move on to somewhere else, anywhere else. But before he could get the words out, Bucky was there, standing in front of him with a grin that was all challenge and charisma.

“Buck! Didn’t think I’d see you here, man. Come to join the fun, or are you just here to spy on my off-track moves?” Bucky’s voice was loud over the music, his tone teasing but with an undercurrent that suggested he knew exactly the effect he was having.

Buck took a deep breath, steadying himself. This was just another race, another competition, albeit on a different kind of track. “Just enjoying the view,” he managed to say with a half-smile, hoping it looked more confident than he felt.

Bucky laughed, clapping him on the shoulder, much like he had during the parade lap earlier that day. “Well, enjoy the show,” he said, winking before turning back to the dance floor.

But this time, Bucky didn’t meld back into the crowd immediately. He paused, turning back to Buck with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “You know, Buck, you don’t always have to be on the outside looking in. Sometimes it’s okay to just... let go.”

Buck’s smile faltered slightly, the implication of Bucky’s words hitting a nerve. “I handle 200 miles per hour just fine. This? This is another beast entirely.”

Bucky’s grin widened, though there was a flicker of something darker in his eyes—hurt, perhaps, or lingering resentment. “Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

Buck hesitated, a thousand unspoken words hanging between them. “I didn’t run, Bucky. I made a choice.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, his smile not reaching his eyes. “A choice to walk away.”

Buck clenched his jaw, the old wound opening just a bit more. “You know it wasn’t that simple.”

Bucky’s gaze softened for a moment, the hurt visible. “Maybe not. But it sure felt like it.” He took a step back, the mask of the carefree dancer slipping back into place. “Anyway, enjoy the party, Buck. Try not to overthink it.”

With that, Bucky spun back into the throng of dancers, disappearing into the rhythm and lights. Buck watched him go, feeling a mix of relief and something he couldn’t quite place—a yearning, perhaps, for that same freedom.

As the night wore on, Buck remained the observer, always on the outside, looking in. He knew this was one race he was not prepared to compete in yet. The real race, the one that mattered, was still to come, and it wouldn’t be won on the dance floor.

Yet as he stood there, the music pounding around him, Buck couldn’t shake the thought that maybe, just maybe, Bucky was onto something. Maybe there was more to life than the relentless pursuit of victory. But tonight, as he watched his rival dance with abandon, Buck knew he wasn’t ready to find out. Not yet.

For now, the track awaited, and the battle lines were drawn. But the seed of curiosity had been planted, and as Buck turned to leave and find his friends, he couldn’t help but wonder what it would take to let go, just for a moment, and join the dance.

As the night progressed, Buck saw less and less of Bucky on the dance floor. The fleeting glimpses of him became rarer as the hours passed. He tried to focus on the conversations with Crank and Demarco, tried to laugh at their jokes, and enjoy the music, but his thoughts kept drifting back to the last look they shared. Bucky’s challenging smile and piercing gaze haunted him.

Eventually, the need to escape the noise and the crowd overwhelmed him, and he excused himself to head to the bathroom. The corridor was mercifully quieter, the music dulled to a distant thrum, and he welcomed the respite—until he pushed open the door to the men’s room and stopped short.

There was Bucky, slumped against the tiled wall beside the sinks, his eyes half-closed, a near-empty bottle of tequila dangling loosely from his fingers. His usual poise and swagger were gone, replaced by a vulnerability that Buck had never seen in him before.

“Bucky?” Buck’s voice was hesitant as he approached, his previous resolve to keep his distance forgotten. He squatted down next to him, concern etching his features. “Are you okay?”

Bucky’s laugh was a hollow sound, and he looked up at Buck with unfocused eyes. “Why do you care, Cleven? I thought you hated me,” he slurred, the bitterness in his tone clashing with his drunken mirth.

“I don’t hate you, Bucky. I never did,” Buck replied, frowning deeply. It was the truth, one that he rarely admitted, even to himself.

Bucky snorted, looking away. “Why? You should hate me.”

Buck sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Is there someone I can call? To help you get home.”

Another dark chuckle escaped Bucky, and he shook his head slowly. “No one... No one cares enough, man,” he muttered, his voice low.

That confession struck a chord in Buck, the loneliness in Bucky’s words resonating with a part of him he often ignored. He made a decision then—a silent vow to not leave Bucky like this. “Come on, I’ll help you get back to your place,” he said firmly, putting Bucky’s arm over his shoulder and helping him to his feet.

Bucky didn’t resist, too drunk to argue, but as they walked out of the bathroom, he mumbled, “Why are you helping me?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” Buck answered simply. “You help someone when they need it.”

They made their way through the club and out into the cool night air. Buck sent a quick text to Crank and Demarco, letting them know something had come up and he wouldn’t be back. The walk to Bucky’s apartment was a slow one, with Bucky leaning heavily on Buck, and more than once, Buck thought he might have to carry him the rest of the way.

As they trudged along, Bucky’s head lolled against Buck’s shoulder. “You know, I used to look up to you,” he muttered, his words slurred but filled with raw honesty. “Back when we were kids.”

Buck tightened his grip, steadying them both. “I remember.”

“Yeah,” Bucky sighed, a hint of sorrow in his voice. “And then... then everything changed.”

Buck didn’t respond immediately. The memories of their falling out were too painful and complex to unpack in a drunken conversation on a dark street. Instead, he focused on getting Bucky home safely.

Once they had made it to his apartment, Buck supported Bucky’s stumbling steps as they entered and helped him inside the apartment. Carefully, Buck guided Bucky to the couch. The racer's body sagged into the plush cushions, a grimace of discomfort crossing his face as he tried to find a less painful position. "Thanks," he muttered, his voice rough. The usual bravado was washed away by exhaustion and alcohol.

"No problem," Buck responded, heading towards the kitchen to fetch a glass of water. The kitchen was another reflection of Bucky’s lifestyle—sleek and modern, every surface clean, and nothing out of place but utterly impersonal, almost as if it wasn't lived in. Buck filled a glass at the tap, his mind racing with thoughts he hadn't expected to have. Was this what victory looked like? An apartment no warmer than the champagne that celebrated it?

Returning to the living room, Buck handed the glass to Bucky, who took it with a nod of thanks, his hands unsteady. Bucky took a tentative sip and then a longer, thirstier one. He sighed, leaning back against the cushions and closing his eyes as if trying to shut out the world—or perhaps the spinning room.

“You don’t have to stay,” he mumbled. “I’ll be fine.”

Buck hesitated, then sat down beside him. “I’m not leaving you like this. We need to talk.”

Bucky’s eyes opened just a crack, a hint of his old defiance shining through. “Talk about what? The past? The fights? The fact that you left?”

“Yeah,” Buck said quietly. “All of it.”

Bucky’s laugh was bitter. “You walked away, Buck. You left me behind. And I... I had to become this.” He gestured vaguely around the room, indicating both his surroundings and himself.

Buck’s heart ached at the raw pain in Bucky’s voice. “I didn’t know what else to do,” he admitted. “I thought... I thought you’d be better off without me.”

“Well, you were wrong,” Bucky snapped, the alcohol loosening his tongue. “I needed you. And you weren’t there.”

Silence hung heavy between them, the weight of unspoken words and unresolved feelings pressing down. Buck finally broke the silence. “I’m here now.”

Bucky’s eyes softened slightly. “Why now, Buck? Why are you trying to fix things now?”

“Because I realised that some things are worth fighting for,” Buck said, his voice steady. “Our friendship is one of those things.”

Bucky sighed, his anger dissipating as exhaustion took over. “We’ll see,” he murmured, his eyes closing again.

Buck sat down in an armchair adjacent to the couch, observing Bucky in the low light. "You need to slow down with the drinking," he said, not unkindly. "It's not doing you any favours."

Bucky chuckled weakly without opening his eyes. "Since when do you care about my habits?" he asked, a shadow of his usual defensiveness in his tone.

"Since I found you drunk and barely able to walk in a club bathroom," Buck replied dryly. "Look, I know we're not friends anymore, but we're not enemies either. At least, we don’t have to be."

There was a long pause, filled only by the soft hum of the city nightlife outside the high windows. Finally, Bucky spoke, his voice low and slightly hoarse. "Why do you even care, Buck? What’s in it for you?"

Buck considered this, pondering his own motives. "Nothing’s in it for me," he said at last, honesty colouring his tone. "Maybe it's about not wanting to see a good driver—and yeah, maybe a decent guy—self-destruct. We've got a fierce rivalry, sure, but that doesn't mean I want to see you crash out in life, Bucky."

Bucky opened his eyes and turned his head to look at Buck. There was a vulnerability there that Buck had never seen. "Thanks," he said again, this time with more sincerity. "Not many people would've done what you did."

Buck shrugged, uncomfortable with the gratitude. "Maybe they would if you let them see this side of you more often."

The suggestion hung between them, a new and fragile understanding beginning to form. Bucky looked away, focusing on the glass in his hands. "Maybe," he conceded softly.

Buck stood up, feeling that the moment was right to leave. "Get some rest, Bucky. You'll need it for the race this weekend."

Bucky's voice halted Buck as he reached for the door handle. "Wait," he said, the single word laced with an uncharacteristic hesitation that made Buck pause and turn around.

Bucky was sitting up now, his posture slumped and his eyes avoiding Buck's gaze. "Could you... just stay a bit longer?" he asked quietly, almost embarrassed. "I don’t... I don’t want to be alone right now." His voice was raw, stripped of its usual confidence and bravado.

Surprised by the request, Buck looked at him, really looked at him, and saw past the facade of the fearless racer to the man underneath, who seemed suddenly very young and very tired. It was a side of Bucky that he had never seen before—the unguarded, vulnerable side that he hid from the world. Not even from when they were two kids who wanted to take on the world together.

“Sure, I can stay a while,” Buck responded after a brief pause, his voice softening. He walked back into the living room and sat down again, not in the armchair but on the other end of the couch, maintaining a respectful distance but close enough to talk.

Bucky glanced at him, a flicker of relief passing over his features before he masked it with a wry smile. "Thanks," he said, his voice steadier. "I guess this must seem pretty weird, huh? Me asking you to stay?"

"A bit," Buck admitted, allowing a small smile to form. "But it’s not a big deal. Everyone needs company sometimes."

Bucky nodded, his eyes closing briefly before opening again, the exhaustion evident. “You know, I used to think you were invincible,” he said softly. “Back when we were kids, I thought nothing could break you.”

Buck looked at him, a mix of nostalgia and sadness washing over him. “We all have our breaking points, Bucky. Even me.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, his voice barely a whisper. “I guess I found mine too.”

They sat in silence for a while, the city lights casting soft shadows around them. Buck could feel the walls between them starting to crack, just a little. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

They sat in silence for a moment, the earlier tension easing into something more comfortable, even if it was still new and fragile. Bucky took another sip of water, then set the glass down on the coffee table with a sigh.

"I wasn't expecting this to be how my night was going to go, or finding you on the floor in the bathroom at Jimmy'z." Buck commented with a chuckle, trying to steer the conversation towards neutral territory.

Bucky chuckled softly. "Yeah, well, I guess we all have our surprises," he said. "I don’t usually end up like this, though. Tonight was just... a lot."

“Want to talk about it?” Buck asked tentatively.

Bucky shook his head slightly. "Not really. Just the usual crap, you know? Racing, expectations, and my old man being a pain. It gets to you sometimes." He shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant, but the strain was evident in his eyes.

Buck nodded, understanding more than Bucky might realize. "Yeah, I get that. This sport can grind you down if you let it."

"Ever think about just walking away?" Bucky asked suddenly, turning to look at Buck with a curious intensity.

"Sometimes," Buck confessed with a laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "But then I think about what I’d be leaving behind, and I realise I’m not ready to give it up. Not yet."

"Me neither," Bucky murmured, and they shared a look of mutual understanding.

The conversation drifted then to safer topics—racing circuits they liked, cars they’d driven in the past, books, and music. It was strangely easy, Buck thought, talking to Bucky like this, away from the pressures of the track and the public eye.

As the hours passed, Bucky’s initial guardedness faded, replaced by a more relaxed demeanour that Buck had never seen in him before. It was like they were back in their karting days, just two kids who loved racing, before rivalry and competition had driven a wedge between them.

“Do you remember that summer in Italy?” Bucky asked, a nostalgic smile creeping onto his face. "When we would race those old go-karts on that tiny track and then go down and swim in the water after?”

Buck laughed, the memory bringing a warmth he hadn’t felt in a while. “How could I forget? You crashed into the hay bales on the last lap and still managed to beat me.”

“Pure skill,” Bucky said with a wink, then sighed. “Those were simpler times.”

“They were,” Buck agreed, his smile fading slightly. “Before everything got so... complicated.”

Bucky looked at him with a mixture of regret and longing in his eyes. “I miss those days, Buck. Before the sponsors, the pressure, and the expectations. When it was just about the love of the race.”

“Me too,” Buck admitted. “But we can’t go back, can we?”

“No,” Bucky said softly. “But maybe we can move forward differently.”

“Maybe,” Buck echoed, a small spark of hope igniting within him.

After their subdued but revealing conversation, Buck noticed that the edges of fatigue were beginning to blur Bucky's usually sharp demeanor. He watched as Bucky's eyelids grew heavy, the exhaustion from the day's burdens—and maybe the burdens of many days—seemingly catching up with him. The room was quiet except for the low hum of the city nightlife outside the apartment.

Bucky's laughter had faded, and his stories had slowed down to a trickle of slurred words. It wasn't long before the quiet room was filled only by the occasional clink of a shifting ice cube in an otherwise neglected glass of water.

Buck, caught up in his thoughts, barely noticed at first that the conversation had drifted into silence. He looked up from his own glass, drawn out of his thoughts by the stillness that had settled over the room. To his mild surprise, he found Bucky asleep, his head tilted back against the cushioned back of the couch, his breaths deep and even. The alcohol, coupled with the day’s earlier tensions, had finally pulled him into a heavy, unwary sleep.

There was a moment of hesitation as Buck watched him, the man who was his biggest rival on the track now completely vulnerable before him. It was a side of Bucky that no one else saw—a side that the public and even their closest circles rarely glimpsed under the usual veneer of cockiness and calculated smiles.

Buck’s gaze softened. He quietly set his glass down on the table, his decision made without much internal debate. Rising from his chair, he approached Bucky, taking a moment to ensure he was just asleep and nothing more serious. Reassured by the regular rise and fall of his chest, Buck fetched a light blanket from a nearby chair and draped it over Bucky's sleeping form. His movements were gentle, almost cautious, not wanting to awaken him.

As he adjusted the blanket, making sure it covered him well, Buck’s mind replayed the night’s earlier admissions and vulnerabilities shared between them. It was strange, he thought, how competition could both forge and fracture, revealing the best and worst in people.

“Even champions need a break,” Buck murmured under his breath, a wry, tired smile flickering across his face as he observed Bucky’s peaceful expression. It was this human side of Bucky that few got to see when the relentless push to be the best was paused, if only for a while.

With Bucky now comfortably sleeping, Buck took one last look around the sparse, immaculate room. It struck him just how alone Bucky might have felt, surrounded by trophies yet lacking genuine companionship. Maybe that’s why he had asked Buck to stay—not out of friendship, but out of a simple human need not to be alone.

Turning off the lights, Buck quietly made his way to the door. He paused, hand on the knob, taking a moment to look back at the sleeping figure of Bucky. This moment of peace amid their storm of rivalry felt like a silent truce, a mutual acknowledgement of their shared struggles beneath the competitive façade.

Softly closing and locking the door behind him, Buck made his way to the elevator and leant back against the wall, breathing out a deep sigh. This certainly wasn't how Buck had thought his night was going to go. But strangely enough, he was glad it had. Spending those last few hours with Bucky had been one of the most enjoyable nights he'd had in a long time.

Buck stepped out into the cool Monaco night after walking out of the apartment building. The city around him felt different somehow, as if he were seeing it for the first time again. As he walked back to his own apartment, his thoughts were contemplative and reflective. He realised that tonight had changed something subtle but significant in their dynamic. Tomorrow, they might return to their roles on the track, but for now, they had found unexpected common ground.

This brief, shared experience wouldn't solve the complexities of their relationship or their past, but it had certainly reshaped Buck’s view of his rival. Maybe, he thought, there was more to John Egan than the relentless competitor he battled against on the track. And maybe, just maybe, there was more to their story yet to unfold.

The streets of Monaco were quiet as Buck made his way home, the cool night air a balm after the heat of the club and the intensity of his encounter with Bucky. The city's glittering lights blurred slightly before his eyes, reflections of a world that felt slightly altered now, tinted by the evening's events.

As he entered the apartment he shared with Marge, the familiar smell and the soft hum of the air conditioning welcomed him back to reality—or what now felt like a different version of it. He moved quietly, mindful not to wake Marge, who he knew would be asleep in their bedroom, curled up under the duvet where he had left her hours ago.

Buck paused at the doorway of their bedroom, his eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering through the curtains. He could just make out Marge's form, peaceful and still. A sense of warmth filled him, a stark contrast to the loneliness of Bucky's empty apartment that lingered in his mind.

Gently, he changed out of his clothes and slipped into bed beside her, trying to disturb her as little as possible. As he lay down, Marge stirred slightly, mumbling something unintelligible in her sleep before turning towards him in a silent request for closeness. Buck wrapped an arm around her, and she settled against him, her breath warm against his chest.

In the quiet of their shared space, Buck's thoughts wandered back to Bucky—his unexpected vulnerability, the hollow loneliness echoed in his drunken admissions, and the strange peace of him asleep under the blanket. It was a lot to process, and Buck found himself grappling with a complex tangle of emotions. Emotions he didn't yet understand.

He thought about how easy it was with Marge and how natural it felt to care for her and to receive her care in return. There was a simplicity to their love that Buck cherished, a stark departure from the complicated dynamics he navigated with Bucky. Yet, tonight had shown him a new layer to his rival, a glimpse behind the façade that everyone else saw.

Buck found himself feeling unexpectedly protective of Bucky, concerned in a way he would have never anticipated before tonight. It was disconcerting to see someone he had viewed almost exclusively as an opponent in such a vulnerable state. It made him reconsider their entire rivalry, pondering the unseen struggles Bucky faced off the track.

As he lay there in the dark, listening to the rhythmic sound of Marge breathing, Buck felt a resolve forming deep within him. Whatever happened on the track, he knew he couldn't ignore what he had seen in Bucky tonight. Maybe their relationship could be more than just rivalry again. Maybe it could be something closer to understanding or even respect. Or even, he hoped, friendship.

With that thought, Buck closed his eyes, letting the events of the night sift through his mind like sand through his fingers. Tomorrow would bring what it would—more racing, more competition, more challenges—but for now, he had this sanctuary, this moment of peace.

And as sleep finally claimed him, Buck felt a cautious hope that maybe, just maybe, things were starting to change.

Chapter Text

The dawn broke over Monaco, painting the city in shades of pink and gold. Bucky stirred on the couch, the unfamiliar weight of a blanket causing a moment of confusion. As the events of the previous night filtered back into his mind, he slowly sat up, groaning at the dull throb in his head. The glass of water Buck had given him sat empty on the coffee table, a reminder of his vulnerability last night and Buck’s unexpected kindness.

Bucky rubbed his temples, attempting to alleviate the throbbing pain of his hangover. Lately, he was all too familiar with this feeling—both the physical discomfort and the emotional numbness. Alcohol had become his constant companion, a crutch he relied on more than he cared to admit.

The memory of Gale Cleven of all people finding him in the bathroom last night now filled him with irritation, his anger simmering as the alcohol's fog lifted, and in a moment of uncontrolled rage, he smacked the glass off the table and watched it shatter on the floor with a loud crash. To the outside world, he presented himself as a well-oiled machine designed for speed and efficiency, leaving no room for vulnerability. But last night he slipped up, exposing a chaotic reality he struggled to control to the last person he wanted peeping in on his personal life.

With a sigh, Bucky pushed himself off the couch and shuffled to the bathroom, ignoring the glass shards now littering his loungeroom floor. He'd deal with that later. The cold water he splashed on his face helped to clear the fog in his mind. He caught his reflection in the mirror—bloodshot eyes, dishevelled hair, and a haunted look that spoke of more than just a rough night. The man staring back at him was a stranger, a stark contrast to the confident racer the world knew.

Bucky showered, trimmed his moustache, and dressed in silence, his thoughts a chaotic tangle of memories and past regrets. The conversation with Buck played on a loop in his mind, the raw honesty and unexpected warmth lingering. He couldn't shake the feeling of vulnerability that had surfaced—a side of him he had kept buried for years. It had been a long time since anyone had seen him so exposed, and even longer since he had allowed himself to be that open to anybody.

For the last eight years of his life, Bucky had built walls to protect himself, projecting an image of invincibility to the world. The high-speed world of racing demanded it. Weakness was a luxury he couldn't afford if he wanted to remain on top. Yet, in the dim light of his apartment, with the remnants of his outburst still scattered around him, Bucky felt those walls cracking. Buck had seen through the façade, glimpsing the man behind the driver, and that unnerved him more than he cared to admit.

Despite the brief moment of connection, Bucky couldn’t forget the past. He was still angry with Buck for what had happened years ago that had driven a deep wedge between them. The hurt and resentment were like old scars, a constant reminder of why he had distanced himself. He didn’t want anything from Buck—not pity, sympathy, or his help. The last thing he wanted was to be seen as a charity case or a broken man needing to be fixed. He valued his independence and the hard-earned self-reliance that had carried him through countless races and personal battles over the years. He didn't need anybody, and least of all Gale Cleven.

Bucky’s mind was a whirlwind as he moved through his morning routine, each action a feeble attempt to regain a sense of normalcy. The conversation with Buck had stirred something deep within him, something he couldn’t ignore. But it didn’t change the past, and it didn’t erase the anger he still harboured.

As he made his way to the kitchen, the apartment felt even more sterile and empty than usual, even with the glass littering the loungeroom floor. He brewed a pot of coffee, the bitter aroma filling the air as he leant against the counter, deep in thought. Once the coffee was ready, he poured himself a cup. The warmth of the mug in his hands was comforting, grounding him in the present.

After a few sips, Bucky found himself drawn to the large floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the bustling streets of Monaco. He moved slowly, each step sluggish and bone-tired. He sat down on the floor, his back against the cool pillar, and looked down at the people moving below, their lives so seemingly simple and carefree.

From his vantage point, the world outside seemed like a different universe. People walked with purpose, engaged in their daily routines. Holding hands with their partners, laughing with friends, and enjoying themselves, oblivious to the turmoil swirling within him. Bucky envied them—their apparent normalcy, their unburdened expressions. His own life, despite its glamour and success, felt like a cage.

The anger he felt towards Buck was a festering wound, an ever-present reminder of the moment that had shattered everything that had once been his only true source of happiness. He remembered the day vividly, the sting of betrayal, and then everything after. It wasn’t just about the professional rivalry. It was personal—a knife twisted by someone he had once trusted implicitly.

The conversation they had last night had opened old wounds, but it also stirred something unfamiliar—an inkling of hope, perhaps? No, Bucky quickly dismissed the thought. He didn't want to need Buck. He didn't want to rely on someone who had hurt him so deeply. Yet, the sincerity in Buck's voice and the concern in his eyes had been disarming and so warm.

He wrapped his arms around his knees, resting his head on them as he continued to watch the world below. The bustling streets of Monaco were a painful contrast to the stillness of his apartment, a reflection of the loneliness inside his heart. He thought about his career—the relentless pursuit of perfection that had left little room for anything else. The expectations, the pressure, and the constant need to prove himself—it all felt overwhelming at times.

Bucky’s mind drifted back to his childhood, to the days when racing was pure joy, an escape from the world’s troubles. Back then, it had been just him and Buck, two kids with dreams of glory. The simplicity of those times seemed like a distant memory now, overshadowed by years of competition and the fallout between them.

He sighed deeply, the sound echoing softly in the empty apartment. The anger he felt towards Buck was real, but so was the sense of loss. Losing Buck had been like losing a part of himself, a part he had tried to bury under layers of projected confidence and self-reliance. But last night, those layers had begun to peel away, revealing a raw, vulnerable side he had long kept hidden.

Bucky lifted his head, his eyes following a young couple walking hand in hand down the street. He wondered if he would ever find that kind of simplicity and connection again. The thought was both comforting and painful. It was comforting because it offered a glimpse of hope, and it was painful because he wasn’t sure he deserved it.

As he sat there, the coffee growing cold in his hands, he pondered the irony of his situation. The world saw him as a champion, a paragon of success and glory, yet inside he felt like a fraud. His victories on the track had come at the cost of personal relationships and, perhaps, his own happiness. The applause of the fans and the glitter of trophies all felt hollow compared to the profound emptiness he grappled with now.

He took another sip of his now-lukewarm coffee, the bitterness mirroring his inner turmoil. The young couple had disappeared from view, leaving Bucky alone with his thoughts.

Bucky sighed again, deeper this time, as he stared out the window. The city of Monaco moved on without him, its streets bustling with life and energy. He felt like an outsider looking in, disconnected from the vibrancy around him.

As he watched the world go by, he pushed everything to the back of his mind and slammed the door shut on it. He needed to focus, and he would start by addressing the small things, like cleaning up the shattered glass on the floor. Each step in his routine, no matter how minor, would be a move towards reclaiming control over his life. He needed to find a way to balance his carefully crafted facade with the need for genuine human connection.

Bucky stood up, the cold coffee abandoned on the floor, and took one last look at the bustling streets below before letting out a breath and letting the mask slip back into place. He walked back to the living room, where the shattered glass from his earlier outburst lay scattered across the floor. With a resigned sigh, Bucky fetched a broom and dustpan from a closet and kneeled down to begin the task.

The methodical process of cleaning allowed his thoughts to settle as he worked quietly. The rhythmic sound of the broom against the floor was almost meditative. When he finished sweeping up the larger pieces, he used a damp cloth to wipe away the smaller fragments, ensuring that no sharp edges remained. The task was simple but grounding, giving him a sense of accomplishment and control.

He disposed of the broken glass and returned the broom and dustpan to their place. The living room was tidy again, but Bucky knew that true order and peace would take more than just cleaning up physical messes.

Bucky's phone buzzed, interrupting his quiet moment of reflection. He leant down and picked it up, his throat tightening when he noticed it was a message from his father. With a sense of dread, he unlocked the screen and read the message. As expected, it was filled with abuse, calling him a useless, lazy piece of shit and demanding that he start preparing for the Canadian Grand Prix.

Frustration surged through him, and he threw his phone onto the couch, feeling the sting of his father's words. He stood there, seething, his hands clenched into fists. The constant pressure, the never-ending criticism—it all weighed heavily on him, exacerbating the storm already churning inside.

Just as he was about to turn away, the phone buzzed again. His initial reaction was to grab it and smash it against the floor, but something made him pause. He glanced at the screen and noticed it was an Instagram notification. Intrigued, he picked up the phone and unlocked it.

It was a message request from Buck.

Bucky's heart skipped a beat as he stared at the notification, a mix of curiosity and apprehension swirling within him. He hesitated for a moment, his finger hovering over the screen. The anger he felt towards Buck was still fresh, but so was the memory of their conversation the night before. Taking a deep breath, he tapped on the notification and opened the message.

"Bucky, I know things are still rough between us, and there's a lot we need to talk about. But I want you to know that I'm here if you ever need to talk or if you need anything. Last night made me realise how much I missed having you around. Take care, and good luck with your preparations for the Canadian Grand Prix. – Buck."

Bucky read the message twice, feeling a complicated tangle of emotions. Part of him wanted to reply, but the other part of him wanted to ignore and delete the message.

Bucky didn't want to deal with anything right now. He just wanted to shut out the world, get behind the wheel of his Red Bull car, and let everything fade away. The roar of the engine, the rush of speed, and the focus required on the track were the only things that could drown out the noise in his mind.

But the message glowing on his screen was attacking those walls, breaching the defences he had painstakingly built. He didn’t know what to do. He didn't want to open himself up to more pain. He didn't want to risk being hurt again. The anger, the frustration, the sense of betrayal—they were all still too raw and at the forefront of his mind.

He stared at Buck's message, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Part of him wanted to throw the phone away, to bury the possibility of reconciliation under layers of speed, adrenaline, and harsh words. But another part, a quieter, more vulnerable part, was drawn to the sincerity in Buck's words. It was a lifeline in the storm, and he wasn’t sure if he should grasp it or let it slip away.

Bucky’s eyes burned as he fought back the flood of emotions inside. He knew the racetrack offered a temporary escape, a place where he could lose himself in the precision and demands of racing. Yet, the unresolved feelings, the emotional wounds, and the message from Buck all lingered, refusing to be ignored.

With a frustrated growl, he tossed his phone back onto the couch and stood up, pacing the length of his living room. He could feel the tension in his muscles and the restlessness in his mind. Racing had always been his refuge, but even the thrill of the track couldn’t completely shield him from his own thoughts and feelings.

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, trying to calm himself. He knew he couldn’t avoid his emotions forever. Buck’s message was a reminder that the past wasn’t as neatly buried as he liked to think. Ignoring it wouldn’t make it go away, and racing could only provide so much distraction.

Taking a deep breath, Bucky returned to the couch and picked up his phone. His thumb hovered over the screen, hesitating. He didn’t want to face Buck. He didn’t want to open himself up to more pain. But he also couldn’t ignore the small, nagging voice that suggested maybe—just maybe—this was a chance to start healing.

With a mix of reluctance and anxiety, he typed a response.

"Thanks, Buck. I appreciate your help last night. But I can't do this. Good luck with your preparation for the Grand Prix. – Bucky."

He hit send before he could change his mind, then set the phone down again. For now, he would focus on what he knew best—racing. The simulator awaited him—a place where he could channel his emotions into something tangible, something that made sense. He didn’t have all the answers, and he didn’t know what the future held, but he wasn't willing to think about that right now.

Bucky grabbed his keys and headed for the door, ready to immerse himself in the world of speed and data. The moment he closed the apartment door behind him, he felt a brief surge of relief. The sterile emptiness of his home was replaced by the familiar hum of the elevator and the anticipation of the track.

As he drove to the simulator, his mind was a mix of unresolved thoughts and the comforting promise of distraction. The message from Buck lingered in his mind, a small, niggling beacon of possibility amid the storm, but he pushed it aside, focusing on the task ahead.

Arriving at the Red Bull training centre they'd set up for him, Bucky felt a sense of purpose return. The simulator was his sanctuary on the off weekends, a place where he could lose himself in the technicalities of racing and the pursuit of perfection. He greeted the smiling faces of the Red Bull Centre workers with a plastered-on smile and headed straight into the quiet room, shutting the door behind him. He set up the sim and settled into the driver's seat, the simulated world coming to life around him.

The moment he gripped the steering wheel, everything else faded away. The track stretched out before him, a series of challenges and opportunities to collect data for the next race, each turn demanding his full attention. The roar of the virtual engine filled his ears, and he felt the familiar rush of adrenaline as he accelerated down the straightaway.

Lap after lap, Bucky pushed himself harder, striving for faster times and cleaner lines. The physical act of driving allowed him to channel his frustration and anxiety into something productive. Here, in the simulator, he was in control. The outside world and its complications couldn't touch him.

As he raced, the edges of his anger began to blur, replaced by the clarity of focus. Each lap was a step towards regaining his equilibrium, a reminder of why he loved the sport in the first place. The simplicity of racing, the purity of competition—these were the things that made sense to him.

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Buck leant against the railing of his balcony, gazing out at the sprawling cityscape of Monaco. The morning sun bathed the buildings in a warm glow, but he felt a persistent chill. Last night’s events replayed in his mind—finding Bucky drunk and vulnerable, helping him back to his apartment, and their raw, unfiltered conversation.

He had sent Bucky a message, a tentative olive branch, hoping to bridge the chasm that had grown between them. Buck knew it was a long shot. Their history was fraught with pain and betrayal because of him, but he couldn't ignore the flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, they could find some common ground again.

His phone buzzed on the balcony table, pulling him from his thoughts. Buck picked it up, his heart pounding when he saw Bucky’s name on the screen. He hesitated for a moment before opening the message.

"Thanks, Buck. I appreciate your help last night. But I can't do this. Good luck with your preparation for the Grand Prix. – Bucky."

Buck read the message twice, a mix of relief and disappointment washing over him. It wasn’t the response he had hoped for, but it wasn’t an outright rejection either. He understood Bucky’s reluctance. The wounds between them were deep, and healing would take time. At least Bucky had acknowledged his message, which was more than he had expected.

The message from Bucky lingered, gnawing at him. He needed to do something to feel connected, even if it was just through the digital space that had become such a part of their lives.

He picked up his phone again, opening Instagram and navigating to Bucky’s profile. He scrolled through the feed, his heart sinking a little with each swipe. The photos were almost entirely professional—images of race weekends, promotional posts for Red Bull, and meticulously curated shots of Bucky in his element on the track. There were few, if any, glimpses into his personal life.

Buck scrolled further, hoping to find a picture that showed the Bucky he used to know—the one who laughed with abandon, who shared his victories and defeats openly, who wasn't afraid to be vulnerable. But post after post, it was all the same. Polished images that screamed perfection, corporate messaging, and the relentless pursuit of victory with Red Bull. It was as if Bucky had erased any trace of his true self from his online presence. All photos from 2016 had been deleted, leaving only the picture perfect Red Bull driver persona in their wake.

Buck’s thumb hovered over a photo of Bucky holding a trophy, his smile confident yet distant. He remembered when that smile had been real, shared in private moments away from the spotlight. It had been his smile once, a connection that felt unbreakable until Buck shattered it.

Sighing, Buck set his phone down and looked out over the city again. The tension between them was palpable—a storm cloud that had lingered for far too long. He had always been the more level-headed of the two, the one who tried to find solutions, but this rift with Bucky was different. It was personal, and no amount of strategic thinking could mend it overnight.

He knew he couldn’t push Bucky too hard. Trust needed to be rebuilt slowly, brick by brick. Buck was willing to be patient and give Bucky the space he needed, but he wouldn’t give up. He'd done that once in the past, and it had been the biggest mistake he'd ever made.

Buck reflected on the past and the mistakes that had driven them apart. It had been his fault, driven by his ambition and a moment of weakness. He had walked away during the worst moment of Bucky's life, thinking it was for the best, but in doing so, he had abandoned the one person who had meant the most to him. Their relationship had been more than just a friendship.

There had been a time when Buck and Bucky were inseparable, their bond extending beyond the karts and the racing world. They had shared dreams, victories, and intimate moments that transcended the public façade of fierce competitors even during their karting days. But the pressures of fame, the demands of their upcoming careers, and Buck's own insecurities led to him making the worst decision of his life.

Just then, the sound of keys jingling in the lock interrupted his thoughts. Marge was home. Buck quickly hid his phone, not wanting to explain why he was brooding over old photos and messages from Bucky. The door opened, and Marge walked in, unaware of the emotions swirling in Buck’s mind.

“Hey, you,” she greeted, smiling warmly as she set down her bags. “How was your morning?”

Buck forced a smile, pushing the storm of emotions aside for now. “Hey, babe. It was... productive. Just getting some things ready for the upcoming Grand Prix.”

She walked over and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m glad to hear it. You seemed a bit distracted last night. Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Buck lied smoothly. “I just have a lot on my mind. You know how it is.”

Marge nodded, accepting his answer for now. “Well, I’m here if you need to talk. I’m going to make us some lunch, okay?”

“Sounds perfect,” Buck replied, watching her head to the kitchen. He took a deep breath, trying to refocus.

Buck tried to focus on Marge as she talked to him while she cooked, but his mind kept drifting back to thoughts of Bucky. The kitchen was filled with the comforting sounds of chopping and sizzling, and Marge's voice was a steady, soothing presence, yet Buck found it hard to stay present.

“So, the last race was pretty intense,” Marge said, glancing at him as she stirred a pot on the stove. “The Monaco Grand Prix always brings out the best and worst in everyone, I guess. Especially John.”

Buck tensed at the mention of Bucky, his jaw tightening. “Yeah, it was something,” he muttered, trying to keep his tone neutral.

Marge continued, her voice taking on a sharper edge. “I just don’t understand why John has to be such a jerk to you. The way he toyed with you on the track and those interviews—it’s like he was going out of his way to be an ass. Honestly, he’s such a spoiled brat. Maybe if his parents had raised him better, he wouldn’t be such a—”

“Enough, Marge!” Buck snapped, his voice cutting through the room like a knife. The comment hit too close to home, touching on parts of Bucky’s past that Marge knew nothing about. “You don’t know what he’s been through, so stop judging him.”

Marge’s eyes widened in surprise, and she took a step back, clearly taken aback by his reaction. “I’m just saying what I saw, Buck. There’s no need to get defensive. John’s always been difficult, but lately he’s just been... cruel. He’s making it personal, and it’s not fair to you.”

Instantly, Buck felt a wave of regret wash over him. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, Marge. I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just... complicated.”

Marge’s expression softened slightly, but her voice remained firm. “I get it, Buck. I know things are complicated with him. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m just worried about you. You deserve better than the way he’s treating you. It's not fair on you. You haven't done anything to him for him to act this way.”

Buck took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. Marge didn't know how wrong she was, but that wasn't something he was willing to share. “I know you didn’t. It’s just... there’s a lot of history there. And seeing him like this, it’s hard.”

Marge nodded, her gaze understanding but still critical. “I know. And I’m here for you, whatever you need. But you need to stand up for yourself, Buck. Don’t let him drag you down.”

Buck managed a small smile, grateful for her support but also feeling the sting of her words. “Thanks, hon. It means a lot.”

She returned his smile, squeezing his arm before turning back to the stove. “Let’s just focus on the next race, okay? You’ve got a lot on your plate, and you need to be at your best.”

Buck nodded, trying to push thoughts of Bucky aside and concentrate on the present. But as the morning wore on after breakfast, the unresolved tension lingered in the back of his mind, and he felt like his phone was burning against his thigh, a constant niggling to see if Bucky had sent him another message.

Every few minutes, Buck found himself distracted, his thoughts drifting back to the Monaco Grand Prix, the heated exchanges, and Bucky’s taunts. He couldn't shake the image of Bucky’s eyes—sharp, challenging, and yet, there had been something else there, something almost pleading.

He tried to focus on the preparations for the next race, running through strategies in his head and reviewing the notes he had made. But it was of no use. His mind kept circling back to Bucky, and his phone felt like a lead weight in his pocket.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally gave in after heading into the kitchen to grab something to eat. He pulled out his phone and unlocked it, his heart racing as he checked for messages. There was nothing from Bucky. Buck sighed, a mixture of relief and disappointment washing over him. He set the phone down on the counter and rubbed his temples, trying to clear his head.

Marge glanced over at him, concern etched on her face. “Are you okay?”

Buck forced a smile, nodding. "Yeah, there's just a lot on my mind.”

He grabbed an apple from the counter and took a bite, chewing thoughtfully as he pondered his next move. The upcoming race was crucial, and he needed to be at his best. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that his unresolved issues with Bucky were a ticking time bomb, waiting to explode at the worst possible moment.

As he finished his snack, Buck decided he needed a change of scenery. “I’m going to take a walk,” he told Marge. “Clear my head a bit.”

She looked up from the couch and nodded. “Good idea. Take your time. I’ll be here when you get back.”

Buck gave her a grateful smile and headed out the door, the cool air hitting his face as he stepped outside. He walked aimlessly for a while, letting the sights and sounds of Monaco wash over him. The city was bustling with life, and it helped to relax him.

After a while, he found himself at the edge of the harbour, the water lapping gently against the boats moored there. He leant against the railing, staring out at the horizon and allowing his thoughts to drift.

Taking a deep breath, Buck pulled out his phone again and stared at the screen. No new messages. He considered sending another text but decided against it. He had made the first move, and now it was up to Bucky to respond when he was ready.

Buck slipped his phone back into his pocket and took another deep breath, the salty air filling his lungs. As he gazed out at the endless expanse of water, he felt a quiet resolve settle within him. He couldn't control Bucky's actions from here on or change the past that had brought them to this point, but he could control his own choices moving forward.

Turning away from the harbour, he walked back into the bustling life of Monaco, feeling a sense of calm and a new purpose.

Chapter Text

Sunday at the Canadian Grand Prix began under a crisp, clear sky, with warm sunlight washing over the circuit. The hum of the excited chatter of fans, media, and the clamour of teams making last-minute adjustments and running around filled the air. The atmosphere was electric, with every corner of the paddock bristling with anticipation and the promise of high-speed drama to come. A childhood dream for many.

Buck manoeuvred through the busy paddock towards the Ferrari garage, taking a familiar shortcut past the team trailers to miss the buzzing of the reporters trying to catch the drivers. His mind was focused on anticipation for the race ahead and nagging thoughts about Bucky. The tension from their last interaction still lingered like a shadow over him, which wasn't helping with the rushing thoughts in his head.

As he approached the Red Bull trailer, the raising of voices made him pause. Curiosity got the better of him, and he moved quietly towards the commotion, staying out of sight behind the trailer.

Peering around the corner, Buck caught sight of Bucky and his father in the middle of a heated argument. The older man, notorious within the paddock for his harsh and often abusive management style over Bucky, was visibly furious. His face was reddened with anger as he towered over his son, his body language aggressive, his finger jabbing into Bucky's chest as he stared him down.

“You’re jeopardising everything with your arrogance and your blatant attention-seeking, you stupid boy! Think about the sponsors. Think about your future!” Bucky’s father yelled, his voice loud enough to carry over to Buck but not loud enough to draw others, pointing his finger accusingly at Bucky.

Contrary to his father’s rage, Bucky stood his ground with his arms crossed in a guarded manner. His body was tense, like a coil wound tight, but his face betrayed a controlled calmness that was icy with suppressed rage. “I know what I’m doing on the track. I don’t need you second-guessing every decision I make,” he retorted, his voice steady and cold.

The older man scoffed, dismissive and condescending. “You qualified fifth, John. Fifth. When I was racing, that would—” But he was abruptly cut off by Bucky.

“Yeah, but you’re not, are you? You’re not racing anymore. The car had floor issues. That’s why I’m fifth.” Bucky spat back fiercely, his patience fraying.

The tension between them snapped as Bucky’s father’s face twisted in a mix of frustration and anger. With a swift motion, he struck Bucky across the face. The slap echoed shockingly loudly in the quiet afternoon air, freezing the moment. “Don’t you talk back to me like that, you little shit!” he hissed venomously, spittle flying from his enraged shout.

Stunned by the slap, Bucky recoiled slightly, his hand reflexively coming up to his cheek, where a red mark was already forming. His eyes, which had held a cold indifference, now flashed with hurt and anger that cut through the controlled exterior he had maintained.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Bucky’s voice trembled—a mix of rage and anguish. “I’m not you. I never wanted to be you. I just wanted to race because I love it, not to live up to your damned legacy. I don't ever want to be anything like you.”

His father’s face twisted further in rage. “You ungrateful brat! Everything you have is because of me. You wouldn’t even be in that car if it weren’t for my sacrifices!”

“Your sacrifices?” Bucky laughed bitterly, tears of frustration welling in his eyes. “All you’ve ever done is push me harder and demand more, like I'm some fucking robot. Never once did you stop to think about what I actually wanted. In fact, if we're doing this, you're the fucking reason I lost the only thing I'd ever truly wanted aside from racing!”

The older man’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “I thought I’d beat the queer out of you when you were seventeen, but obviously, I didn’t do a good enough job.” The venom in his voice was palpable, cutting through the air like a knife.

A violent fury erupted in Bucky. He shoved his father hard with a swift, angry motion, causing the older man to stumble back a few steps. “Shut up!” Bucky spat, his voice trembling with rage and pain.

Recovering quickly, his father’s face contorted with rage. He lunged forward, grabbing Bucky by the throat and throwing him to the ground. The impact was hard, and Bucky gasped for breath as his father pinned him down, his grip tightening around Bucky's neck.

Buck’s heart pounded as he watched the scene, feeling helpless and enraged on Bucky’s behalf. He wanted to rush in to pull Bucky away from the violent confrontation with his dad, but he knew it wasn’t his place—not yet. It would only do more damage than anything. He could only watch as Bucky struggled against his father’s hold, eyes wide with panic and pain.

“Get off me!” Bucky choked out, his voice barely audible as he clawed at his father’s hands, trying desperately to free himself.

“You think life is about what you want? It’s about survival, about being the best, and about not letting anyone think they’re better than you. I thought I raised a fighter, not a whining little faggot,” his father hissed, his face inches from Bucky’s.

With a sudden, desperate strength, Bucky managed to wrench one hand free and shoved his father’s face away, the older man’s grip loosening just enough for Bucky to gasp in a breath and crawl out from underneath him. “I’m done with this shit,” he said, his voice hollow but cold. “I’m done trying to please you. I'm done being your puppet, and I'm done trying to please anyone.”

His father’s eyes widened with shock and unbridled rage as Bucky shoved him off, scrambling to his feet. “You’ll regret this, John. Mark my words.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, and the mark on his cheek burned with the heat of his father’s slap. “Maybe I will. But at least I’ll be living my own life the way I want to." He paused, a dark shadow passing over his face. “I wish it was you that died, not Mum.”

His father’s face twisted with rage and disbelief. “You ungrateful little—”

Before he could finish, Bucky turned and walked away, ignoring whatever else his father had to say, and disappeared around the corner. Bucky's father's expression hardened, and he turned away with a dismissive wave of his hand, muttering angrily to himself as he walked off in the opposite direction.

From his hidden vantage point, Buck remained still for a long moment, the aftermath of the confrontation replaying in his head. The image of Bucky’s face and the violent act replayed in his thoughts as he tried to reconcile the fiery competitor he competed against on the track with the young man who had just been struck by his own father. After so long apart, this insight into Bucky’s personal life offered a new perspective on his aggressive demeanour on the track—perhaps it was a facade, a way to cope with the pressures exerted by his father’s overbearing expectations.

As Buck neared the Ferrari garage, his mind was caught in a storm of emotions. The adrenaline of the upcoming race and the throng of thoughts about Bucky were overbearing. And since when did he care so much about how Bucky was feeling? There have been years of separation between the two of them, and he couldn't even tell you what Bucky's favourite ice cream flavour was now. So why was he all of a sudden so invested in Bucky's life? What had changed?

But the brief and brutal glimpse into Bucky's personal life left him wondering. Could the relentless pressure from his father be the reason behind Bucky's often aggressive demeanour on and off the track?

The paddock was alive with the electric buzz of anticipation from all the attendees and fellow competitors. The air was thick with the scent of engine oil and burning rubber as mechanics and engineers scurried around, making last-minute adjustments to the sleek machines poised for the race.

During the pre-race chaos, Buck scanned the paddock for Bucky, noting his unusual demeanour when he spotted him. Typically the life of the party, mingling and sharing jokes with fellow drivers, engineers, and mechanics, Bucky now seemed more withdrawn. He was alone, methodically inspecting his car and gear. His movements were almost mechanical, each action borerline robotic, as if he were trying to find some semblance of control in his routine.

Approaching the Red Bull garage with a cautious step, Buck could feel the tension in the air. He paused at the entrance, observing how Bucky meticulously adjusted his gloves, each movement sharp and focused and not paying attention to anything else around him.

"Bucky!" Buck called out, his voice attempting to pierce the bubble of focus around the other man. At first, Bucky didn't respond, his attention seemingly rooted in his pre-race rituals.

"Hey, I just wanted to check in before the race. See how you’re going," Buck continued, striving to keep his tone light and friendly, hoping not to ignite any defensiveness within the other man.

After a brief pause, Bucky finally looked up slowly. His expression was guarded, almost cold, an icy contrast to the fiery competitor Buck was used to dealing with. "I’m fine, Cleven. I just need to focus, alright?" His words were clipped and dismissive.

Buck felt a twinge of disappointment at the brusque dismissal but wasn't surprised given their complex history and the recent fight with Bucky's father he'd witnessed. He also knew that one night of unexpected friendliness wasn't enough to undo years of rivalry and borderline hatred.

"Sure, I get it," Buck replied, his voice tinged with disappointment. He paused, his concern nudging him to add, "Just… be careful out there, okay?"

For a fleeting moment, Bucky’s eyes met Buck’s, a swirl of unspoken thoughts passing through them. Then, as if putting on a mask, Bucky donned his helmet, sealing himself off from the world. "I always am," he responded gruffly, the words slightly muffled by the black helmet.

Buck watched silently as Bucky climbed into his cockpit, the ritual familiar yet charged with a new awareness. The mechanics converged to make final checks, and Buck knew it was time to retreat to his own garage for preparations.

As he walked back to his team's garage, Buck's thoughts were conflicted. It was evident that Bucky was fortifying his walls, perhaps more to guard against his own wave of emotions than anything else. The glimpse of vulnerability Buck had seen earlier that morning revealed a different side of Bucky, one that had never been shown to the world.

Now, watching Bucky prepare for the race, Buck felt an unexpected surge of protectiveness out of nowhere. He understood that beneath the fierce exterior, there was a complex individual struggling with personal demons. Demon's he himself had a hand in creating. And while the racetrack was a battleground of speed and skill, today it also felt like a test of resilience and humanity.

Just as he was about to climb into his car, Buck's crew chief, Jack, approached him. "You okay, Buck? You seem a bit distracted."

Buck forced a smile. "Yeah, just a lot on my mind. Ready to get this race started."

Jack nodded, patting him on the back. "Focus up. We've got a race to win."

Jack pushed him towards his car, signalling the imminent start of the race. Buck fitted his helmet over his head. Today, more than ever, he felt the weight of the weekend, not just as a competitor but as a silent guardian watching over someone he had considered an enemy not two weeks ago who might just need someone to believe in him again. The loud roar of the engines drowned out the remaining buzz of the crowd, focusing Buck’s mind on the asphalt ahead. It was going to be a challenging race, both on the track and within themselves.

He glanced back once more, his eyes following Bucky’s car as it was rolled out to the starting grid—a sleek, powerful machine piloted by someone who might just be the best Formula 1 had ever seen. Yet, Buck couldn't shake the unease, knowing that the driver inside wasn't the most stable right now, given what he'd witnessed today.

With a determined sigh, Buck secured his helmet. He knew the race ahead would be demanding. Starting from pole position was an advantage, but maintaining it against a driver like Bucky, who seemed to have something extra to prove, would be a true challenge.

The engines roared to life, a thunderous roar that drowned out the crowd and focused every mind on the challenging race ahead. Buck’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, his body tensing as he awaited the signal.

“It’s lights out, and away we go!” Crofty’s iconic voice thundered through the speakers as the lights went out. The grid erupted into a flurry of activity, each car lunging forward with deadly speed. Buck’s heart pounded in his chest as he navigated the first crucial corners. From his rearview mirror, he saw Bucky’s Red Bull burst forth, an aggressive blur that quickly advanced from its position.

Martin Brundle’s voice rang out, capturing the intense start. "And they're off! Look at Egan making a daring move right out of the gate. Absolutely fearless as he overtakes Rosenthal!"

David Croft joined in, his tone filled with a mix of awe and concern. "He’s pushing incredibly hard, Martin. You have to wonder if his car can handle that kind of aggression for the entire race."

As the laps unfolded, it became evident that Bucky was driving on the edge of a knife. His usual strategic precision was overshadowed by palpable aggression, more so than he usually had. Indeed, Bucky was not just racing. He was on a warpath, each manoeuvre more daring than the last and not willing to give any of the other drivers on the grid a moment to breathe. His car was dancing dangerously close to the barriers, executing risky overtakes that left even the seasoned commentators breathless.

Buck’s own race was a blur of sharp turns and blurring faces in the crowd. Each glance in his rearview mirror showed Bucky gaining ground, the Red Bull inching closer with every lap. The tension between them was almost tangible—a silent battle waged on asphalt.

Aside from the roaring engines and blurring barriers, a separate drama was playing out over the Red Bull team radio, one that showcased Bucky's increasing determination to race by his own rules.

"Bucky, we need you to conserve your tyres. Ease off in sector two," came the urgent voice of his race engineer with controlled urgency.

Instead of acknowledging the instruction, Bucky’s response crackled through, tinged with annoyance. "Not a chance. I've got this. I'm not backing off."

As the laps progressed, it became clear that Bucky was not just ignoring his team's strategy. He was openly defying it. The pit wall exchanged worried glances, their concern evident. They knew that without adherence to the planned strategy, the car might not make it to the finish line in one piece.

"Bucky, listen, your brakes are overheating, and tyre degradation is higher than we expected. You need to slow down," his engineer persisted, his voice a blend of frustration and concern.

The only response was the sound of the engine revving higher as Bucky pushed the car even harder. His manoeuvres on track were becoming increasingly risky. Diving into turns with barely a second's hesitation, he overtook one car after another, slicing through the field with a razor-sharp precision that was both awe-inspiring and terrifying.

Crofty's voice filled the broadcast, his tone laced with disbelief. "Bucky Egan is not holding back today. He’s ignoring team orders, and it seems like he’s on a mission here. This is remarkable driving, but at what cost?"

Martin Brundle added, "He’s a man possessed today. Absolutely electric on the track, but you have to wonder if he’s going too far. Racing like this can win you races or cost you dearly."

Inside the Red Bull garage, the tension was mounting. Monitors displayed the critical data from Bucky’s car—temperature gauges inching into the red, tyre performance metrics flashing warning signs.

The team principal Christian stood with arms crossed, a deep frown marking his face as he watched his star driver defy every rule in the strategic playbook. Bucky was like a son to him, and seeing him out there as if he didn't care for his own safety was making him edgy and paranoid. He'd worked so hard to get Bucky to where he was mentally, and he didn't know what had set his kid off.

"Get him to back off, or he won’t finish the race," he snapped to the engineer, who once again reached for the radio.

"Bucky, you need to back off now. That's an order." The engineer’s voice was stern, more commanding this time, but still met with deafening silence from the cockpit.

"Get off my radio!" Bucky shouted, his voice raw with emotion. "I’ve got this."

On the track, Bucky’s driving did not change. If anything, his pace seemed to increase. Each lap was a statement, a rebellion against not just his team's strategy but perhaps against all the pressures and expectations weighing him down. But most of all, to his father, whom he knew was watching.

On lap forty-eight, the tension reached a peak. Approaching a sharp chicane, Bucky’s car suddenly lost traction, skidding dangerously towards disaster within the barriers. The crowd gasped as the car fishtailed wildly, teetering on the brink of a deadly crash.

“Oh, and there’s trouble for John Egan! His car’s dancing on the edge there, but what a save!” Martin Brundle exclaimed, relief palpable in his voice.

“That’s the sort of driving that gets your heart rate up, folks! Egan's playing with fire, slicing through those gaps with millimetres to spare. It’s an incredible show of skill, but it’s risky. Very risky,” David Croft added, echoing the thoughts of all watching.

Despite this near miss, Bucky did not temper his aggression. If anything, he pushed harder. Each lap seemed to be a mission to defy physics and caution, a clear message that he was not just racing against his competitors but also battling inner demons—perhaps an imagined race with his disapproving father.

The tension on the track was a force of nature. Buck could feel Bucky’s presence behind him, a wildfire force steadily closing the gap. Every corner Buck took, he knew Bucky was there, mirroring his moves and edging ever closer.

Buck, meanwhile, maintained a solid race, but his attention was frequently drawn to Bucky’s perilous maneuvers. The fierce rivalry that usually spurred him now paled in comparison to his growing concern for Bucky’s well-being.

David Croft's voice filled the airwaves, energised with anticipation. "Here comes Egan, folks. He’s closing in on Cleven for the lead. This is what Formula 1 is all about!"

Martin Brundle chimed in, his voice tinged with excitement and a hint of concern. "Buck’s driving flawlessly, but Bucky’s aggressiveness today is something else. He’s really pushing it—watch those lap times drop!"

As the race roared on, Christian watched the data screens with growing concern. Bucky's aggressive driving was pushing the limits of what the car could handle, and the tension was palpable. With each risky manoeuvre, Horner felt a knot tightening in his stomach. This wasn't the calculated, strategic Bucky he knew. Something was off with his kid.

Deciding he needed to intervene, Horner switched to a private channel on the comms, isolating his voice directly to Bucky’s helmet. "Bucky, it's Christian. Switching to private comms. What's going on out there?"

For a moment, there was no response—only the sound of the car's engine and the rush of the race. Then, Bucky’s voice crackled through the earpiece, tense and strained. "What do you mean? I'm racing."

"Bucky, you’re driving like a madman," Horner pressed, keeping his tone calm but firm. "I know you’re better than this. What’s really going on?"

There was another long pause. Bucky's breathing was heavy, a mixture of exertion and something else—frustration, perhaps. When he finally spoke, his voice was laced with a mix of defiance and vulnerability. "I’m fine, Christian. Just... just let me race."

"Bucky, this isn’t like you," Horner persisted, his concern deepening. "Talk to me. Whatever it is, we can work through it together. You and me, kid."

Bucky’s car roared down the straight, and for a few seconds, all Horner could hear was the wind whipping past and the roar of the engine. Then, Bucky’s voice came through again, quieter this time. "It's nothing. Just some... personal stuff. I’ll handle it."

Horner sighed, knowing he needed to tread carefully. "Look, I understand you want to keep your head in the game, but pushing yourself and the car like this isn’t the answer. We’re a team, Bucky. Let us help you."

There was a hint of something in Bucky's next breath—perhaps the crack in the armour Horner had been waiting for. "It's my dad," Bucky admitted finally, his voice barely audible over the comms. "He... he’s been a problem. Today was bad. Really bad."

Horner’s heart sank. He knew all about Bucky’s past, the rumours, the confirmed stories of abuse, and the confessions straight from Bucky's own mouth. Hearing it again, in Bucky's broken voice, was different this time with him driving over 300 km. "Bucky, you’re like a son to me," Horner said, his voice thick with emotion. "You’re scaring me with how you’re driving out there."

There was a long silence before Bucky spoke again, his voice a mix of defiance and weariness. "I’m sorry, Christian. I didn’t mean to worry you. It’s just... he got to me today."

"Bucky, listen to me," Horner said, his voice firm with resolve. "You don’t have to deal with this alone. After the race, we’ll figure something out. For now, I need you to focus, but within your limits. No more reckless moves. Understood?"

Bucky’s voice was subdued, but there was a hint of relief. "Understood, Christian."

"Good," Horner replied, a note of reassurance in his tone. "We’ll talk more after the race. Just stay safe out there."

As the private comms went silent, Horner felt a mix of emotions. Relief that Bucky had opened up, but also a deep concern for what lay ahead, both on and off the track. He glanced back at the data screens, watching Bucky’s car navigate the track with a bit more control, a bit more caution.

As they approached the critical hairpin turn, a notorious spot for overtaking, Buck braced himself. He knew Bucky would make his move here. The crowd was on its feet, and the atmosphere was electric with expectation.

Bucky tucked in behind Buck’s Ferrari as they entered the braking zone, both cars downshifting and tyres screeching under the strain. For a moment, they were side by side, the world reduced to the roar of engines and the blur of speed as they moved in sync together.

Then, in a daring manoeuvre that left everyone breathless, Bucky dipped inside at the last possible second, his Red Bull car hugging the inside line of the turn with precarious precision. He edged ahead of Buck, their cars inches apart, the smell of scorched rubber filling the air.

"Egan takes the lead! What a move!" Crofty exclaimed, his voice a mix of shock and admiration. "Absolutely textbook overtaking from Egan. He saw the gap and took it with guts and glory!"

Martin Brundle added, his analysis was quick and keen. "That’s the kind of risk that can win you races or end them in seconds. Bucky’s calculated it perfectly this time, but that was a heart-stopping moment!"

With the crowd of Red Bull fans roaring their approval, Bucky pulled ahead, now leading the race. His car seemed to thrive under his command, responding to his every command with a fierce kind of obedience.

Buck, now in second place, regrouped quickly. His focus sharpened further, with the challenge thrown down by Bucky igniting his competitive spirit. The race was far from over, and Buck was not one to give up easily.

As they raced through the laps that followed, Bucky’s earlier defiance of team orders seemed to pay off, at least for the moment. He maintained his lead, but not comfortably. Buck was always there, a constant shadow just seconds behind, waiting for any opportunity to reclaim his position.

The dynamic on the track was a thrilling display of skill and will, as both drivers pushed their cars to their limits. Bucky, with his aggressive and unrelenting style, and Buck, with his strategic and precise approach, provided the spectators with a grand spectacle of racing prowess.

As the final laps approached, the tension between the two was almost tangible, with each man enveloped in his battle both with his rival and with himself. The race was a physical and mental marathon, and as they hurtled towards the finish line, it was clear that this duel would be remembered as one of the season's highlights.

Their cars streaked across the finish line, Bucky first by a mere 0.4 of a second, his victory hard-earned and dramatic.

————————————————

In the cool-down room after the race, the atmosphere was tense, thick with the smell of sweat and engine oil—the residual signs of the chaotic race that had just ended on the track.

Bucky was pacing, his movements jittery and erratic, a stark contrast to Buck, who sat calmly, observing him with a steady gaze. The room was finally quiet. The third-place finisher, Murph, had left, stripping away the buffer his presence had provided.

Bucky’s breaths came heavy and quick, his towel-draped neck moving with each inhale and exhale. His restless energy filled the small room, adding to the unresolved tension between the two of them.

“You know, you could have killed yourself out there,” Buck said, breaking the silence with a calm yet firm tone, his underlying worry palpable.

Bucky stopped in his tracks, annoyance flaring in his eyes as he faced Buck. “I race to win, Buck. You know that. I don’t play it safe.”

Buck set his water down and leant forward, his brows furrowed. “There’s a difference between not playing it safe and being reckless. What you did today… it was the latter.”

Bucky scoffed, shaking his head, as he walked over to grab a drink from the cooler. “You think I was reckless? I was in control the entire time.”

“Being in control isn’t just about handling your car, Bucky. It’s about making decisions that ensure you can keep racing tomorrow,” Buck countered, watching as Bucky took a long gulp of his bottle. “Ignoring your team’s orders? Pushing your car past its limits? That’s not just risky. It’s irresponsible and dangerous.”

With a harsh slam of his bottle on the counter, Bucky’s frustration burst forth. “You sound just like my old man,” he muttered bitterly, his voice thick with resentment.

Buck stood, approaching Bucky slowly. “Maybe I do. But think about it—what if you had crashed today? What then?”

Bucky turned away, his hands clenching as he faced the wall, grappling with the potential realities Buck’s words conjured.

After a moment, he looked back, vulnerability flickering in his eyes. “I... I don’t know,” he admitted softly, the fight draining out of him.

“That’s exactly my point,” Buck said, his voice softening. “You’re incredible out there. Maybe you felt you had something to prove today, but no race, no championship, or proving a point is worth your life, Bucky.”

Leaning against the wall, Bucky exhaled slowly, the aggressive mask beginning to slip. “I’m not sure I know any other way to race,” he confessed, his voice a mere whisper.

Buck reached out, placing a reassuring hand on Bucky’s shoulder, his thumb grazing his pulse point. “You can find a way. You’re one of the best drivers out there—you don’t need to prove that by risking everything.”

A small, grateful smile touched Bucky’s lips as he met Buck’s gaze. “Thanks, Buck. I’ll think about it,” he promised, a trace of the old warmth between them flickering to life.

“All I ask is that you think,” Buck responded, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze before stepping back. “Just consider it.”

The room fell silent again, both drivers lost in their thoughts. Bucky went back to his drink, but this time he sipped it slowly, his earlier restlessness subdued for now.

A small, grateful smile touched Bucky’s lips as he met Buck’s gaze. “Thanks, Buck. I’ll think about it,” he promised, a trace of the old warmth between them flickering to life.

Buck hesitated, feeling the moment of connection but knowing it was fragile. “Listen, Bucky, if you ever need to talk or anything, I’m here. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

Bucky’s eyes flickered with something—hope, maybe—but it was quickly replaced by wariness. He took a step back, creating distance. “I appreciate it, Buck. Really. But I’m not sure...”

Buck nodded, understanding the hesitation. “I get it. Just know the offer stands. Whether in person or through text, I'll be there.”

Bucky nodded slowly, the internal battle clear on his face. He teetered between wanting to open up and protecting himself from potential hurt. “Thanks,” he said again, his voice quieter this time.

Buck watched him for a moment longer, then started to gather his things. “I’ll see you out there,” he said, nodding towards the door.

Bucky raised his drink in a small salute. “See you, Buck.”

As Buck left the cool-down room, he felt a little bit more optimistic. Today had been tough, and it might have been just another step in their long season of competition, but it felt like a turning point. He'd always harboured the hope that one day they could revert to being just Buck and Bucky again, the two inseparable boys who had big dreams together.

As Buck walked away, he couldn’t help but glance back one more time, hoping to catch another glimpse of that vulnerability in Bucky’s eyes. Instead, he saw Bucky’s guarded expression, the mask slipping back into place as he turned away, lost in his thoughts.

Buck sighed, feeling a mix of hope and apprehension. The road to healing was long, but at least they had taken the first step. And in the world of high-speed racing, sometimes that first step was all it took to ignite the fire of change.

Chapter Text

The after-party was in full swing, with the buzz of laughter, cheering, and the pounding bass of the music filling the club. The celebration of the race was well ahead, and everyone was having the time of their lives, yet Buck found it hard to join in the celebration. His eyes kept drifting to one corner of the room, where Bucky was throwing caution to the wind, downing shot after shot with reckless abandon.

Bucky’s movements were slowly growing erratic, his usually robotic coordination slipping as he threw back another shot, his hand trembling slightly as he slammed the glass down on the bar.

It was evident he didn’t care about his win right now. It seemed all he cared about was not remembering his name and drowning every thought in alcohol.

Buck stood at the edge of the room, his gaze fixed on Bucky. The flashing lights and pounding music seemed distant, muted by his growing concern. He watched as Bucky laughed loudly at something one of the other drivers said, the sound tinged with a manic edge. Bucky's eyes were glassy and unfocused, and his movements were increasingly unsteady. It was clear he was spiralling, and Buck's worry intensified.

Memories of their past together flooded Buck's mind, with nostalgia and pain at the forefront of those memories. He remembered the days when Bucky's laughter was genuine, not an act for cameras or fueled by alcohol. They had been inseparable once, two young dreamers racing towards a shared goal of being world champions together. Now, Buck could barely recognise the person Bucky had become, weighed down by years of unresolved pain and the toxic influence of his father.

Thinking about Bucky's father made his mind race with memories of their past and of the moments they had shared, both on and off the track. He remembered the bruises Bucky had always brushed off as accidents from racing or sports, but now he wondered how many of those had been lies, covering up the reality of his father’s abuse. The realisation hit him hard, guilt mixing with the worry he felt about leaving Bucky in that situation.

Beside him, Marge tried to get his attention. She was dressed in a stunning black dress, her red lips pouting at him. She looped her arm through his and leant in close, trying to draw him into the festive mood. “Buck, come dance with me,” she urged, playfully trying to coax him to the dance floor.

Buck tore his eyes away from Bucky with an effort, managing a small smile for Marge. “Maybe in a bit,” he said, trying to keep his tone light. “I just need to check on something first.”

Marge pouted slightly, her irritation beginning to show. “You’ve been staring at him all night, Buck. You can’t even enjoy yourself with me for one night.”

Buck sighed, his attention already drifting back to Bucky. “Marge, please. Just give me a minute. I’ll be right back.”

Marge’s eyes narrowed, frustration evident in her expression. “It’s always about him, isn’t it? What about us? What about me?”

Buck turned to her. His expression was pained. “Marge, I’m sorry. I just… I can’t ignore this. He needs help.” From across the room, Buck watched as Bucky downed another shot, his hand shaking more visibly now. Bucky's laughter grew louder and more erratic, and Buck knew he couldn’t stand by any longer.

Marge crossed her arms, clearly annoyed. “Fine. Do what you have to do.” She stalked away, her mood sour.

Buck felt a pang of guilt but knew he couldn’t stand by and watch any longer. He made his way through the crowd, his heart pounding. Reaching Bucky at the bar, he placed a firm hand over the glass Bucky was about to lift.

"Bucky, that's enough," Buck said firmly, keeping his hand over the glass so Bucky couldn’t lift it.

Bucky looked up, annoyance flashing in his eyes. "Back off, Buck. I don’t need a babysitter," he slurred, his words barely coherent.

Buck tightened his grip on the glass, refusing to let go. "I'm not trying to babysit you. I'm trying to help. You don’t need this."

With a sudden burst of anger, Bucky shoved Buck away, causing him to stumble back a step. "What do you know about what I need?" Bucky spat, his voice rising. "You don’t get it, Buck. You’ve never gotten it. So take a hint and back off, buddy."

Buck steadied himself, his expression conveying his concern and frustration. He glanced around, noticing the attention their confrontation was beginning to draw. Not wanting to create a scene, he grabbed Bucky by the arm. "Come on, let's talk outside."

Bucky resisted, but Buck's grip was firm. With a sigh of exasperation, Bucky allowed himself to be led through the crowd and out into the alleyway behind the club. The sudden quiet and cool air were a striking contrast to the noise inside.

Once they were outside, Bucky shoved Buck’s hands off him, anger and agitation radiating from him. "What the hell, Buck? You can’t just drag me around like that."

Buck held his hands up in a placating gesture. "I didn’t want to cause a scene in there. You're in no shape to be doing this to yourself."

Bucky laughed bitterly, the sound harsh and joyless. "You think you know what’s best for me? You have no idea."

"I know you're hurting," Buck said, his voice gentle but firm. "I saw what happened with your dad. I saw the mark he left on you."

Bucky’s eyes flashed with a mix of pain, embarrassment, and fury. "You don’t know anything, Buck."

Buck took a step closer, his voice softening. "You’re right, I don’t know what's going on. But I do know that drowning yourself in alcohol isn’t going to make it better."

Bucky turned away, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, before rubbing a hand over his face as he stumbled slightly.

"You can’t run from it forever," Buck said, stepping closer and placing a hand on Bucky's shoulder. "Let me help you. Let someone in."

Bucky shrugged Buck's hand off, the walls around him still firmly in place. "I don’t need your pity, Buck. I sure as shit don’t need anything from you."

Buck felt a pang of hurt but pushed it aside, knowing it wasn’t unwarranted. "It’s not pity, Bucky. It’s help. I care about you. I don’t want to see you destroy yourself."

Bucky glared at Buck, his eyes filled with a mix of anger and deep, searing pain. “You did this to me, Buck. You’re the one that led me down this path. So why the hell do you even pretend to care? You left me, Buck, so don’t act like you know what’s best for me. You gave up that right a long time ago.”

Buck took a step back, the words hitting him like a physical blow. He struggled to find his voice, his mind reeling. “I… I’m sorry, Bucky. I never meant to hurt you. I thought I was doing what was best, but I see now that I was wrong.”

Bucky shook his head, tears of frustration welling in his eyes and spilling over. “You don’t get to just apologise and make it all better. You left. You left when I needed you the most. You promised me, Buck, and then you turned around and ripped my fucking heart out!”

Buck felt his own eyes sting with unshed tears. “I know I can’t change the past. But I’m here now. I want to make things right. Please, let me try.”

For a moment, Bucky looked at Buck, the anger slowly draining from his face, replaced by a deep, weary sadness. “I don’t know if I can trust you again,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

Buck reached out to comfort him, but Bucky shoved his hand away, the walls snapping back into place. “I don’t need you to fix me, Buck. I don’t need you at all.”

Buck’s heart ached at the rejection, but he remained firm. “I know it will take time. But I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here every step of the way, if you’ll let me.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the cool night air heavy with unspoken words and lingering pain. Buck saw the vulnerability in Bucky’s eyes—the raw hurt that he had tried to drown in alcohol. It was a start. A painful but necessary start.

“Will you go for a walk with me?” Buck asked softly. “I think some fresh air might help you sober up a bit.”

Bucky looked at him, his expression unreadable. For a moment, Buck feared he might refuse. Then, with a reluctant nod, Bucky agreed. “Fine. But just a walk.”

Buck nodded, relief washing over him. “Just a walk,” he promised.

They left the alleyway and started walking down the quiet street, the sounds of the city a distant hum. Buck stayed close but gave Bucky enough space to feel comfortable. They walked in silence for a while, the cool night air helping to clear Bucky’s mind.

Bucky’s thoughts were chaotic. He wanted to trust Buck and believe that things could get better, but the fear of being hurt again was a heavy burden. He glanced at Buck, seeing the sincerity in his eyes, and felt a flicker of something—hope, maybe.

“I’ll try,” Bucky said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I can’t promise anything.”

“That’s all I’m asking,” Buck replied softly.

They continued walking, the silence between them no longer heavy with tension but filled with a tentative understanding. Buck knew they had a long way to go, but he was willing to take it one step at a time. For now, he was content to walk beside Bucky, knowing that this moment of peace was more than he could have asked for.

As they walked, Buck noticed the way Bucky’s shoulders slumped and the weariness in his steps. The exhaustion was evident, both physically and emotionally. Bucky’s usual confident stride had turned into a slow, heavy plod, with each step seeming to sap more of his energy.

After a while, Buck broke the silence. “Do you want to go back to the club or keep walking?”

Bucky looked at him, his eyes tired and shadowed with fatigue. He sighed deeply, the weight of the night pressing down on him. "I just want to go back to the hotel," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Buck nodded, understanding and concern etched on his face. "Alright. I’ll walk with you."

Bucky glanced at Buck and then at the direction of the club, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. "What about Marge?"

Buck shrugged and made a noncommittal sound. "She’ll be fine."

They continued their walk in silence, heading towards Bucky's hotel. The night air was cool and soothing, and the distant hum of the city provided a comforting background noise. Buck stayed close, offering silent support without crowding Bucky, respecting his need for space right now, and not wanting to push his luck.

As they reached the entrance of the hotel, Buck held the door open for Bucky, who walked through with a small nod of thanks. They made their way up to Bucky’s room, and the atmosphere between them was cautious and hopeful.

Inside the room, Bucky dropped his keys on the counter and collapsed onto the edge of the couch. Buck followed him in, closing the door quietly behind them. The soft glow of the city lights filtered through the window, casting a gentle light across the room.

Bucky tried to stand again, but his body swayed, the alcohol still controlling his movements. He looked like he might fall over at any moment. Buck quickly moved to his side, steadying him with a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Easy there," Buck said gently. "Let's just sit down for a bit."

Bucky nodded, allowing Buck to guide him to the couch. They both sat down, the silence between them heavy but not uncomfortable, surprisingly. Buck took in the sight of Bucky. The toll the night had taken on him was evident in every line and slump of his body. His eyes were bloodshot, his face pale, and his usually steady hands trembled slightly.

Buck felt a pang of sadness for him, wishing there was more he could do to take away the pain. "Do you want some water?" he offered, trying to keep his voice calm and soothing.

Bucky shook his head slowly. "No, just... stay," he mumbled, his voice slurred and weary.

Buck nodded, leaning back on the couch. "Alright. I'm here."

For a while, they sat in silence, the only sounds being the distant hum of the city and Bucky's uneven breaths. Buck watched him, his heart aching for the boy he had lost and the man sitting beside him now, broken and hurting.

Finally, Bucky spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "Do you remember that night I called you?"

Buck flinched, the memory hitting him like a punch to the gut. He could still hear the fear in Bucky's voice, the desperation that had laced every word. "Yeah, I remember," Buck said softly, his voice tinged with guilt. "I remember how scared you were."

Bucky’s eyes were filled with a mix of pent-up anger and sadness. "I needed you that night, Buck. I was so scared. And you... you weren’t there."

Buck swallowed hard, his failure pressing down on him and squeezing his lungs. "I’m sorry, Bucky. I thought I was doing the right thing by staying away, but I see now how wrong I was. I should have been there for you."

Bucky shook his head, tears welling up in his eyes. "You don't understand, Buck. That night... I felt so alone. I thought... I thought you didn't care. That I was so easy to throw away. To forget."

Buck felt his own eyes sting with unshed tears. "I cared, Bucky. I always cared. God, I do care. I was just too stupid to see how much you needed me."

Bucky looked away, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. "I don't know if I can forgive you, Buck. You hurt me so much."

Buck reached out, placing a gentle hand on Bucky's shoulder. "I don't expect you to forgive me right away. Just know that I'm here now, and I'm not going anywhere. We'll get through this, one step at a time."

Bucky nodded, his body still trembling. "Okay," he whispered. "Just... stay for a little bit."

"I will," Buck promised, his voice relieved. The silence stretched between them comfortably, neither one of them willing to shatter it yet.

Finally, Bucky spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper. "Why, Buck? Why now?"

Buck took a deep breath, searching for the right words. "Because I care about you, Bucky. I know I made mistakes, and I know I hurt you, but I never stopped caring. I want to make things right."

Bucky looked at him, his eyes filled with pain and vulnerability. "It's not that easy, Buck. You can't just come back and fix everything and act like it never happened."

"I know," Buck replied softly. "But I'm willing to try. One step at a time."

Bucky sighed, leaning his head back against the couch. "I don't know if I can trust you again."

"You don't have to decide that now," Buck said gently. "Just know that I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."

"You said that once before, Buck, and look what happened. So excuse me if I don’t just fall to your knees and believe you." Bucky rolled his eyes, the bitterness in his voice cutting through the air.

Buck winced at the words, knowing they were deserved. "I get it, Bucky. I messed up, and I know words aren't enough. But actions speak louder, and I'm ready to prove to you that I'm here for good this time."

Bucky glanced at Buck, his eyes reflecting the conflict within him. "I guess we'll see," he said quietly, the exhaustion in his voice evident.

Buck nodded, accepting the uncertainty. "Yeah, we will. One step at a time, remember?"

Bucky glanced at Buck through wet lashes, the pain behind those blue eyes almost unbearable to witness. "Were you ever going to come, or did you just promise that, knowing you weren't?" he asked, his voice trembling with a mix of hurt and anger.

The memory was vivid, etched into the depths of Bucky’s mind like a scar that refused to fade. He wished desperately to forget it, to erase the darkest chapter of his life that had haunted him for years. But everywhere he turned, there was Buck, a constant reminder of that painful night.

With Buck so close to him now and dredging up their history, his mind unwillingly drifted back to the moment everything had shattered.

It was the night his mother died that everything began to fall apart. Maria Egan had been the epitome of warmth and love, the glue that held their fragile family together. She had a smile that could light up a room and a laugh that chased away the darkest clouds. Her sudden death was like a bomb detonating at the heart of their home, leaving nothing but devastation in its wake.

Bucky's father, Jack Egan, had been a stern but loving man while Maria was alive. He was the rock of the family, providing a sense of stability and strength. But Maria's death shattered him. Grief consumed Jack, twisting his sorrow into a rage he couldn't control. He sought solace in alcohol, finding temporary numbness at the bottom of countless bottles.

As Jack's drinking escalated, so did his anger. He became a shadow of the man he once was, his eyes dull and empty, his demeanour volatile. The man Bucky had once looked up to became a monster, and Bucky bore the brunt of his fury—all because he resembled his mother. Bucky used to love being her spitting image, but now he couldn’t stand it.

In the months that followed Maria's death, Bucky’s home transformed into his own living hell. The walls that had once echoed with love and laughter now reverberated with yells and hits from his father. The house felt colder and darker, as if Maria's warmth had been the only thing keeping it alive. Each day, Bucky lived in fear, walking on eggshells, never knowing when his father’s wrath would explode.

It started with verbal abuse. Jack would lash out, calling Bucky worthless and blaming him for everything wrong in their lives. The words cut deep, each one a dagger to Bucky’s heart over and over again. He would retreat to his room, trying to escape the harshness of his father's voice. But as Jack’s grief turned into unrelenting rage, the abuse became physical.

Bucky remembered the first time his father hit him. The shock, the pain, the utter betrayal—it was a night that marked the end of any semblance of normalcy in his life. Jack's fists replaced words, and his kicks replaced reprimands. The physical pain was excruciating, but it was the emotional scars that hurt the most.

Bucky's only refuge during this dark time was Buck. They had been secretly dating, and their relationship was the only thing that kept Bucky going. They shared stolen moments and whispered promises, finding light in each other in the growing darkness. But their secret was fragile, and it shattered the night Bucky’s father found out.

Bucky remembered how his father had seen texts between them, shattering his phone in a fit of rage before descending on him. He remembered the fists, the kicks, and the spitting words. And the pain—oh God, the pain.

After his father had passed out on the couch with a beer in his hand, Bucky made a frantic call to Buck. His voice was barely recognisable through the sobs. “Buck, he knows. He found out about us.”

Buck’s voice trembled with worry. “Bucky, what happened? Are you okay?”

“I don’t know what to do. It's bad, Buck. God, it's so bad!” Bucky cried, his voice cracking with pain and fear.

The desperation in Bucky’s voice was palpable, a raw edge of terror that sliced through him. “Where are you? I’ll come get you,” Buck urged.

“I’m at home, but I can’t stay here, and you can't come here. I need to get away. Please, Buck, will you run away with me? Meet me at the train station tomorrow night. Please, Buck, I need to leave. Promise me you’ll be there,” Bucky pleaded, his voice a fragile whisper.

Without hesitation, Buck agreed. “I’ll be there, Bucky. I promise.”

The next night, Bucky waited at the train station, his body aching from the beating and his face bruised and swollen. He clutched a small bag of essentials, his heart pounding with both fear and hope. He glanced around nervously, flinching at every sound and every shadow. He kept looking at his watch, counting the minutes, praying for Buck to appear.

As the minutes turned into hours, Bucky’s hope began to wane. The platform grew colder, the shadows deeper, and the station emptied out. Each passing minute felt like a lifetime, and he turned to check everyone's face, hoping it was his boyfriend's. He watched as trains came and went and as people hurried to their destinations, and slowly, the station grew quieter and emptier.

The last train departed, and Bucky was left standing there alone. The realisation that Buck wasn’t coming sank in like a lead weight in his chest. His heart broke a little more with each tick of the clock. The platform, once bustling with activity, was now void of life, mirroring the emptiness inside him. He waited until the station was completely deserted, holding his bag tightly, tears streaming down his bruised face.

When he finally returned home in the early hours of the morning, the house was eerily quiet. His father, however, was waiting for him. Jack’s eyes were bloodshot, and his face was contorted in anger and confusion.

“Where the hell were you?” Jack slurred, stumbling as he stood.

Bucky tried to keep his voice steady. “I needed some air.”

“You think I’m stupid?” Jack’s voice rose, his anger bubbling to the surface. “You were with him, weren’t you? That boy.”

Before Bucky could respond, Jack’s eyes fell on the small bag Bucky had clutched so tightly at the train station, now carelessly tossed by the door. His face contorted with rage.

“What’s this?” Jack spat, grabbing the bag and flinging it across the room. “You’re trying to leave? After everything I’ve done for you, after all the effort I’ve put into your career to get you a chance to drive in Formula 1?”

Bucky’s heart raced as he saw the bag’s contents spill across the floor. “Dad, I—”

“You ungrateful little shit!” Jack roared, cutting him off. “You think you can just walk away from everything I’ve sacrificed for you? You think you can fucking leave me?”

Before Bucky could respond, his father’s hand lashed out, catching him off guard. The force of the blow sent him crashing to the ground. Jack was on him in an instant, his fists raining down with a savage fury Bucky had never seen before.

“You think you can disobey me? You think you can just leave? You think I asked for a worthless faggot for a son!?” Jack shouted, each word punctuated with a brutal blow.

Bucky tried to shield himself, but the onslaught was relentless. Jack’s fists hammered into his body, each hit more vicious than the last. Bucky's ribs screamed in agony as he curled into a defensive ball. Jack’s voice was a venomous roar, echoing off the walls.

“You think you’re a man now? You think you can just walk away? I fucking made you, boy.” Jack spat, his breath reeking of alcohol.

With a final, sickening twist, Jack grabbed Bucky’s arm and wrenched it violently. The sharp, excruciating pain that followed was accompanied by a loud, sickening snap. Bucky screamed, a sound of pure, raw pain that filled the room.

Jack finally stepped back, his chest heaving, leaving Bucky crumpled on the floor. “You’re nothing,” he hissed before staggering away, leaving his son broken and bleeding.

The morning after he had come back from the train station, Bucky lay in bed, cradling his broken arm, tears streaming down his face. His father had stormed out, leaving him alone in his agony. The physical pain was unbearable, but the emotional betrayal cut even deeper.

Back in the present, Buck clenched his fists, the memory a sharp knife in his chest. He remembered why he hadn’t shown up—the fear that had paralysed him, the doubt that had crept into his mind. He had been terrified of leaving everything behind, of the unknown, and of his own father’s wrath at him running away. He had convinced himself that Bucky would be better off without him and that staying away was the right thing to do.

But he had been wrong.

The next time Buck saw Bucky, the boy he loved was no longer there. In his place was a young man hardened by betrayal and pain. Once filled with warmth and affection, Bucky's eyes were now cold and indifferent. Buck tried to reach out, but Bucky had built walls around his heart, and Buck’s cowardice had cemented them in place.

Bucky glanced at Buck through his wet lashes, pain etched deeply in his blue eyes. "Were you ever going to come, or did you just promise that, knowing you weren't?" he asked, his voice raw.

Buck flinched, the memory hitting him like a punch to the gut. "I was going to come," he whispered, his voice filled with regret. "But I got scared. I thought you'd be better off without me."

Bucky's eyes were filled with anger and sadness. "Better off? You left me alone, Buck. You were supposed to be my escape, my hope, and you abandoned me."

Tears streamed down Bucky’s face as he broke down, curling in on himself, his body wracked with sobs. The betrayal and the pain of that night all came crashing down on him. Buck moved to his side, wanting to comfort him but afraid of making things worse.

“I’m so sorry, Bucky,” Buck whispered, his own voice shaking with emotion. “I know I failed you. I know I can never take back what I did. But I’m here now, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make things right. Please, give me a chance to make it up to you.”

Bucky didn’t respond, his sobs the only sound in the room. Buck stayed close, making a silent promise to be there this time and not let Bucky down again. As Bucky cried, releasing years of pent-up pain, Buck hoped that maybe, just maybe, they could start to heal together.

After a few minutes, Bucky's sobs began to subside, replaced by a hollow silence. He lifted his head, and his eyes were bloodshot and swollen from crying. "Do you know what made it even worse?" he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Two days after you left me standing at the train station, I saw you."

Buck's heart sank. "Bucky, I—"

Bucky cut him off, his voice trembling with anger and sorrow. "I saw you kissing Marge. Right in front of everyone. You didn’t even hesitate. It was like... like I never even existed."

Buck's face paled, the weight of Bucky's words hitting him like a freight train. "Bucky, I... I thought I could move on. I thought it was over. I was trying to move on, but I was wrong. I was so wrong."

Bucky's eyes flashed with pain. "You think that excuses it? You think that makes it better? You were supposed to be there for me, Buck. It was always mean't to us against the world. And instead, you shattered me."

Tears welled up in Buck’s eyes as he reached out, but Bucky flinched away, the walls around him snapping back into place. "I’m so sorry, Bucky. I didn’t know how to deal with everything. I was a coward, and I hurt you in ways I can’t even begin to understand."

Bucky shook his head, the bitterness in his voice cutting through the air. "You don’t get to just apologise and make it all better. You left me when I needed you the most. You promised me, and then you broke that promise without a second thought."

Buck's voice broke as he pleaded. "I know I can’t change the past, but I want to be here for you now. I want to make things right. Please, Bucky, give me a chance to prove that I’ve changed."

Bucky looked at Buck, the pain and betrayal still fresh in his eyes. "I don't know if I can trust you again," he whispered, his voice filled with anguish. "You broke me, Buck. And I don’t know if I can ever be whole again."

Buck felt his heart shatter at Bucky’s words. He had known that rebuilding their relationship would be difficult, but hearing the depth of Bucky’s pain made it feel almost impossible. "I understand," he said softly. "And I don't expect you to forgive me overnight. But I’m not going anywhere. I’m here, and I’m not leaving until you tell me to."

Bucky turned away, his shoulders still trembling. "I don't know if I can do this, Buck. I don't know if I can go through this pain again."

Without thinking, Buck leant over and pressed his lips against Bucky’s. The kiss was gentle, tentative, and filled with years of unspoken emotions. Bucky stiffened, his breath catching in his throat. For a moment, everything was still. Then, slowly, Bucky began to respond, the kiss deepening as he let himself feel the longing, the hurt, and the love that had been buried for so long.

When they finally pulled apart, Bucky’s eyes were filled with tears, but there was also a spark of something else—hope. He put a shaky hand on Buck's cheek, the touch was so tender that it made Buck's heart ache even more. Bucky looked at him, the pain in his eyes almost too much to bear.

“Buck, please... please leave,” Bucky whispered, his voice trembling. “I can’t do this right now.”

Buck's heart ached at the request, but he nodded, understanding the necessity of Bucky's need for space. “Okay, Bucky,” he said softly. “But know this—I never stopped loving you. And I’m never going anywhere again. I want to make things right.”

Bucky's hand lingered on Buck's cheek for a moment longer before he pulled it away, the distance between them growing. "Please, just go, Buck."

Buck stood slowly, feeling the weight of all those years pressing down on his chest. He gave Bucky one last, longing look before turning and walking towards the door. As he stepped out into the hallway, he paused, his heart aching with the desire to turn back and hold Bucky.

But he respected Bucky’s need for space. He had broken his trust once, and he wouldn’t do it again. So, with a heavy heart, Buck walked away, leaving Bucky alone in the quiet room.

Chapter Text

Two days had passed since Buck had walked Bucky back to his hotel from the club and kissed him. The memory of that night replayed in Buck's mind relentlessly, a haunting loop he couldn’t escape, and if he was being completely honest with himself, he didn't want to escape.

The memory of the kiss replayed in his mind constantly. The soft glow of the streetlights, the quiet murmur of the city at night, and the electric thrill of Bucky's lips against his own. His heart had raced, not just from the fear of being pushed away but from how right it felt to have Bucky pressed against him.

Yet, the aftermath of that kiss brought a torment of its own. Bucky had looked at him with a mixture of surprise and something else—something Buck couldn’t quite decipher. Bucky had asked him to leave after holding his cheek and staring at him. He had looked so sad and broken.

Buck sat at his desk, staring blankly at the agenda for the upcoming Spanish Grand Prix meeting. His thoughts kept drifting back to Bucky—to the feel of his lips, to the way his heart had soared—and then plummeted as Bucky pushed him away. He knew he needed to focus to prepare for the race that was under two weeks away, but he couldn’t shake the memories.

He picked up his phone and scrolled through his messages, lingering on Bucky's name. He had typed out several drafts, trying to find the right words to express how he felt, but each time he deleted them, unsure of what to say. How could he put into words the confusion, the longing, and the fear that he felt?

Buck sighed and put his phone down, running a hand through his hair. He needed to clear his head and focus on the meeting ahead. The Spanish Grand Prix was a crucial race, and he couldn’t afford to be distracted. If he wanted a chance at the championship, then he needed all the points he could get. But the kiss and the feelings it had stirred refused to be ignored.

The meeting room was already bustling with activity when Buck arrived. Engineers, strategists, and team members were discussing the upcoming race, their voices a low hum. Buck took a seat at the table, trying to push thoughts of Bucky out of his mind and focus on the task at hand.

As the meeting progressed, Buck found it increasingly difficult to concentrate. His thoughts kept drifting back to that night, to the way Bucky had looked at him, to the way their lips had met. He glanced around the room, wondering if anyone could see it in his eyes and if anyone suspected the storm that was raging within him.

He forced himself to pay attention as the team discussed strategies, pit stops, and weather forecasts. But every time there was a lull in the conversation, his mind wandered back to Bucky. He remembered the way Bucky had looked at him earlier that evening, the way his eyes had glistened with emotion. He remembered the feel of his hand against his face, the press of his lips, and the warmth of his touch.

Buck's heart ached with the weight of his feelings. He had been running from them for so long, hiding behind a facade of indifference and denial. But the kiss had brought everything to the surface, leaving him exposed and vulnerable.

He thought about Marge, the woman he had been seeing for the past eight years. She was kind, beautiful, and understanding, but Buck knew he couldn’t keep pretending. The kiss with Bucky had made it clear that his heart belonged elsewhere, and he needed to be honest with her. But the thought of hurting her and ending their relationship filled him with dread.

And then there was the fear of how it would affect their careers. As Formula 1 drivers, their lives were constantly under scrutiny, with their every move analysed and dissected by the media and the public. What would people say if they found out? How would it impact their standing in the sport? The thought of being the subject of rumours and gossip made Buck's stomach churn.

Would Bucky even be open to that anymore after what he'd done?

As the meeting came to a close, Buck gathered his notes and headed back to his apartment. He needed to think and figure out what to do next.

After getting back, Buck sat down in the dining room and stared at his phone. He knew he needed to talk to Marge and tell her the truth about his feelings. But he also needed to talk to Bucky and find out where they stood, to see if there was a chance for them.

He knew he deserved Bucky's cold shoulder after the way he'd treated him in the past—the cruelty, the indifference, the attempts to extinguish the flames of his own desire.

The guilt was almost unbearable. He knew he had hurt Bucky deeply, and now he was reaping what he had sown. But understanding that didn't ease the pain. The thought of losing Bucky forever was like a knife twisting in his gut, and he cared about Bucky more than he had ever allowed himself to admit. The realisation that he might have ruined any chance of a future with him was devastating.

He had hidden his desires for so long, burying them under layers of denial and self-loathing. Now, they surged to the surface with a force that left him breathless. His feelings for Bucky were undeniable, and the kiss had only intensified them. It had been a moment of pure, unfiltered truth, a revelation of what he had been yearning for all along.

But Bucky's rejection was a reminder of the consequences of his past actions. He had abandoned and pushed Bucky away time and time again, and now, when he was finally ready to embrace his true feelings, it seemed too late. The pain of that night was not just in the rejection but in the realisation of what he had lost. Of how badly he had screwed up because of his own fears.

The days that followed after that night were a blur of confusion and regret. Buck couldn’t concentrate on anything—his thoughts were consumed by what-ifs and should-haves. Every memory of Bucky's touch, his scent, and his voice played on an endless loop in Buck's mind.

The apartment was quiet as Marge opened the door, the soft click echoing through the space. She stepped inside, her heels clicking on the polished wood floor, and set her bag down on the entryway table.

“Gale? I’m home!” She called, her voice carrying through the apartment.

Buck was sitting in the dining room, staring at his phone, lost in thought. When he heard her voice, he quickly put the phone down and stood up, forcing a smile on his face. “Hey, Marge,” he said, his tone cheerful but lacking its usual warmth.

Marge walked over to him with a bright smile on her face. “I missed you,” she said softly, wrapping her arms around his neck and leaning in for a kiss.

Buck kissed her back, but it was a half-hearted effort. His mind was elsewhere, still caught up in the thoughts of Bucky and his feelings. Marge pulled back slightly, her brows furrowing as she looked into his eyes.

“Is everything okay?” She asked, her voice tinged with concern. “You’ve been distant the last couple of days.”

Buck sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m fine, Marge. There's just a lot on my mind with the race coming up and everything.”

Marge studied him for a moment, her eyes searching his face for any sign of the man she had fallen in love with. “It’s more than just the race, isn’t it?” she asked quietly. “You can talk to me, Buck. You know that, right?”

Buck looked away, guilt gnawing at him. He hated lying to her, but he wasn’t sure how to tell her the truth. “I know,” he said softly. “I’m just… trying to figure some things out.”

Marge reached out and took his hand, squeezing it gently. “I’m here for you, Gale. Whatever it is, we can face it together.”

Buck felt a pang of guilt, knowing that he was about to shatter her world. He squeezed her hand back, his heart heavy with the weight of his unspoken words. “I appreciate that, Marge. I really do.”

Marge gave him a small smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She sat on the couch, her posture rigid and guarded, her expression tense. She had noticed Buck's distraction and distance over the past few days, and the silence between them had grown unbearable.

“Gale, do we need to talk?” Marge said, her voice breaking the uneasy silence that had settled between them.

Buck took a deep breath, his heart pounding in his chest like a drum. “Yeah, we do,” he replied, his voice strained and almost cracking under her gaze. He moved to the armchair across from her, the distance between them feeling like a chasm that hadn't been there before. His mind raced, struggling to find the right words to convey what he was feeling inside.

Marge’s eyes were filled with concern and frustration. “What’s going on with you? You’ve been so distant, and I can’t keep pretending everything is fine when it’s not.” Her words were like daggers, cutting through the fog of Buck’s confusion and bringing the reality of the situation into sharp focus.

Buck rubbed his hands together, a nervous habit he couldn’t control, as if trying to scrub away the guilt and anxiety. “Marge, I... I haven’t been honest with you or with myself.”

Her brow furrowed in confusion, and her eyes searched his face for answers. “What do you mean?” The fear in her voice was palpable, a clear sign that she sensed the depth of his confession before he even spoke it.

He looked up, meeting her gaze, his own eyes filled with guilt. “There’s someone else. Someone I have feelings for, and it’s not fair to you or to us for me to keep pretending that I don’t.”

Marge’s eyes widened in shock, her face paling as the reality of his words hit her. “Someone else? Who?” Her voice was a mix of disbelief and hurt, each word a testament to the betrayal she felt.

Buck hesitated, knowing that the truth would hurt her deeply. “I can’t tell you that,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I kissed them the other night, and it made me realise that my feelings for them never went away.”

Marge stared at him, her eyes filling with tears that she tried to blink away. “So you’ve been pining for someone else this whole time, and you didn’t think to tell me?” Her voice cracked, and the pain was evident in every syllable.

His chest tightened with guilt and shame. “Marge, I care about you. I really do. But I'm not in love with you. I don't think I've ever actually been in love with you. I love you. Don't get me wrong. But I can't keep pretending that I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” The words spilt out, each one a confession of his deepest regrets.

Her tears spilt over, and she wiped them away angrily, her hands trembling. “Eight years, Gale. Eight years, and you’re just now realising this? How could you do this to me? You didn't think to tell me you were stringing me along!?” Her voice was a mixture of anger and heartbreak, the betrayal cutting her deeply.

Buck’s voice broke as he spoke. “I’m so sorry, Marge. I never wanted to hurt you. But I can’t ignore my feelings anymore. I need to figure this out, and I can’t do that while I’m with you. It’s not fair to either of us.” The pain in his voice matched the anguish in his heart, a heart torn between duty and desire.

The room was heavy with the weight of his confession, and the silence between them was thick and suffocating. Marge’s face crumpled, and Buck felt his heart shatter at the sight. He had caused this pain, and he didn’t know if he could ever forgive himself for it.

The enormity of his actions loomed over him, and the realisation of the hurt he had inflicted on someone he cared about again was almost too much to bear. He wanted to reach out to her to comfort her, but he knew that nothing he could say or do would make this right.

As the minutes ticked by, the silence grew louder, and the distance between them became more pronounced. Marge turned away, her body shaking with sobs she tried to suppress. Buck felt a deep, gnawing ache, a sense of loss that permeated every fibre of his being. And as he sat there, watching the woman he had spent eight years of his life with break down, he wondered if he had the strength to face the path he had chosen.

The memory of the kiss haunted him. It was a moment of clarity through the confusion of his feelings, a moment that made him realise the depth of his emotions for someone else. He couldn't go back to pretending, to lying to Marge and to himself. But the cost of his honesty was devastating.

Marge's sobs finally quieted, but the tension in the room remained thick. She turned back to him, her eyes red and swollen from crying. “Who is it, Gale? Who did you kiss?” Her voice was steadier now, but the pain was still evident.

Buck looked down at his hands, unable to meet her gaze. “I can’t tell you,” he said again, his voice filled with regret. “It wouldn’t make things any better.”

“Why not? Don’t I deserve to know who ruined our relationship?” Her voice rose with anger, but there was also a pleading note, a desperate need for closure.

“It’s not their fault, Marge. This is on me. I should have been honest with you from the start.” He wished he could tell her. He wished he could explain everything, but he knew it would only cause more pain, and he couldn't do that to Bucky. It wasn't his place.

She shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. “You’re a coward, Gale. You can’t even face the consequences of your actions.”

Her words stung, but he knew she was right. He had been a coward, hiding his true feelings and trying to make something work that never truly could. “I know,” he admitted, his voice barely audible. “I’m so sorry, Marge.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Buck wished he could go back and change things, wished he could have been honest with her from the start. But it was too late for regrets now. He had made his choice, and he would have to live with it.

“I need you to leave,” Marge said finally, her voice cold and distant. “I can’t be around you right now.”

Buck nodded, feeling a lump form in his throat. He stood up, his legs feeling weak and unsteady. “I understand,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ll give you some space.”

He walked to the door, each step feeling like a weight dragging him down. As he reached for the handle, he turned back to look at her one last time. “I’m so sorry,” he said again, his voice breaking.

Marge didn’t respond, her eyes were fixed on the floor. Buck opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, the door closing behind him with a finality that echoed through the empty corridor. He leant against the wall, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders, but an ache settled in his heart. He had hurt someone he cared deeply about, and the guilt was clawing at his chest.

But he knew he had to move forward. He had to confront his feelings and figure out what he truly wanted. And as painful as it was, he knew that this was the first step towards finding the truth.

The walk to his car felt like a blur, his mind racing with thoughts and emotions, and he felt numb to it all. He had been so sure of his decision, but now that it was done, the reality of it was sinking in. He had lost Marge, the stability she had provided, and the life they had built together. But he had also freed himself from the lie he had been living, and that brought a small measure of relief.

He climbed into the driver's seat and sat there for a moment, gripping the steering wheel tightly. Where was he supposed to go now? His apartment was out of the picture. For a moment, he simply sat there, staring out the window at the cracks in the pavement and the unaware people living their lives. The world outside felt distant, like a movie playing on a screen.

He needed space, somewhere to think and process everything that had happened. Without any other clear destination in mind, he decided to drive to the nearest hotel and book a room.

The drive through the city was a haze. The sun had set, leaving the streets bathed in the warm glow of streetlights and the cool blue of the sky. Buck's mind raced with uncertainty about the future, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he had made the right choice.

As he navigated through the city streets, the familiar landmarks blurred into an indistinguishable backdrop. The silence inside the car was deafening and not helping with the racing thoughts. His grip on the steering wheel tightened, and his knuckles turned white as he tried to steady himself. The city lights flickered around him, mirroring how he felt.

Every stoplight felt like an eternity, giving him too much time to think and doubt. He replayed the conversation with Marge over and over, each word echoing in his mind. He had hurt her deeply, and the image of her tear-streaked face was seared into his memory. A wave of guilt washed over him, threatening to pull him under. He had done what he knew was right, but the cost was higher than he had anticipated.

When he finally reached the hotel, he parked and sat in the car for a few moments, the engine ticking as it cooled down. He took a deep breath, trying to gather the strength to face the next step. With a shaky exhale, he stepped out of the car and walked inside, the lobby's bright lights and bustling activity almost jarring in their normalcy.

The check-in process was a blur. Buck kept his cap pulled down low, hoping to avoid recognition. His mind was a thousand miles away, and before he knew it, he was standing in the quiet of the hotel room. The door closed behind him with a soft click, sealing him in silence.

Buck sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. The silence of the room was deafening, pressing in on him from all sides. He sighed deeply, the weight of the day's events bearing down on him. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and unlocked it, his thumb hovering over the screen as he chewed on his finger. The familiar taste of anxiety crept in, gnawing at him. With a deep breath, he decided to pull up Instagram.

He hesitated for a moment, then typed in Bucky’s handle: @BuckyEgan. The profile loaded, filled with images of Bucky’s victories and podium finishes, but nothing of his personal life. Buck’s finger hovered over the 'Follow' button, his heart racing.

Finally, with a soft exhale, he pressed 'Follow.' Almost immediately, the racing world’s social media erupted. Fans and followers began speculating wildly. Tweets, reposts, and comments flooded their feeds: “Are Buck and Bucky finally putting their rivalry aside?” “Does this mean the Bucks are back?” “F1’s biggest rivals are now friends?”

Buck's phone buzzed with notifications, but he ignored them all, focusing instead on composing a message to Bucky.

Buck: Hey, there’s something you should know. I broke up with Marge.

There was a pause before Bucky replied.

Bucky: What? Why?

Buck took a deep breath before replying.

Buck: Because it wasn’t fair to her. My feelings for you... they never went away. I couldn’t keep pretending. I owe it to her and to myself, to be honest.

Bucky didn’t reply immediately, and Buck felt his heart pounding in the silence. Finally, his phone pinged again.

Bucky: That’s... a lot to take in.

Buck: I know. But I want to be honest with you too. If you ever want to talk, or just call... I’m here.

Buck sent the message, feeling a mix of relief and anxiety. He had taken the first step, and now all he could do was wait.

Back in his own apartment, Bucky stared at his phone, his mind racing. Buck’s confession hung in the air, and he felt a myriad of emotions swirling within him. After what felt like an eternity, he typed a reply.

Bucky: I appreciate the honesty, Buck. I need some time to process this. I’ll call you when I’m ready.

Buck read the message, a sense of fragile hope settling in his chest. It wasn’t a definitive answer, but it was a start. He set his phone down and stared out at the Monaco skyline, the city lights flickering like distant stars. Maybe this is the start of something new, he thought, a cautious optimism settling in his chest.

Feeling the weight of everything that had happened, Buck decided he needed to clear his mind. He made his way to the bathroom and turned on the faucet, letting the tub fill with warm water. The steam rose slowly, curling in the air and filling the room with a soothing warmth.

Buck stripped off his clothes and gingerly stepped into the bath, wincing slightly as the hot water lapped against his skin. He lay back, letting the heat seep into his muscles, and stared up at the ceiling. He knew he’d made the right decision. He had selfishly gotten with Marge all those years ago to try and not think about Bucky. He had loved her, yes, but he had never been in love with her.

The realisation was bittersweet. As he lay there, Buck’s mind drifted back to Bucky—the way he had kissed him, the look in his eyes, and the hope that maybe, just maybe, they could find their way back to each other. He knew it wouldn’t be easy, but he was willing to fight for it. For Bucky and for their future together.

The warmth of the water began to soothe his tense muscles, and for a moment, Buck allowed himself to relax. He closed his eyes, letting the events of the day wash over him like the water in the tub. He thought about the future and what it would be like to be with Bucky again. He imagined the two of them together, sharing their lives, their dreams, and their love.

When he finally emerged from the bath, he felt a bit more centered. He dried off and slipped into a hotel robe, then settled back onto the bed. He picked up his phone again, scrolling through the countless notifications and messages from friends and fans reacting to his Instagram follow. He ignored them all, his focus still on Bucky.

As the night wore on, Buck found himself replaying the kiss with Bucky in his mind. The way their lips had met, the electric connection between them—it was something he had never felt with anyone else. He knew that his feelings for Bucky had always been there, simmering beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to emerge.

He wondered how Bucky was processing everything. He knew it was a lot to take in, and he hoped that Bucky would find it in his heart to give him a chance. Buck had made mistakes, but he was determined to make things right. He wanted to show Bucky that he was serious and that he was ready to face whatever challenges came their way.

Buck glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was late, but sleep was still elusive. He decided to send one last message to Bucky before attempting to get some rest.

Buck: I know it’s a lot, and I understand if you need time. Just know that I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.

He set his phone down and laid back on the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. The uncertainty of what lay ahead was daunting, but for the first time in a long time, he felt a glimmer of hope. He had taken the first step towards being honest with himself and with Bucky, and that was something he could hold onto.

As he drifted off to sleep, his thoughts were filled with images of Bucky—the way he laughed, the way he smiled, and the way his eyes lit up when he was happy. Buck knew that the road ahead would be difficult, but he was ready to face it. For Bucky and for the chance at a future together.

The next morning, Buck woke up to the soft light filtering through the curtains. He felt a strange sense of calm, despite the events of the previous day. He checked his phone, hoping for a message from Bucky, but there was nothing yet. He knew he needed to be patient and give Bucky the time he needed to process everything.

He got dressed and went down to the hotel lobby for breakfast. The bustling activity of the morning crowd provided a welcome distraction, and Buck found himself able to think more clearly. As he sipped his coffee, he made a mental list of the things he needed to do. The Spanish Grand Prix was only a week and a half away, and he needed to focus on his preparation.

But his thoughts kept drifting back to Bucky. He wondered how he was feeling and what he was thinking. He hoped that Bucky would reach out soon, but he knew he couldn’t rush things. All he could do was wait and hope.

After breakfast, Buck returned to his room and checked his phone again. Still no message from Bucky. He sighed, feeling frustration and anxiety. He decided to go for a run to clear his mind. The cool morning air was refreshing, and the rhythmic pounding of his feet on the pavement helped to calm his racing thoughts.

When he returned to the hotel, he felt more centered. He showered and changed, then sat down at the desk to go over his race notes. The upcoming Spanish Grand Prix was crucial, and he needed to be at the top of his game. But no matter how hard he tried to focus, his thoughts kept drifting back to Bucky. On the track and off the track, he consumed Buck's mind.

He picked up his phone again, staring at the screen. He wanted to reach out and send another message, but he didn’t want to pressure Bucky. He knew he needed to give him time and space. So he set his phone down and forced himself to concentrate on his race strategy.

The hours passed slowly, and Buck knew that he had taken a big step by being honest with Marge and reaching out to Bucky. Now, all he could do was wait and see what the future held.

As the day turned into evening, Buck decided to take a walk. The streets were quiet, and the city was bathed in the soft glow of streetlights. He walked aimlessly, his mind filled with thoughts of Bucky and the race. He wondered if Bucky was thinking about him too and if he was considering giving them a chance.

Finally, as the stars began to twinkle in the night sky, Buck’s phone buzzed with a new message. His heart raced as he saw Bucky’s name on the screen.

Bucky: Hey. I’ve been thinking about everything. Can we meet up and talk?

Buck’s heart soared. It wasn’t a definitive answer, but it was a start. He quickly replied, setting up a time and place to meet.

As he headed back to the hotel, Buck felt a sense of cautious hope. The road ahead wouldn’t be easy, but he was ready to face it head-on.