Chapter Text
9 April 2022
Melbourne, Australia
“Radio check,” Chris’s voice came through the radio.
“Loud and clear,” Fernando responded automatically.
“Glad to have you back, Fernando.”
“Glad to be back.” This was his first race weekend back after crashing out in Bahrain; he’d missed the race in Saudi Arabia, and now they were in Melbourne. According to medical, he should have sat this one out, too, but… details. If he could survive a beer, he could survive a race weekend.
“You’re 17th in queue. We’re looking at a 1:19.5 for a competitive lap. Track temps are holding steady at—”
“Copy,” Fernando cut in, flexing his fingers on the wheel. The steering felt… fine, decently responsive. Better than Bahrain (not that he remembered much of Bahrain to begin with).
The thought landed with more weight than he’d expected.
He ignored the cool chill that lingered against the back of his neck. Despite the odds, the presence of Lance’s ghost had turned into an almost comforting feeling over the past few days. (Not that he’d ever admit that aloud.)
“You nervous?” Lance’s voice came from somewhere behind him, loud and clear over the roar of the air around the car. Fernando didn’t even attempt to sort out the mental gymnastics of where a ghost could sit inside a cramped F1 cockpit.
A glance over his shoulder told Fernando all he needed to know — Lance had apparently discovered that sitting on the DRS as a ghost was the best seat in the house. (Just like Daniel’s ghost had done in Monza last year.)
“No,” Fernando said flatly.
“Say again, Fernando?” Chris asked.
“Nothing. Disregard.” Mierda. He had to be more careful of his radio when talking to ghosts.
“Copy. Let us know if you need anything. Vitals look good.”
Of course they were monitoring his vitals closely. They probably had half the medical team on standby, too, ready to red-flag the race if his heart rate spiked. Overprotective idiots. I’m not going to drop dead.
“So,” Lance started, “I know I promised not to apologize for the crash, so I won’t, but like—”
“Lance.” This time, Fernando had taken a glance at his radio to make sure it was off before speaking to the ghost.
“—your legs are still healing, right?—”
“Lance.”
“—and I know I’d be nervous if I were you, which I guess I kind of—”
“Lance.” Fernando didn’t raise his voice, but it was a near thing.
The ghost finally stopped talking.
For a moment, at least.
Fernando took a deep breath, watching the gap between him and the car ahead (a McLaren, no other car could look that fluorescent even under a grey Melbourne sky). “If you commentate my entire session,” he said quietly, “I will find a way to exorcise you.” He did not need a repeat of his
“You don’t know how to exorcise ghosts.”
“I will learn.” And he swore it was not a threat but a promise. (He knew his involuntary grin under his helmet would give him away if anyone else saw it.)
The ghost shut up at that, yet he managed to do so with an air of smugness that Fernando ignored.
At least it gave him a moment’s peace—
Then the radio crackled.
“Fernando, you’re up next. Box exit is clear. You’ll have one warm-up lap, then push.”
“Copy.” Fernando rolled his shoulders, feeling the harness dig in. The bruises from Bahrain were mostly healed, but some phantom aches lingered, hovering in the back of his mind alongside the memories of the harness turning into a deadly restraint, keeping him pinned in a flaming car—
You’re fine. The car is fine. Get your head in the game.
He pulled out of the pit lane, tires gripping tarmac as he accelerated into Turn 1. Muscle memory took over — shift, brake, apex, throttle.
The car responded cleanly, predictably. Better than most weekends.
See? It’s fine.
The telemetry didn’t lie, and neither did his instincts. Whatever had gone wrong in Bahrain, it wasn’t happening now. He had to trust his engineers and his team.
“Okay Fernando, this is your out-lap. Temps look good. Take your time.”
“Copy.” He breathed out slowly, taking Turn 3 wide, letting the tires warm against the familiar track. He’d won here before, twice.
And I’ll win here again.
“The track’s grippier than Bahrain,” Lance commented quietly.
Fernando’s grip on the wheel tightened. Not that he could remember what Bahrain’s track had been like, but given that it had been wet and Melbourne was dry, the comparison was a no-brainer.
“I noticed.” The words came out sharper than intended, but Fernando didn’t take them back.
Lance’s presence shifted, the cold sensation in the back of his neck shrinking. Not a flinch, but close. The ghost didn’t say anything else.
“Okay Fernando,” Chris said on the radio, “next lap is push. Mode 6. We’re looking for a 1:19.5.”
“Copy, Mode 6.” He downshifted into the next turn.
Turn 13.
Turn 14.
He crossed the line and pushed.
Turn 1. His tires protested, but held.
Turn 3. More speed than the out-lap, feeling the downforce load through the steering.
His healing legs did not appreciate the heavy braking zones. He ignored them. Pain was just biological telemetry, and right now it wasn’t telling him anything new or useful.
“Good sector one, Fernando. Keep it up.”
He didn’t bother responding, too focused.
Turn 6. The rear stepped out slightly, but he caught it with a modulation of the throttle.
He clipped the inside curb on the entry of the chicane, the car bouncing once but holding the line. He shook his head to himself. Stupid. Focus. Stop making stupid mistakes. You are two-time world champion, you know better.
He exited onto the straight—
“Yellow flag on Turn 1, Fernando. Yellow flag.”
He backed out immediately, lifting off the throttle. “¿Quién? Who?”
“Looks like a Haas. Stopped on the track at Turn 1.”
A brief pause, with distant and incoherent spats of crackling from the radio.
”We’ve got smoke. Session’s being red-flagged. Box this lap, Fernando.”
“Copy, heading in.” He coasted through the final sector, watching from afar as marshals swarmed the stricken car. It looked intact: no fire, no major debris, just a puff of blue-white smoke hanging in the air like the Haas had elected a new pope. A mechanical issue, he reckoned.
And of course it happened during his hot lap. He shook his head to himself. Typical luck.
He pulled into the pit lane, easily maneuvering into his box.
The car settled.
“Okay Fernando, decent lap,” Chris commented. “We’ll wait for the session to resume. Drink, stay loose.”
“Copy.” He exhaled, hands still on the wheel. “What was my time?”
A brief pause, no doubt Chris checking the data.
“You were on pace for a low 1:19.”
“Copy.” Fernando allowed himself a small flicker of satisfaction. Not pole position material yet, but respectable given the circumstances. Especially for someone who’d been benched two weeks with mangled leg muscles and had gotten more surgeries than there were days in the week.
“Sucks,” Lance commented quietly, “getting your lap ruined like that.”
Fernando shrugged against the harness. “That’s qualifying.”
It was all part of the game. Red flags, yellow flags, the entire rainbow of flags down to the black-and-white, and drivers binning it at the worst possible moment. You deal with it, you (hopefully) avoid killing anyone (including yourself), and you move on.
“Fernando, they’re extending the red flag,” Chris said on the radio. “Checking barriers at Turn 1. Probably another ten minutes. You can get out if you want to stretch.”
Fernando made a face at that. He glanced down at his legs, still strapped in tight. His calves ached dully, longing for a stretch, but getting out meant the medical team would beset him like ants on a fallen ice cream scoop. They’d hover, they’d ask questions, they’d check his mobility like he was made of glass, and they’d be annoying as hell.
“Copy, staying in,” he decided.
“Understood. Let us know if you need anything.”
Around him, the pitlane buzzed with activity as engineers checked data and other drivers climbed out of their cars. He could see the medical teams eyeing his car. He resisted the urge to flip them off and closed his eyes instead.
So annoying.
More annoying than having an overly concerned ghost clinging to him every waking moment.
Though, perhaps that was an unduly harsh judgement against the ghost. Over the past two and a half weeks, as Lance worked through his acceptance of dying and stopped apologizing every five minutes, the ghost’s company had become increasingly tolerable. Likewise, taking less medications and having a positive outlook from the medical teams had also improved Fernando’s mood after the accident. No forced early retirement for him; he could get another WDC (or maybe an Indy 500 win to complete his triple crown) yet.
And, although Fernando knew that Sebastian Vettel would be a great teammate, Fernando already missed the energy Lance brought to the team, everything from friendly shenanigans to late-night text chains about strategy and the cars. So, despite the overall shitty situation, having ghost Lance around was better than the alternative.
Fernando settled back, letting his head rest against the headrest. He could use a moment’s peace—
“So…” Lance’s hesitant voice shattered the silence. “Question.”
Fernando exhaled sharper than intended. He kept his voice low as he replied, too low to be heard by anyone other than a ghost over the buzz of the pit lane, “What?”
“Me. Not falling off your car during the session.” A pause. “That’s… fine, right? It’s, um, normal?”
Fernando huffed quietly. “Name one thing that is normal.” Though, considering Danny’s past haunt spot atop the DRS, Fernando supposed that a selective interpretation of physics could be called ‘normal’ for a ghost.
“Okay, fair,” Lance acquiesced, though now his voice came from up front rather than behind Fernando. “But… you’re okay with it, right?”
Fernando opened his eyes.
Lance’s ghost had ditched the DRS bar and instead moved to “sitting” on the car’s front wing.
“Do I have a choice?” Fernando asked, eyebrows raised and a small smile hidden by his helmet, after a quick glance around to make sure no one had their full attention on him. (Luckily, the medical teams appeared to have gotten distracted by something else further down the pit lane.)
Lance seemed to misinterpret Fernando’s tone. “Well, you could tell me to stop and—”
He rolled his eyes. “Yes, Lance, I am okay with it.” With that, he closed his eyes again. “Now shush. I’m trying to focus.”
“You’re sitting still.”
“I’m focusing on sitting still.”
A beat of silence.
Fernando kept his eyes closed and face neutral as he breathed evenly.
A second passed. Two.
Lance was the first to break, snorting. “You’re such an ass.”
Fernando’s lips twitched, a smirk threatening to form. “I know.”
After that, Fernando got a few minutes of peace and quiet after all.
Then the radio crackled to life. “Okay, Fernando. Session’s resuming in two minutes. Get ready to go back out.”
“Copy.” He opened his eyes and rolled his shoulders, pushing aside the fatigue and aches. He tried not to roll his eyes too hard as Lance scrambled back over the cockpit and onto the DRS, using Fernando’s car as an expensive jungle gym.
Ignoring the ghost’s further antics (and silently thankful for not getting a ghost-foot to the helmet), Fernando took a deep breath, focusing up. He had a qualifying session to finish.
Time to see what he could do with a full lap.