Chapter Text
~~~ Monday ~~~
Seven people sit at a long table in front of microphones and untouched glasses of water, facing a room full of reporters, PR agents, and FIA officials. They all looked ravenous. Their voices bounced off of each other in the small conference room, begging for attention, until one of the PR people handed someone a mic and gave them the floor. The noise faded away briefly as a question was asked.
“Ms. Fontaine, what made you—”
“It’s De Fontaine,” Valentina smiled wryly from her seat at the center of the table. “That’s like if we called it ‘ fensive’ driving instead of de fensive driving,” the journalists interrupted her to laugh, “you can also call me Contessa, if you like.”
The reporter tried not to look annoyed, “Right, my apologies. Ms. De Fontaine, what made you choose to buy and rebrand the Stark Industries Racing Team? Is that not destroying decades of brand recognition and loyalty? Of legacy ?”
Her mouth flattened into a thin line, eyelid nearly twitching from the effort of holding back a snide remark. She quickly recovered, donning that trademark smug smile once again, “OXE Group knows how important legacy is, that's why we have two incredibly accomplished drivers in charge of our teams, as well as family legacy,” she nodded toward Yelena, who sat on the other side of Melina Vostokoff. The mother-daughter duo made OXE’s main team a force to be reckoned with. “But we also believe in breaking the mold,” Valentina continued, “doing something new. That’s what this new team, Watchtower Racing, is all about: keeping an eye out for the best opportunities — the best drivers — regardless of circumstance, and keeping the grid on their toes. And other teams have brought drivers out of retirement, so why shouldn't we?”
The clamor of voices returned, as sudden as a car crash, the moment the reporter decided she had answered his question. Even the roar of the crowd thunder through the walls of the paddock was preferable to this; the stop-and-start nature of the noise made it all the worse.
Finally someone else stood with their question, looking bright-eyed and quite young. “So, Bucky! Must be weird being back, huh? What made you decide to come out of retirement after so long?”
He wasn’t expecting anyone to ask him anything, but he should have prepared something, even a bullshit answer. “Well, uh… Valentina can be very convincing. My old team was Stark’s, as you know, and she convinced me to come back. It’s a legacy team, but it will be a new legacy, and she convinced me to be a part of that legacy.” Yeah, that was bullshit, alright. It sounded like he was trying to hit the minimum word count in a high school essay.
“And how has it been so far with your former teammate? I hope the break has made him less…” They were most likely about to say ‘ reckless’ , or perhaps ‘ aggressive’ , but caught themself. “I hope it’s been restful.”
His eyes flicked briefly to the man at his right, then left to Valentina, before settling on the reporter again. They looked all too happy to dredge up the dramatic history of this team before they’d even had a chance to prove themselves in the new season. “It’s been… interesting, to say the least.”
The press laughed, even though it wasn’t meant to be a joke.
They fielded a few more questions, mostly fluff directed at Valentina and the other team. It was odd how few journalists were addressing Bucky and the new team; he suspected the PR assistants were deliberately gatekeeping the microphone from certain people since they’re questions were all submitted beforehand. But then the big one hit, just when they had let their guard down after someone asked if Valentina was going to bring back more famed drivers.
“Everyone in this room is dodging the questions we’ve all had on our minds, so I’ll be the one to ask it. Ms. De Fontaine, if the point of Watchtower is to look out for fresh talent to shake things up, why bring in two washed up, failed rookies that the grid barely remembers? Especially when there are so many other rookies coming up from Formula 2 this year.” He jerked his thumb to the man that sat at the very end of the table and looked as if he was about the throw up, “I’ve been in this game as long as anybody, and even I could hardly even remember the name of the most promising rookie of last decade—”
“I think that’s enough, thank you,” Valentina interrupted him after her assistant whispered something in her ear. She would probably crush a stress ball to death in her office as soon as they cleared the room. “Thank you for your questions, everyone, but we really are out of time. If you want to learn more about the talent that I assure you Watchtower Racing has, you’ll just have to see for yourself next weekend.” Her assistant swiftly took the microphone from the man, looking pale in the face. She wasted no time leaving the conference room, without another word to either the press or her teams.
~~~ Wednesday ~~~
Deep breath. In, out, in out. Put the helmet on, climb in the car. With the headrest placed over him, it’s almost cozy, his own little box where he can block out the world and pretend for a little while that nothing else mattered.
Bucky appeared in his field of vision, the sides of the helmet blocking out most of his body where he leaned down in front of the halo. “You okay, Bob?”
Were his hands shaking? No, no, they’re steady. That’s good. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Bob gave a thumbs up.
“You’ll be alright. It’s just a few quick laps, one last test for the front wing upgrades.” He smiled reassuringly, “Just focus on refamiliarizing yourself with the track before the practices this weekend.”
Bob nodded, watching as the other car pulled in beside him in the garage. The chief mechanic came over to discuss something about the car with its driver. He pulled off his helmet and balaclava, each decorated with the stars and stripes, to reveal messy blonde hair that stuck to his sweaty forehead. John Walker had never really given Bob the time of day, and he continued ignoring him even now, five days before the Australian Grand Prix.
Bucky shifted his attention momentarily, “So, how was it?”
“Gears locked up in turns 3 and 11,” he threw his gloves down on the hood of the car in frustration. “And my tires always slip in the chicanes. Even back then.” If only he could blame it on the car.
“I remember,” Bucky replied. “What matters is that you didn't slip off the track entirely.”
“I lost time! We can't afford that if anyone's gonna take us seriously. They think we're a joke .”
He raised a gloved hand, always covered to hide the scars from his career-ending injury. “Settle down. I was watching, you're already faster than a good portion of the grid. If you keep a cool head ,” he added extra emphasis, “you could earn some actual points this weekend.”
Their bickering, which had become a mainstay of the garage, continued for a few more moments before John finally tired of it and stormed off. He was leaving Formula 1 just as Bob was finally rising into it, and while he didn’t follow the press aspects of the sport much back then — even less so now — he recalled some of the news stories about John. He and Bucky were practically best friends now compared to when they raced together just over ten years ago.
Bucky finally remembered Bob existed and leaned down again, “Hey, don’t let him get under your skin. Take it easy out there, but not too easy.” He gave Bob one last smile and patted the hood, signaling to the chief mechanic that they were good to go.
He followed the mechanic’s guide and waited for the signal to be let go, then kept the car at a crawl as he left the pit lane. Then, as soon as he merged onto the track, he was flying. The g-forces slammed him backward in his seat, and he could feel the hundreds of horsepower thundering the engine compartment behind his seat; it seemed more like a thousand exploding suns than a thousand horses. After all these years, the muscle memory never left his hands, shifting gears as easily as breathing. He just barely registered a voice in his earpiece saying he’d just set a new personal record time in Sector 1.
Bob’s hands are shaky, nearly slipping off the steering wheel of the Perodua he was borrowing from a friend due to how much he was sweating. Whether it was the Malaysian heat or just withdrawals, he couldn’t tell. When had he last used? Who knew, maybe this morning, maybe a few days ago. If he could just win this race, he could use the prize money to get more meth. Maybe some painkillers too if his dealer hadn’t raised his prices again.
This car was barely race-worthy, even for a quick and dirty drag race through Kuala Lumpur. He’d win. He had to. He was good at it, too. It was the only thing worth doing, the only thing that made him feel equally alive and reminded of his mortality. One little twitch of his hands on the wheel, one wrong turn… and boom. It would be over.
A girl in daisy dukes walked in front of the cars with a flag. The onlookers whistled and she reveled in the attention, but Bob could only think of the asphalt, gripping the wheel tighter. The moment she waved that flag, he slammed down on the pedal, sailing past her and into the open road ahead.
Valentina had only been right about one of the things she’d said to Bob when she found him passed out in the back of that Perodua. The adrenaline surging through his veins in this car was more potent than anything street circuits had given him, and just about as good as the meth. Almost as good. He blinked away the memory and activated DRS, sailing around the bend into turn 9. He could feel exactly what John meant about the tires slipping in the chicane, but it was far less of a problem than he had made it seem. Just a jerk of the wheel to correct the steering and get the tires to behave, and he went into the next straight with ease.
Rain. Slick tracks. So much water on the windshield that he could barely see the front end of his car, let alone the track in front of him. He wished he could avoid racing altogether during monsoon season, or at least fly off to somewhere else like Tokyo to ride it out, but he needed the money. The lucky rubix cube on the dashboard would be working overtime today to brim him good fortune in this weather.
He still had phantom pains in his legs after six years, and there never seemed to be enough painkillers in the world to quiet it. He shook two out of the mostly-empty bottle in the cup holder anyway and swallowed them dry. It wouldn't make his legs hurt any less, but it would make his head a little lighter at least.
A few minutes later, he was watching the car in front of him hydroplane into a lamp post. His heart was already racing, but now it hammered against his chest, his knuckles turning white as he squeezed the wheel impossibly tight. One wrong move, and history would repeat itself. Hit the brakes wrong, and he’d be back in that open-seater all over again. Flipping end over end. Sailing over the barrier. The car would hit a tree, crushing the front end of the car and breaking his legs as easily as twigs.
No. He would not crash, not this weekend. The sky was clear and the sun shone in the full force of an Australian autumn with the projected forecast for the race weekend showing much the same. Bob clenched his jaw and pressed the pedal even further, pushing the car harder as he entered the final DRS zone. The memory irked him, though, and refused to leave his mind. An excited voice popped into his earpiece congratulating him on a new best time, but he didn't really register what that meant. He’d never disassociated while in the car before, not on the track. His body acted on its own, bringing the car back into the garage, climbing out, removing his helmet and shaking out his hair, kneeling to pet his dog.
John glanced up at him from his phone just long enough to scowl at him, though he could tell Bob’s mind was elsewhere. His eyes looked too empty for someone who had just beat him by three seconds.
~~~ Thursday ~~~
Most drivers secretly loathed media day; at least it was a bit calmer with the white couch and far less people in the room. But this one was being recorded, which made the pressure feel equal for many. Especially Bob. The cameras, all those people watching… it made his skin crawl. If it weren’t for Normie, his dog, he would have already run off set and hid himself in some random closet.
He eyed the women to his left nervously while the camera crew finished setting things up. The only all-female driver pairing to ever grace the grid, there was hardly a driver in the world — professional or otherwise — who hadn’t heard of Yelena Belova and Ava Starr. Yelena may have been adopted by accomplished Russian drivers, but she made it into the sport entirely on her own merit. The both of them were practically raised in a kart, but Ava lacked the family ties Yelena had and stood completely on her own two feet, without words like “nepotism” being thrown around. No, instead they just said she had “attitude problems.”
Yelena noticed Bob staring at them nervously. “Hi,” she said, turning to him.
He didn't feel like he belonged there at all. Unlike John, he wasn't the type to just sit on his phone to block out the world; not that that shielded him from any of it either, if anything it was worse online. “Hi,” he answered quietly.
“Bob, right?”
“Yeah.” If he could hardly manage a response longer than a single word, how was he supposed to survive the press conference? He picked at the cuffs of his sleeves to focus on something other than the camera that lay in wait for him.
She gave him a small smile, and it melted away her slightly intimidating demeanor into something much warmer. “This stuff gets easier, don’t worry.”
John shoved his phone in his pocket and decided to butt in, “There was less of this when I— when we were rookies.”
Bob instinctively shrank into the back of the couch when John spoke, allowing him and Yelena to better speak to each other. It was an old habit born from years of being overlooked by other people. What he didn't expect was for Yelena to lean back with him, squinting disdainfully at John before focusing all her attention back on Bob. He glanced side to side. Why is she looking at him like that?
“You’ll freak him out, Yelena,” it took a moment for him to register that the hoarse British voice belonged to Ava.
He couldn’t tell if the annoyance that crossed Yelena’s face was because of genuine disdain for her teammate, or just born out of the specific way she said it. Before either of them could say more, the camera crew let them know they were starting.
But before either of them could say more, the camera crew let them know they were starting. Because it was being recorded, the two dozen or so journalists in the room weren’t allowed to make any noise, which brought the four drivers much relief after the debacle earlier that week. One received the mic and stood to address them.
“Good morning! First of all, I’d just like to say how adorable your dog is, Robert. Would you mind telling us his name?”
Bob’s palms started sweating. He hadn’t expected to be addressed first. His dog was easy to talk about, he could manage that much. Just recite the script he’d written for himself for when other dog walkers tried talking to him. “Normie,” he kept his eyes on the scruffy brown thing asleep on his feet. He’d somehow shoved his back foot up under his harness, but he seemed comfortable. “He’s, uh, he’s an ESA— None of you are allergic to dogs, are you?” He looked up and glanced around, the anxiety feeling quite obvious on his face, but looked like they were having a reaction and in fact seemed to lighten some of their moods.
Their real question was for John, about what he’s been doing for ten years. It was apparent to everyone in the room that they were a fan. His answer was rather vague, something about how he hadn't been racing to focus on his family. It sounded true enough, if not somewhat off.
Had Bob ever seen a wife or girlfriend around John..? Huh.
The following few interviewers were more focused on the teams’ chances at winning Championships — well, mostly the girls’ chances — and what the future looked like for the sister teams in comparison with Red Bull’s two teams. Safe to say some drivers weren't the best people to ask, so they all weaved around answering it because they simply didn't know. Others asked about the cars, or how winter testing had gone.
While the mic was being handed off to someone else, Bob shifted in his seat. The movement tweaked something in his ribs, making him wince and he pressed a hand to the spot. Yelena and John, sitting on either side of him, both noticed, and the former raised an eyebrow and gave a questioning thumbs up to see if he was okay. He brushed it off, nodding like he was perfectly fine. His ribs throbbed, begging to be released from the garment causing all their pain.
The next person turned to him when they received the mic, “So, Robert—”
He interrupted without even meaning to, the words leaving his mouth faster than he could think them, “You can call me Bob.” His jaw tightened and he tucked his head down, half expecting to be scolded like a child for it, or at the very least for his preference to be ignored.
“Of course, Bob. I had another question, but I couldn't help notice you reacting like you were in pain just now… are you alright?”
“Y–yeah,” he answers hastily. “It's nothing.”
They weren't so easily convinced and pushed it further, “You’re sure it isn't related to your crash ten years ago? Are you fit to race?”
The air left his lungs, his throat tightened. A chill cascaded through his whole body and it made Bob feel sick to his stomach. No, it wasn't related to the crash, and yes, he could race. He didn't know what to say, but they would demand an answer if he tried to dodge it. What should he say? That his chest had been tightly bound for too many hours, and that he'd been abusing himself this way for years just to feel comfortable in his body? That he couldn't afford the surgery to make binding no longer necessary because, after recovering from his injuries, he blew the rest of his Formula 1 paycheck on drugs? No, no, he couldn't say any of that. So he merely froze, staring slack jawed at the reporter for a few seconds that felt like hours.
He could only watch, feeling far away from his body, as Yelena gently rested her hand on his forearm. Her touch seemed to bring him back down to Earth, grounding him. She met his eyes for a brief moment before answering for him, “I was showing Bob some judo yesterday and threw him a bit too hard. He's been cleared! Just bruised.”
The reporter seemed satisfied, but had run out of time to ask the question they actually wanted to ask. The whole affair was out of time, actually, and the four of them were finally released. Bob jumped up and darted for the door as quickly as possible, eager to lock himself in the bathroom and get this stupid polo off so he could have a moment to give himself time to breathe. But just as he made it into the hallway, he felt a hand at his elbow. He whipped around like a trapped animal, jerking his arm away, only to see that it was just Yelena.
She released him, looking unfazed by it. “Are you alright?”
He managed a nod, but not much else. One hand absentmindedly scratched at his other wrist. His head was bowed and shoulders pulled in like he was in trouble or preparing for her to hit him.
“Hey, look at me,” she spoke quietly. “You don't look okay.”
Bob shrugged, “Well, we just met. This is just how I am.”
“And this?” She pointed to his ribs.
“That's…” She seemed trustworthy, but… No. No, no, no, don't risk it. The risk of rejection — or worse, violence — was too great to tell her, to tell anyone. The only people who knew were Valentina and his doctor, neither of which had he consented to knowing. “I don't want to talk about that,” he mumbled.
“Are you two done with therapy yet?” John appeared to their left, Ava not far behind. “We have other places to be, Bobby.” He held up his phone, screen facing Bob, and showed a missed call from Bucky.
Bob sighed heavily before nodding, giving Yelena and Ava a goodbye and following John back to the paddock.
Ava turned to Yelena, “So is he another of your stray pets?”
“What?” Yelena looked at her scornfully, “What the hell are you talking about?”
Ava raised an eyebrow like it was obvious. “The dog, that Kate girl in New York, the guinea pig… you like things that are just as lonely as you.”
“Wow, Ava. What about you? I'm the closest thing to a friend you have, you're not even a good person.”
“Bitch.”
Yelena scoffed and walked away, “And that's exactly why, Starr.”
~~~ Sunday ~~~
It's not until Bob is in the car, on the grid, that he feels like he's back in control of himself. Even the Free Practices and Qualifying failed to give him the ease of mind that usually came when he got behind the wheel. A 10th place start wasn't so bad for someone who hadn't even been on the grid for a decade, especially considering the 23 other drivers to worry about. John was supposed to start just behind him, but got shunted back a spot to 12th after preventing someone from passing him during the Quali.
Normally the race engineers would wait until the race had at least started to issue directions, but John heard activity in his earpiece as the lights on the start sequence nearly filled the board.
“Hey, Walker,” it was Bucky, “Got a minute?”
John rolled his eyes. A minute? He was about to race for the first time in a decade, and he's asking if he's got a minute? “More like fifteen seconds, but yeah, go ahead.”
“Don't do anything stupid.”
He would've cursed at him if he knew he could get away with it, but the FIA was likely already listening in. He'd experienced his fair share of profanity fines back in the day, he didn't need to rack up more before he'd even burned rubber. “If you're worried about stupid, you should keep an eye on everyone else.”
The lights filled the board, blinked out, then started creeping on again. With each second, a light. With each light, his grip on the wheel tightened. The moment between the line of glowing red circles filling and going out felt like an eternity. Then, in an instant, every driver slammed their pedals and were off. All but one.
Control . Ten minutes ago, Bob felt like he’d had it. What a silly thing he thought was possible for him. He'd never had control of his life, even the first time he got behind the wheel wasn't his own choice. He watched John and the rest shoot past him in a cloud of dust while he sat frozen to the spot. The engineers in his ear were frantic, asking if something was wrong with the car, before then arguing over each other about whether or not putting him in the car was a good idea at all.
Someone quieted them all, manually muting their headsets, before speaking himself. “Bob. Are you okay?”
He was the first person to actually ask how he was doing rather than the car. “I–I don't know. I don't know why I—”
“It's okay. You're okay. First race back, it's a lot, I know.” Bob closed his eyes while he let Bucky calm him down, “It's just forward.”
Just forward. That was something he could focus on, sink his teeth into. He didn't need control, he just had to move . He pushed his foot down, easing the car into the speed at which he should have been going this whole time, and was able to drive so much faster with nobody in front of him than anyone else would have been starting the race with. He was making a similar time as the test drive on Wednesday before he caught up with the rest.
Obviously, Bob didn't stand a chance at making points, but an 18th place finish was nothing to sneeze at considering the size of the grid. Still, he felt electrified. 58 laps spent desperately trying to claw his way toward the front, to regain some chance at a decent time, was exactly what he needed. He no longer felt, at least for the time being, that he would collapse in on himself like a black hole.
John, meanwhile, wanted to punch something. Sure, he placed better than Bob, but it was a far cry away from points. And now he’d barely had time to unzip his suit and walk into the paddock before a member of the press was flagging him down for an interview. He stuffed his hair under a Watchtower cap, shook out the scowl that glued his brows together, and approached them.
Of course, it just had to be the same one from a few days ago who’d implied he was too aggressive. He wished they were wrong. “John Walker, hi! I never got a chance to interview you directly last time we saw each other.”
He nodded and smiled at them. Anyone who truly knew him would see he was dripping with insincerity, but the only person left who knew him that well would not be tuning into his races. Not anymore. “Of course I remember. I was honestly expecting most of the questions to be hurled at me an’ Bobby.” He didn’t have much of an accent, but he liked to lean into that Georgian drawl even more than was natural when dealing with all these European reporters. He felt like it made them think he was a little more charming; it did back then, at least.
“Well, time limits, and all that. Before I go ahead and grill you, I have to ask. How do you feel about your first race back?” They asked it in such a chipper tone of voice that he went back to wanting to break something, maybe that stupid camera that was being shoved in his face.
Unfortunately, that wasn't an option. Even if it was, he wouldn't let himself act on it. He'd spent his whole life trying not to be that. “It could've gone better,” he answered, trying to keep his tone neutral. Some snark still made its way in there, though, “We'll do better next time, both of us. And no, before you ask, I don't know what's goin’ on with Bobby.”
Their eyebrows raised, “One step ahead of me! Allow me to change the subject then,” they pulled out a notecard filled completely on one side with bulletpointed questions and notes. John watched their eyes flick back and forth, choosing between two questions, before finally settling on one. “Okay, so, you already spoke a little about the past decade on Thursday, but it was just so vague . You don’t need to get into the dirty details, but I’d really like to hear what you’ve been up to!”
“Ah, that.” Well, after my best friend died and I disgraced myself in front of the entire world, I wallowed in self pity and doomscrolled Twitter until my wife left me and took custody of my son. Oh, and then I considered killing myself, but I was too much of a coward to even attempt. That would be an interesting news story, to be sure. Instead, he talked about what he did after that, “Well, I just couldn’t keep myself out of the driver’s seat for very long.”
“But you said you weren’t racing?”
“There are other ways for a driver to get himself in trouble,” he smirked, genuine this time. “Stunts. Just here and there, summer car shows or the occasional small-budget film thing.”
“Sounds…” that word again, reckless , sat on the tip of their tongue, “dangerous.”
He waved a hand around them, “So’s this.”
The reporter nodded, gave him a quick goodbye, and ran off to interrogate another driver. The moment John turned the corner into the halls of Watchtower’s garage, his face fell back into that grimace. Even after a decade and a rebrand, the layout was exactly the same as it had been when he drove for Stark Industries, and his feet brought him all the way back to the tiny little driver’s room he’d been assigned as if on autopilot. He didn’t look up as he opened the door and slumped against it, then pulled his hat down over his eyes and collapsed onto the couch.
“Um, hi.”
Valentina didn't bother changing the layout, so it was the same as Stark Industries Racing’s, and they used the same layout at every track. The only thing they'd changed was the room assignments. Bob got his old one. Of course, he knew this, he'd been using the one actually assigned to him all weekend, but he hadn't been thinking.
John was startled by hearing Bob’s voice unexpectedly, thinking he was in his own room. He ripped his hat off and bolted upright, “Shit. This one used to be mine, I thought—”
“It’s fine. I mean, you nearly sat on Normie, but he’s– he’s fine. We could just switch rooms, if you want.”
“The race is already over, there's no point.”
Bob was already slouching, but his posture became a fraction worse as he shrunk into himself, “I meant next time…”
John stood and made for the door, nearly tripping on Normie in the process. The dog seemed to like him, strangely enough, and stood to put his paws on his thighs and demanded to be pet. “It's fine, Bobby,” he grumbled while scratching behind a scruffy brown ear, “just keep it.”
Bob could only see half of John’s face, the rest turned away or obscured in the shadow cast by his cap, but he could tell by the tone of his voice and the set of his jaw that he was pissed. He was always pissed, it seemed. The version of John Walker in front of him, the one he’d known over the last few months, was nothing like the heartthrob rookie; nothing like before his downfall.
“I thought you were supposed to be some golden boy,” Bob said. His posture changed, now sitting upright and straightening his shoulders. The corners of his lips even quirked up in an almost-smile as he laughed to himself.
“Something funny?” John could tell something in him had shifted, but he didn't care.
“Just because you're an asshole, y’know. It's just funny.”
That was it. John turned his attention from the dog to the man, gripping the neckline of his fireproofs and hauling him out of the desk chair. Bob’s hip hit the edge of the desk with a sharp bang. There was a dark look in his eyes, and the slight tug at the corner of his lips had transformed into a smirk.
“You think you're better than me, Bobby?” John growled, “You can't even start the fucking race with shriveling up. You're just a cheap copy of me .”
“And you're a cheap copy of Steve Rogers,” Bob chuckled again.
That one was still a sore spot for John, even after all these years. Bucky and Steve raced for Stark Industries for years, the two of them and CEO and principal Tony Stark making a formidable trio. Until Steve suddenly retired. John hit a lucky stroke in landing a contract, even making sure he'd come up into F1 at the same time his best friend Lemar would start with another team, but everything that could go wrong did . Murphy’s Law. Lemar didn't survive his final race in F2. John drove dangerously, racked up too many repair costs, lost his seat after just a single season because he just couldn't be trusted in Stark’s car. As if he didn’t do what he was told, didn’t win races.
Normie started barking, reprimanding John for the aggression against his owner. He was right, John knew, both of them were. He looked down at the dog and back to Bob before releasing him. He hadn’t realized until he let go, but they were standing so close that their noses nearly brushed against one another. Something about that made his heart beat slightly faster. Now push that to the back of your mind, John. Ignoring it always helps. He shoved Bob away and backed up. With nothing else to say, and no reason to linger in a room that wasn’t even his, he left with a huff.
The night breeze was still warm in March, some of that lingering summer heat still in the air over Melbourne. The hotel that OXE’s teams were put up in for the weekend overlooked most of the city, with the Albert Park Circuit on one side and the river on the other. You can see it all from the hotel room’s windows, but it was just so quiet in there. And lonely. At least from the roof there was noise to accompany all the life buzzing in the city below.
The hotel didn’t actually allow anyone, least of all guests, to come up here at night. The door was locked, in fact. Lawsuits and all that. That didn’t really stop Yelena, though, and she jimmied the lock with relative ease. All she wanted to do right now was sit on the roof by herself and drink herself stupid so she wouldn’t need to dwell on everything in her head.
Formula 1 had become… boring. Unfulfilling. But it was also the only thing Yelena knew. Even if she quit, she’d just drive elsewhere. They would never admit it, but Milena and Alexei adopted her and Natasha to have heirs rather than children; two kids to mold into motorsport cutthroats and bring glory to Russia first, family second. And where did that get them? Natasha had died. Maybe Yelena’s disillusionment with the sport had started there… but it felt bigger than that somehow. Emptier.
She could’ve answered this question for herself on the roof, but someone was already up here; they must have locked the door behind them. It was too dark to see who it was. She could just make out the way they leaned over the railing, one foot propped up on the bottom of it. It sounded like they were having an argument with the open air, and they were poised to jump.
She decided to call out to them, “Hey.”
Whoever it was had not been expecting another person to come up here. Her voice startled them so bad that their foot slipped off the railing. There was enough light coming from the surrounding buildings and the street below that when they turned to face her, she recognized them.
“Bob?”
“Y–Yelena!” He responded, glancing rapidly between her and the railing. His knuckles had turned white from how tightly they were gripping it. “I was just, uh, just getting some… some fresh air. Yeah.”
She joined him at the railing, “Are you okay?”
He forced himself to let go of the railing, shaking out his aching hands. “Fine. I’m fine.”
Yelena remembered his answer from the last time he asked and merely raised an eyebrow at him. “Were you talking to yourself?”
“Yeah.”
She nodded. It was probably best if she didn’t push him to talk about whatever was wrong. Instead, she pulled the flask from her pocket and took a long swig, before offering it to him. He declined, though not without giving it a longing look. It’s a slow handful of minutes before either of them speak again. To both of their surprise, it’s Bob who broke the silence.
“I shouldn’t have come back.” When Yelena doesn’t respond, he continues, “It would have been better for everyone if I’d just stayed in Malaysia. At least there I wouldn’t be holding a team back. It’d be easier. I wouldn’t be so useless.”
“Hey, hey,” Yelena said, “why are you saying that? Did someone put that in your head?”
“Walker’s a dick, but he’s right. I—” He stopped, swallowing the words before they could make it out, before he scared her off. But they came up anyway, burning his throat like bile. “I’ve been thinking that the crash should’ve just… it should have killed me. I’m just holding everyone back,” he clenched his jaw and nodded. However she reacted, it was in the air now, hanging between them.
She took a long, slow breath, then let it out in a sigh. “Okay, I get it. We all feel like shit sometimes, I get that. Sometimes it’s…” she leans forward to watch the cars on the ground below them, “...it gets pretty enticing.”
“What do you do?”
“You just–” Yelena exhaled through her nose in a laugh, “You just shove it way down. Bury it.”
Bob laughed too, albeit half-heartedly. “That’s really good advice.”
“You’re welcome.” She looked at the flask in her hand, decided something, and shoved it back into her pocket. “Look, we’re all alone. On the track, off it, whatever. Let’s just… let’s stick together for the rest of the season, and I’ll see you next weekend. Okay?”
Valentina’s kindness was conditional. If she wanted something from you, she would coat her words in honey until she got it. But with Yelena, it felt real. She didn’t want anything— she was just as alone as he was. Bob wasn’t the best at reading people, but he had a sense that she meant it genuinely.
“Okay. Yeah.” He found himself smiling softly as he followed her back to the door.