Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Casey woke up with a jolt. His eyes snapped open, his nostrils filled with a scent as nostalgic as it was haunting, fuel and rubber and sweat and leather, permeating every corner of his awareness.

He looked around, blinking blearily in the darkness. It was early, he could vaguely tell from how haggard his body felt— though there was something else there as well, an old ache he’d grown used to with time, familiar and yet unfamiliar at once.

His stomach churned, turning over as he moved his feet off his motorhome bed.

Motorhome bed. His motorhome. His— what?

Casey stood, forcefully pushing down a sudden sense of nausea. He looked around, waved his hands in a panicked flurry, reaching for his phone on its old, familiar motorhome bedside table.

He clicked the button on the side, lighting up the screen.

3:48 am. That explained why he was still so tired.

Then he caught sight of the numbers and letters right below.

May 17, 2012.

Casey blinked at his phone. Blinked again.

Closed his eyes, rubbed his forehead. Opened his eyes. Blinked, once more.

May 17, 2012.

“What the fuck,” he muttered.

He stared at the screen. Restarted his phone. Waited until it booted up again.

May 17, 2012.

Casey went on the internet. Typed ‘what date is it’.

May 17, 2012.

“Okay, okay, fine,” Casey muttered, though it very much was not fine. But he couldn’t think of what else to do, about— about being thirteen years in the past? What the fuck?— so he turned his attention to the other issue he was dealing with.

The improbable ‘where’, to this impossible ‘when’.

Specifically, the fact that he was currently in a motorhome. His motorhome, from back when he’d been a MotoGP rider with Honda. What was he doing in a motorhome? The last thing Casey remembered, he’d been home— his home, his house back in Australia, built solid and permanent, nothing motor about it— and now, he was in a motorhome.

But, why? How? When, where, why, what, how— any and all questions Casey wanted answers to, though he felt certain, unfortunately, that he’d be disappointed.

Casey groaned, bringing a hand to rub his face. Stopped, as he got an idea.

He slowly walked over to his ensuite bathroom. Turned on the light. Blinked into the brightness for a few seconds before managing to focus his eyes on his own reflection.

The changes were not large, but they were obvious enough. He still wore his hair the same, wore his beard the same, wore his features and his body and his clothes relatively the same.

But, fuck, he looked so young.

Gone were the sag lines around his neck; gone were the crow’s feet by his eyes. His forehead was far less furrowed, his cheeks less sunken.

He still looked a mess, though. Couldn’t escape that, even thirteen years in the past, apparently. He’d been anxious as all hell back then, Casey remembered, had let the stress corrode him until he was little more than bones and cortisol.

He knew how to manage that better, now. Could still feel it, simmering beneath his skin, a swell of ants just waiting for any excuse to begin eating through his intestines.

Casey closed his eyes, took a deep breath. Another, and one more.

So. What was going on?

As far as Casey’s addled brain could think, there were a few options.

Option one, he’d travelled back in time. The most obvious, yet least realistic answer. Casey would not yet seriously consider it.

Option two, he was having a really weird dream. Nothing Casey could do about that, other than wait to wake up.

Option three, he had had a severe motocross accident, and this was all some kind of bizarre, coma-induced hallucination.

If he were dying, there wasn’t much he could do about that, either.

In the end, Casey decided he simply had no idea how to deal with the situation.

So, he just went back to sleep.

Casey stumbled into the pre-event press conference room, pale and drawn out. His team hadn’t asked too many questions— it was the first time Casey had ever been thankful for his anxiety, for how sick it had once made him. It meant no one questioned his state now, how stressed and nauseous he looked. He resented it, too, that he could look this bad and no one really cared. But right now, at least, it was a bit useful, because Casey still had no idea how to deal with the situation.

So, he just wasn’t going to deal with it.

A chair screeched beside him. Casey glanced to the side. Immediately afterwards snapped his head towards the person standing there.

Valentino paused, caught in his stare.

“Eh, hello, Casey,” Valentino said, after a moment of silence. He smiled, then, equal parts awkward and charming, his default response when startled.

Casey continued staring at him. Couldn’t help but take in all the subtle differences in his appearance, in how much younger Valentino also looked. He did have giant under-eye bags, though Casey supposed they all probably had them, this year. And Valentino was having a particularly bad year, if memory served Casey well. He looked down, took in the red and white Ducati jacket. Couldn’t help but smirk.

Yes, Valentino would be having a terrible year indeed.

Valentino looked down, caught his grin. Casey expected him to scoff, to frown, to look away. But Valentino smiled instead, a bemused, fond thing that Casey had never before seen from him— not before now, that was to say, not until they had both—

“We’ll be starting soon, everyone please take your seats.”

Valentino looked away, nodded to the event moderator, taking his seat with a far more polished PR smile.

The moderator continued speaking. "Just to let you all know, Casey has an announcement to make. He will not be participating in the media scrum later, so ask any questions now."

Casey paused, looked up into the room. There were a lot of cameras, he noticed suddenly. Couldn't think of why. Couldn't think of what announcement he'd planned to make so long ago.

Decided, as the cameras began flashing, that he just couldn't deal with it in that moment.

"Um, yes. My apologies, actually, but, uh, some . . . personal issues have come up recently, so I will be making the announcement at a later date." Casey nodded towards the moderator, who looked confused for a moment, but finally just nodded back.

"Uh, aright. Understood. In that case, we'll move on to the regular press conference. We'll start with Valentino . . . "

Casey sighed, leaning back into his chair. Moved on, soon enough, to observing Valentino, as he answered questions from the reporters, and tried to figure out if he, like Casey, was a stranger to this time.

After all, surely, if Casey had travelled through time— assuming, of course, this wasn’t some incredibly bizarre dream or a coma-induced hallucination— surely it stood to reason that someone else might have travelled through time, too.

Like, say, Valentino Rossi.

And it would be Valentino too, Casey thought with a quiet scoff, who would get caught up in some ridiculous situation like this. Really, it was Casey who was the odd one out. Unless whatever phenomenon had led them here had picked up all the aliens, for some obscure reason?

Casey peered sideways, caught sight of Jorge on the other side of Valentino. He looked normal, as much as Casey could remember him being normal, at any rate. Dani wasn’t here on this day. Casey couldn’t remember why.

Casey would have to investigate later, he supposed. It shouldn’t be hard, really, to figure out who was from the future and who wasn’t. Assuming, of course, anyone was.

Speaking of anyone, Casey focused his attention back on Valentino as the press conference got underway. He looked tired, but not to an unusual degree. Stressed, but that could be easily attributed to Ducati.

In the end, Casey barely managed to answer what few questions were asked of him, though no one made too much of a fuss. His anxiety— dubbed a ‘mysterious illness’ at this point in time, to Casey’s mild chagrin— was a well-known phenomenon, so when he wasn’t looking well, everyone just assumed he was sick. And Casey definitely didn’t look well, so the reporters mostly left him alone. Were far more entertained by Valentino, as per usual. Casey couldn’t bring himself to mind, in the present circumstances.

It was only as the conference came to an end that Casey came back to himself, quickly following after Valentino as they left the press building.

Valentino seemed to realize Casey wanted to talk to him privately, because he led Casey to an isolated area in the paddock, looking around to make sure there were no nosy observers or wayward cameras before turning to him with a raised eyebrow.

“Well?” he asked, remarkably patient and irritatingly demanding, all at once.

Casey, meanwhile, swallowed back his apprehension. He was either about to have his suspicions proven right, or sound completely insane. But, well. If he had actually travelled back in time to 2012— and that was a big if— Casey believed he was allowed to sound a little detached from reality.

“Are you—” He paused. Lowered his voice to a whisper. “Are you also from 2025?”

Valentino blinked at him. Blinked again.

“Oh, thank fuck,” he said, and suddenly Casey was being pulled into a hug. He went with it, startled, but soon relaxed into the hug himself, buoyed by Valentino’s own enthusiasm.

“I thought I was going crazy,” Valentino mumbled into Casey’s hair, and Casey laughed.

“Mate, I was starting to think I’d died.”

“Yes, that too.” Valentino said, and finally pulled away. Casey immediately missed the comforting closeness, but didn’t mind too much when he caught sight of Valentino’s expression— fond and soft and infinitely relieved.

Casey understood the sentiment perfectly.

“Is good to know I am not alone, sincerely,” Valentino said, and Casey nodded in agreement. Valentino’s expression softened even further. “And, eh, I assume you also do not know how this happened?”

“No, not a clue,” Casey replied, and Valentino sighed.

“Okay. So, no idea how to get back either.” Casey shook his head. “Eh, is okay, I suppose. Not the worst time to go back to. Would have preferred 2001 Ibiza, but what can you do.”

Casey snorted. What priorities were those? “What do we do now, though?”

“Well, we have a race on Sunday.” Valentino shrugged at Casey’s expression. “What? We don’t know why we are here. We don’t know how to get back. Might as well race, no?”

“I guess.” Casey paused. “Wait, what race is this?”

Valentino frowned, gesturing around the paddock. “You do not recognize? Is Le Mans.”

Casey froze. Memories assaulted him, as if they’d happened yesterday.

He only came back to himself as he felt hands gripping his shoulders. He focused his eyes, to find blue eyes looking worriedly into his own.

“You okay?” Valentino asked. “You look like you are going to faint.”

Casey nodded shakily. Cleared his throat. “Today's the day I announced my retirement.”

Valentino’s expression jumped. “It is?”

“Yes, I— I remember that, very clearly.” And how he did. Casey had thought of that moment, had remembered it, all too clearly, for far, far too long. He looked up at Valentino, who was watching him with a strange expression— pained, maybe, or maybe just sad. Casey looked back down. “I often wondered, you know. About how things could have turned out if I had stayed a little longer.” The weight of the situation felt suddenly crushing. The true depth of this impossible dream, the reality of what was happening, of what this all could possibly mean. “I believed it was right, at the time. But it haunted me later. I . . . regretted it, a lot.”

“Then don’t retire.” Casey looked back up at Valentino. Valentino smiled at him, playful and teasing and earnestly genuine, all at once. “Maybe this is why you are here, you know? So you don’t retire.”

Casey bit his cheek so hard he tasted blood. That sounded far too good to be true. Things like that didn’t happen to Casey; it couldn’t be so neat, so simple. “Then why are you here?”

“Allora, this is a good question.” Valentino’s smile turned rueful. “Maybe I have some regrets, too.”

That was probably true enough, Casey realized.

Realized something else, a moment later.

“I have to talk to my team,” he blurted, adding as Valentino’s expression flashed with alarm: “No, it’s okay, I just— I told them I would make my retirement announcement today. I need to go tell them I’ve changed my mind before they say anything to the press. I was supposed to say something today, you know, at the conference, that was what my big announcement was supposed to be. But I forgot in the moment, because of— all this stuff. So I have to go back and talk to them now.”

“Oh, yes, yes, go,” Valentino said, patting his arm as he pulled away. “But we talk more later, yes?”

“Yes, of course. I’ll come find you?”

“Eh, no, no, I have too many guests. I’ll meet you in your motorhome?”

“Yeah, okay, sure. Come by whenever, just knock—”

“I’ll send message.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” Casey laughed, frazzled and panicked and hopeful, so suddenly painfully hopeful, feeling his cheeks heating as Valentino laughed with him. “Okay, I really have to go now. See you later.”

“Ciao, Casey.” Valentino waved as Casey ran off to the Honda garage.

“Hey, where were you?” Casey’s crew chief, Cristian Gabarrini, pulled him aside as soon as he walked in. “We were looking for you after the conference. Speaking of which,” his voice lowered to a whisper, “what uh, what happened? I thought you were going to announce, uh. ‘It’ today. I mean, we, you know. Gathered the press for it and everything.”

Casey winced. Dream, time travel or hallucination, this was still going to be a very awkward conversation.

But, dream, time travel or hallucination, Casey still wanted it. Wanted it so badly it ate into his reason, into his control, filled him with such poisonous hope that Casey would rather drown in it than even try and fight for air.

If this really was chance to fix one of the greatest regrets of his life, he’d never let it go.

“Yes. So. About that . . . “

Chapter Text

Casey looked up, took in the time. He hadn't received a message, and it was nearing 10pm. That wasn't too late for many riders, especially not the night owls, but the anticipation still made him feel a bit jittery.

He shook his head, looking back down as he focused once more on his current work.

He’d been sitting at his desk for the past few hours, going over the data for the race, as well as his bike specifications and local preferences. His crew had given him a bit of a weird look for that request, but Casey had managed to wrangle an excuse about feeling a bit distracted lately, and needing to refresh his memory if he wanted to do well this weekend– which, of course he did. The simple truth was, though, that unlike all the other riders currently on the grid, Casey had been retired for well over a decade. He had a lot of things to remember, a lot of things to catch back up on, and that included his current bike. He remembered some aspects of it well enough– he should, after all, he'd basically built it himself– but the subtle nuances escaped him.

It had been good, too, for Casey to have some time to himself, some time during which he could properly consider the consequences of what they were attempting to do. It was one thing to view this as a wild, bizarre dream– even one he was inexplicably sharing with Valentino, of all people– and another to actually believe they were back in the past.

Which, loath as Casey was to acknowledge it, was starting to seem like a more and more realistic option. Either that, or this was the longest, most detailed dream he'd ever had in his life, and likely ever would. And, well. Who knew how coma hallucinations worked, really?

But, no, the obvious was starting to become the unreasonable, and the impossible, the probable.

Casey groaned. Really, how was this his life? This sort of thing couldn't happen to him, shouldn't happen to him, it should only ever be happening to–

A knock came on the door, and Casey leapt out of his seat. Stopped, as soon as he realized what he was doing. Took a deep breath, and slowly made his way over to see who his guest was.

It was, of course, Valentino.

"Thought you were going to send a message," Casey complained as he stepped aside to let him in. Valentino grinned.

"You said to just come by, no?"

Casey rolled his eyes, but nodded, closing the door behind them and following after his guest.

“Allora, I take back what I said about this not being the worst time to come back to,” Valentino groaned as he made his way inside Casey’s motorhome, falling onto the couch with a loud huff. “I forgot how shit the Ducati was.”

Casey scoffed. Oh, Valentino had forgotten that? How nice for him. Must be great to be able to just block out unpleasant memories at will. “Told you, mate.”

“Yes, yes, make more fun of me. Last time was not enough.” Valentino dramatically threw an arm over his eyes, waving his other arm in the air beside him. “We couldn’t have gone back to, I don’t know, 2009? 2008, even?”

Casey walked back to his desk, sitting down slowly, carefully considering Valentino. “You want to do Laguna again?”

“Eh, maybe.” Valentino lowered his arm, met Casey’s narrowed eyes with a grin. “But maybe not. Will not work, anyway, now that you know my plan.”

“Definitely wouldn’t,” Casey said dryly. “Speaking of which, we need to establish some rules.” Seeing Valentino’s confusion, he added: “About the future. What we know, what we don’t know, what we’re going to try and change, what we aren’t.”

Valentino hummed contemplatively. “Can we change things?”

“Well yes, clearly, since I’m not retiring.”

“Okay.” Valentino was quiet for a few seconds. “I don’t want to change many things.”

Casey frowned. “No?”

“Not outside of racing,” Valentino said, grinning faintly at Casey's doubtful expression. “Unlike what many people think, I do not like to play god. If things happen in the world, is not my place to change. I do not want to be responsible for things that have nothing to do with me, because I do not think any one person should decide how things go, let alone me.” Casey stared at him. Valentino frowned. “You don’t agree?”

“No, I . . . I guess I just hadn't thought about it that way,” Casey said, feeling a little caught out. He hadn't expected Valentino to have considered the consequences of time travel to that extent. Or at all, really. But, that was probably Casey's fault, underestimating someone like Valentino. It was just a bit hard not to, at times. Like right now, with the older rider lazily reclining on Casey's couch, limbs haphazard and askew. He didn't look half as calculating as he actually was, like this. Casey couldn't tell if he was doing it on purpose. “That’s very wise of you.”

“Eh, is maybe less wise, more I do not want to deal with it.” Valentino waved his hand dismissively. “Is like that saying, ‘road to hell is paved in good intentions'. Even if I want to help, I think will not turn out how I’d like. And, again, I am not god. Is anyway not my place.”

That was, again, far wiser of a consideration than Casey would have thought Valentino capable of. Well, no, that wasn’t fair. Casey knew Valentino could be wise when he felt like it. He just hadn’t realized he’d feel like it now. “But, racing?”

“Oh, there yes, is my place,” Valentino replied with a laugh. “I will not cheat, though, don’t worry. Just try and win a bit more. Use more experience, better set-ups. Try to avoid crashing where I can, things like that.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.” Casey shot a knowing look at him. “Try to win your tenth, finally?”

“Of course.” Valentino’s smile sharpened, his eyes gaining that old, predatory stare he always wore during races, and nowhere else. “And you? Try and win a third?”

“Of course.” Casey met that oppressive gaze, held it without flinching. “That’s the next rule I was going to ask about.”

“Oh?”

“How hard are we competing against each other?” Casey asked. “We are unique in all the riders, since we come from the future. We’ll have advantages they don’t. We’ll almost certainly be fighting each other more than anyone else. But I don’t want things to get bad between us. So. How hard are we going?”

Valentino’s mouth pursed, teeth sinking into his lower lip as his brows furrowed. “I want to win.”

“So do I,” Casey replied dryly. “But I want to have fun too, this time. I want to be able to enjoy it.”

Valentino raised an eyebrow at him, taunting. “So? Enjoy it.”

“Valentino,” Casey bit out. Were they really already going to have problems? It hadn’t even been a day. “I’m being serious. How hard are we going to go?”

Valentino was quiet for another few seconds. “No Laguna,” he said finally. “But yes everything else.”

That was a good start, but: “No mind games,” Casey stated, firm and unyielding. “No ‘rivals’, no ‘going after my mental’, no discrediting me to my team, the media, and all other riders.”

“Okay, okay, no that,” Valentino agreed easily enough. “Would not work with you now anyway, I do not think.”

“And we stay friends outside the races,” Casey continued. “No matter what, I won’t betray you, and you won’t betray me.”

Valentino’s expression flickered with something that looked, for the first time since they’d come to the past, like wariness. “Eh, how do I know you don’t betray me?” he asked, and though his tone was light, his eyes revealed his nervousness.

Casey sighed. “Valentino.”

“Is joke, I am joking,” Valentino said, but he quickly dropped the thin facade upon seeing Casey’s expression, flat and unimpressed. “Okay, yes. I believe you will not betray me. And I will not betray first.” He looked a bit pained by that admission. Casey understood, this topic was difficult for Valentino, but he hoped they knew each other well enough at this stage that Valentino knew he really could trust Casey. Whether Casey could trust him in return remained yet to be seen, but he’d take the risk. There wasn’t much else that Casey could do, really, save for maybe threatening to crash him out every time he didn’t behave. But Casey wasn’t quite that desperate yet, and dearly hoped he never would be. “Any more rules?”

“Not that I can think of right now,” Casey said. “Anything you want to bring up?”

“Not that I can think of right now,” Valentino echoed. “Eh, maybe one thing. How do you want us to play to the media?”

Casey frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Like, do you want us to be friends in public? Or just between us?” Valentino leaned back into the couch, scratching the skin of his stomach where his shirt had slightly ridden up. Casey didn’t look. He didn’t. “Because back in, eh, now, we didn’t used to be very friendly, if you remember.”

“I remember,” Casey said, still frowning. “I don’t know if we want to be friends openly, at least not so suddenly. Might be a bit suspicious. But anyway, it wasn’t like we were actually fighting. I was fighting myself, more than anything.”

“And I was fighting Ducati,” Valentino replied with a grin that was half a grimace. “Still am, now. Allora, you don’t want to give me any pointers with the bike?”

Casey snorted. “Why would I help a rival rider?”

“Have some mercy, Casey! You see how I am dying here. You watch and laugh last time, I understand, but now? Now that we are in past, now that we are having this second chance?” Valentino sat up, pouting and fluttering his wide blue eyes in Casey’s direction, as if that would help convince him.

Which. It wouldn’t. Obviously.

Casey coughed. Turned to look at his notes. For no reason, really.

“No, sorry. And didn’t you say you weren’t going to cheat?”

“Is not cheating, just a bit of friend helping friend, no?”

“I think Honda would have a different opinion.”

“I think Honda’s opinion is shit.”

Casey was startled into a laugh. “Careful. I’m a Honda rider myself.”

“Your opinion is never shit, Casey,” Valentino said, tone far too earnest for the joke he was clearly making. Casey felt his cheeks heat up, ever so slightly. “Okay, I do not ask for help if you do not want. But then you cannot ask for help from me either.”

Casey snorted. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

“Rude,” Valentino sniffed. Casey turned back to him as Valentino stood back up, long limbs stretching as he uncurled, posture still as terrible as ever. Maybe a bit better, with a younger body. Casey couldn’t quite tell. “Anyway, was nice to talk, but I have to go back now. Have to prepare for practice tomorrow. And Uccio will be looking for me soon.”

Casey frowned. “No issues with him? He hasn’t noticed anything off with you?”

Valentino’s face twitched a little before he shrugged. “Eh, a bit, yes. But I just say I am stressed from Ducati being shit, and he understand. Anyway, I forget things sometimes normally. But I think I remember all the important things.”

“Hopefully,” Casey said. “Wait, so, we’re not telling anyone we’re from the future, right? We’re keeping that a secret?”

“Yes, of course,” Valentino said. “I mean, who would believe us? Other than other future people, I guess.”

“That’s the other thing, what if there are others?” Casey asked. “Like, I was thinking the other aliens, maybe.”

“Oh, I already try speaking to Jorge and Dani in the morning, they are normal,” Valentino replied, and. What?

“You didn’t try me first?” Casey asked, trying not to feel offended.

Valentino’s eyes widened, and he laughed.

“Of course not, Casey! Remember, we are not friends back, eh, now? I can speak to Jorge and Dani easy, even say weird things, they don’t care. But I do that to you, you would think it was a mind game or something. You probably get angry.” He paused, and his expression flattened ever so slightly. “Also, I think you retire next year. So even if you are from the future, is not really relevant to me.”

There was a weird little tug in the base of Casey’s chest; not quite painful, but definitely unpleasant.

He turned back to his notes.

“Well, I’m not retiring,” he said. Paused, to clear his throat. “Anyway, you have to go back, you said? We’ll talk another time.”

“Ah, yes, yes. Another time. After race, maybe?”

“Yep, after the race.”

“Okay. Ciao, Casey, good luck in race.”

“Yeah, you too.”

Casey didn’t look up from his notes as he heard Valentino make his way to the door of his motorhome— didn’t look up at all, until he heard the door closing.

Finally looked up, only to take a long, deep breath as the tugging on his chest continued.

“Not relevant to you, huh?” he muttered. Bit back a swell of bitterness, of old annoyances and frustrations and insecurities he’s thought long forgotten, long overcome, long buried.

Not buried deep enough, clearly, if it took so little to unearth them once more.

Casey turned back to his notes, new determination searing through his veins.

“I’ll show you not relevant.”

Chapter Text

Practice was, in every way possible, an absolute shit-show.

At least, Casey thought, he could take some solace from the fact that Valentino was, in all ways possible, having the shittiest show of them all. And maybe that was a bit petty of Casey, but so what? Valentino deserved it.

Alright, maybe he didn’t quite deserve this. Even Casey had to flinch when he looked at the timing tower and had to go all the way down to the bottom to find the Ducati bike number 46.

With a best lap time seven and a half seconds off the pace. Yeesh.

“Casey, we’re ready for another stint.”

Casey nodded to the analyst, pulling his visor back over his head as he walked over to the bike. Straddling it still felt new, and yet intimately familiar, like something he’d done in a dream over and over and over, and yet only now was getting to do it in person.

He’d missed this, he could finally admit to himself, now that he once again had a bike purring between his legs. Casey hadn’t allowed himself that thought after he’d originally left, back then, hadn’t allowed himself to want because if he’d allowed that, he wouldn’t have been able to survive the anguish.

But now he was back, and he could feel again. 

He felt alive.

“Track clear, go!”

Casey swung his bike out onto the pit lane, making sure no one else was coming along with him. Ahead he could see Jorge, swinging back and forth to warm his tyres, and a bit ahead of him was Spies. Both Yamahas were draped in whites and blues, not a shred of yellow to be seen. 

It was an odd pattern. Casey didn’t like it.

He shook his head, focusing as the pit lane came to an end. He had other, far more important things to worry about that Yamaha’s colors.

A few laps later, Casey once again returned to the pits, looking up at the timing table as he reached his seat in the back.

Sixth. And a whole second off the pace.  

Casey took off his helmet, wiped down his hair, and tried not to feel deeply frustrated.

He was ten years younger, but he felt so much weaker. Of course, he knew why that was. Anxiety had been eating him up inside for years, and as much as Casey had tried, he hadn’t been able to keep himself in as good a shape, physically or mentally, as he would’ve wanted. There wasn’t much he could do about it this race weekend, either. Fixing his body would take a long, long time. And though Casey was determined to do it— do it right, this time— it would take time.

He’d just have to suffer through this weekend.

Qualifying was a bit better.

Valentino, too, seemed to have finally found something in the bike. Maybe simply remembered how to ride a factory Ducati, at least a little bit. Casey couldn’t quite remember how well Valentino had done in this Le Mans race in their original timeline, but he didn’t think he’d done too badly. At least, not seven seconds off the pace badly.

In any case, they ended up qualifying third and tenth. Not the worst, though a bit far from the best. Casey would take it, given his situation. Third, when he’d been retired for over a decade, and he was still deep in the physical mires of his ‘mystery illness’? Not too shabby, really.

And, hey, tenth for Valentino. Not the best. But not the worst, with the way the rest of the year had been going for him. Would go for him. Either, both.

Casey shook his head. He was confusing himself.

He passed by Valentino on the way to the post-qualifying presser. Valentino glanced his way, nodded at him— Casey nodded back, a short, polite greeting.

Not friendly, exactly, but friendly enough, for the purposes of their coworker relationship. About as warm as they’d ever been, back then, outside of events that actively forced proximity, like press and PR events. 

Casey didn’t quite mind it, but he didn’t quite like it. He didn’t like having to avoid Valentino, not being able to commiserate with him when someone else did or said something dumb, when something silly happened on track. He was used to that, in the future, their easy camaraderie. Losing it so suddenly— or, at least, having to pretend to lose it— was unexpectedly rather annoying.

It was also worse, he amended, because he didn’t really have any other friends in the paddock.

Another thing Casey had momentarily forgotten from back then; just how isolated he’d always been. Or, well, he hadn’t forgotten the fact of it, but the actual feeling of abject loneliness had dulled with time. Now that it was back in sharp relief, Casey couldn’t help but regret his earlier decision to keep Valentino at arm’s length in public.

But, well. At least they were now friends in private.

That was the thought that was circling Casey’s mind, that was, until he sat down at the press table.

“Hey,” he heard, and he looked up to find Jorge Lorenzo sitting at his side, giving him a surprisingly warm smile. Casey nodded back in greeting, quickly going through his memories to try and pinpoint if he could remember any sort of event going on between them at this time— but no, it was too long ago; he had no idea.

“Hey,” he replied, looking over as Dani entered the room and, well, that wasn’t too bad, was it? Casey hadn’t really seen much of his teammate, these past two days, but that wasn’t too unusual. They’d stayed out of each other’s way, more often than not, while they’d been racing together. Dani wasn’t a bad teammate, but he wasn’t Casey’s favorite, either. Too tense, even now, though that would mellow out with time, Casey knew. This Dani was still a bit too tense, a bit too wary. Casey would have to work on that, if they were to continue to be teammates.

Casey frowned.

That, that was a problem he hadn’t yet considered, that of next year. He was certain he’d be retained by Honda, but Dani was less of a sure thing. And the other possibility was—

Well. Casey would rather not consider the other possibility.

“You’re humming.”

“What?” Casey looked up to find Cristian watching him. He was looking over telemetry, as had been his favorite pastime lately, and Cristian had been analysing bike data. Setups, tyre states, that sort of thing. Casey left him to it.

Cristian gestured around them. It did nothing to dispel Casey’s confusion. “You know, humming. When you, uh, sing a little song?”

“I know what humming is,” Casey replied, a bit baffled. Had he been humming? He didn’t think so. He wasn’t usually a humming sort of person. Or was he? Had he become one, in the last few years? He actually didn’t know.

Cristian gave him a strange look. “Well, ah. It’s just, you’ve seemed happier in the last two days than I’ve seen you since, uh. Since you won your first championship, maybe.” He paused, looking suddenly uncomfortable. “I just wanted to make sure that everything was alright. Especially after . . . ‘it’.”

Casey snorted. Cristian had been referring to Casey’s failed retirement as though it were a curse. Like if he said the word three times, Casey would poof right out of existence. Or just be teleported back to Australia, maybe. Same thing, he supposed, as far as Cristian was concerned.

“I’m fine,” Casey said. Cristian looked unconvinced, so Casey thought for a moment before adding: “I think, maybe, committing to staying in MotoGP has given me . . . something to focus on. I feel much calmer, much happier, now that I know what I really want to do. Like I needed to decide to retire to realize that, in truth, I actually really wanted to stay. Does that make any sense?”

“Oh! Um. Yes, no, I— I get what you’re saying,” Cristian said, and though Casey didn’t quite believe him, Cristian did look far more reassured now, going back to his data.

Casey, too, went back to his own studying, but his thoughts were in disarray.

Did he really seem that happy? He didn’t think he’d been acting any particular way— apart from the alleged humming, maybe— but maybe he just couldn’t remember. The anxiety had been so bad back then, to be fair, that Casey had a lot of trouble remembering a lot of things. Mostly just remembered how bad he felt.

But now, even with the looming race and the strangeness of this— this dream, hallucination, magic, whatever it was—he felt calm. Determined. He hadn’t even lied to Cristian, in the end, though he’d maybe fibbed a bit on the reasons. But he really felt like that.

Casey hummed a bit. Stopped, as he realized he was doing it.

Huh. So. Maybe that was a habit he’d picked up recently. Recently in the future. In the past?

He shook his head, putting the thought out of his head.

Once again, he was just confusing himself— and, once again, he had more important things to worry about.

Casey lined his bike up at the starting line, feeling his heart thundering in his chest as rain poured down around them.

Strange. He’d felt so calm earlier. Through practice and qualifying, through warmups and setting up his bike, his gear, his emotions had been level and even. But now, with the bike purring under him, and the fervor of the crowd in the air, he couldn’t keep his hands from shaking.

“Everything alright?”

Casey looked up, to find Cristian watching him with a frown.

“Fine,” he replied, short and curt. Winced. “I’m fine. Just a bit nervous.”

Cristian hummed. “You’ll do great, kid, don’t worry so much.” He placed a hand on Casey’s shoulder, patting him a few times. “Seriously, don’t worry. Just focus on the race, focus on doing your best. We all believe in you. We know you can do it. Our world champion Stoner, eh?”

Casey took a deep breath, closing his eyes. How did Cristian not know that that kind of talk only made it worse? That telling Casey they believed in him, that they knew he could do it— the weight of that expectation was threatening to crush him. Had crushed him, once upon a time. Mulled him into a fine paste, spat him back out onto the tarmac, bouncing off into the gravel to be eaten alive by the ants.

Anxiety simmered in his stomach. Casey tried to breathe.

“I’m fine,” he said again. Forced himself to look at Cristian, to nod at him. “I just need a moment, yeah?”

“Sure, sure,”

With that, Cristian retreated to the rest of the team, and Casey was left to take a deep breath. The umbrella girl at his side watched the crowd, barely paying him any attention. Casey preferred them that way, there for the job and nothing else. He’d never been like those riders who liked to pick up the girls for a night of fun and games after the races. Not that there was anything inherently wrong with it, but Casey liked his relationships solid, long-term. Someone he could confide in. Someone he could trust.

And in the current grid, as far as Casey was concerned, there was only one person who even vaguely fit that definition.

Casey turned to look behind him.

Far back in the depths of the lineup, all the way at the front of the fourth row, was the red and yellow Ducati.

Casey grimaced at the sight. Yes, he still hated it. Still thought Valentino had massacred the beautiful thing with the color scheme.

But, well. With the way it was acting, maybe it deserved it.

He looked back to the front just as Cristian walked back to him. “We’re ready on our side. All good for you?”

“All good,” Casey agreed, and after one last handshake, Cristian and the Honda team retreated to the sides of the track.

The warm-up lap was uneventful, even as Casey let himself drop back to the back of the grid. His favorite pre-race ritual, the only one he’d ever allowed himself. The tactical elements were too crucial, even though no one else seemed to see them. Casey saw them, and so he used it. If no one else saw what he was doing, then that was up to them.

He lined up once more, bike parked in P3. Dialed in the starting setup. Crouched low over the bike.

The lights went red, then dark— and they were off.

Despite all his preparations, Casey’s start was not the best. Not the worst, either, but he still sunk into the mass of the other riders within moments, falling from third to fourth to fifth in the first corner. 

Another bike pressed up against this inside, and Casey instinctively moved over to give them room—regretted it instantly, as the bike pushed him back into sixth.

Irritated, he pushed the bike up into the next corner, down into the chicane. The throttle was heavy in his hands, the bike rumbling solidly, and when the track eased into a straight Casey tried to go faster yet again.

But the track was wet, and the tyres were cold, and Casey had forgotten how sensitive the machines were, back then, to every shift in throttle pressure, every bite of the brakes.

With a swivel of its front, the bike bucked.

Casey gasped, tightening his hold on the handles. Allowed himself to be swung, even as he fought to remain atop the seat. When he came down, he had to be on top of the bike, and the bike had to be upright. That, in the end, was all that mattered.

A tenth of a second later— interminable, and yet immediate— he was flung back down, the bike straightening itself out with a snap. Casey latched onto its sides, feeling the burn of the engine on his calf, the jut of the pedal on his toes.

At his side, riders passed and passed.

Then, there it was.

Red and yellow, streaking forward.

Casey bit his cheek, settling low on the bike, fingers pressing on the throttle as he eased the bike onto the straight, gears rising steadily as the speed increased.

Oh, fuck no. Absolutely fucking not. 

Casey could accept he’d made a mistake. He could accept he wasn’t comfortable on the bike yet, could accept he’d forgotten some of the intricacies of MotoGP racing, could accept that, compared to everyone else on the grid, he was at a massive disadvantage.

He could not accept that arrogant Valentino, on that useless Ducati, would finish the race in front of him. 

As soon as the bike settled, Casey pressed forward. Pushed, more carefully, but more intensely. His focus was solely on the machine right in front of him, with its ugly yellow and red. Impossible to avoid it. Impossible not to see it.

Not unless you were in front of it.

The race passed by in a blur. Casey kept his grip on the wet tarmac, though just barely. He could see other riders going past him— past, falling behind, being overtaken by him, by the red and yellow Ducati.

And yet, no matter how hard Casey pushed, he couldn’t quite reach it.

Valentino seemed, sometime in the last few hours, to have found his rhythm on the bike. He sliced through the field, gaining a tenth here, three-tenths there, until the next person in the queue was right in front of him and then behind.

Casey followed in his wake, taking advantage of Valentino’s aggression— more pronounced than it ever had been back then, back now, and Casey was sure there was one rider in particular who was to blame for that—to slip in between a rider and the curb, moving along the track at breakneck speed.

He realized only in lap 22, as he crossed the pit wall and saw the bright orange sign, that in doing so, he’d made his run all the way back to P3. And there was some pride to that, stifled as it was by his earlier failure, but pride nonetheless that he’d managed to claw his way back to the podium after a decade of retirement, on an unfamiliar bike, after everything he’d been through, after everything that had happened—

But, there was still an ugly red and yellow bike ahead of him.

Casey pulled on the throttle, threading the bike through the racing line at the next corner. The tarmac was still slippery, though the racing line was getting drier and grippier with each pass. But Casey knew that grip could be deceptive, and thus extremely dangerous, as the moment one went off the ideal, their bike would slip in a moment. 

Just as he thought that, at the next corner, he noted Valentino slipping slightly at the apex of the curve. Seeing his chance, Casey dropped his bike’s angle lower than usual, letting it swing forward just that tiny bit more.

Their bikes pulled together then, brought close by the arch of the curve. Casey could hear the roar of the Desmosedici, all too close, as their bodies almost came into contact. He spared a thought to events that had not yet come to pass— likely never would, given the consequences, though who really knew with Valentino— and pressed himself low onto the handlebars.

As he did, however, he felt the grip beneath him slip.

It was a tiny hitch, the slightest give in the way his tyres moulded against tarmac. But Casey felt it, like a warning siren reverberating through his bones, a wail of warning. He jerked slightly, adrenaline flooding him as the grip hitched once more.

Out of his periphery, he saw the Desmosedici snap to the side, as Valentino was forced into taking evasive action to avoid crashing into him.

Then, Casey’s grip caught again, as he pulled away from his lean and down the straight.

Ahead of him, he could see two bikes had managed to gain back their positions, taking advantage of the fight to slip past both of them.

Casey gritted his teeth, and pushed forward.

Finally, he couldn’t see the ugly red and yellow bike any longer.

The podium was a bit of a subdued affair, at least to Casey’s recollection, though that was probably because the members were him, Jorge, and Dovi. Not the best of friends, even in the best of situations. 

Though, Jorge did look surprisingly enthused to see Casey there, which again brought to mind Casey’s earlier doubts. Did he and Jorge have a particular bond at this time? He couldn’t remember. Couldn’t remember why it might be, either, so maybe it was just Jorge being Jorge. He was an odd guy, always had been, and that was one of the few aspects of the paddock that had never changed, even after Casey’s retirement. There was some comfort in that, Casey would admit. Not enough to explain the behaviour, though.

After the podium, Casey made his way back to the garage, ready to strip down his leathers so he could go back to his room and rest. The race had exhausted him, as they all did back then, though thankfully he wasn’t crashing as hard as he knew he once might’ve. The joys of not drowning in anxiety at all times, Casey thought ruefully. If only it didn’t require ten years of intensive therapy and medication to get to that point. Speaking of which, he probably should get that medication back. He was dealing with everything okay, so far, but he knew things could be—

Casey let out a sharp gasp as he was suddenly slammed into the wall of the garage. He looked up, dazed and confused and alarmed, to find wide blue eyes glaring down at him, frustrated and furious.

“What,” Valentino hissed, “is your problem?”