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When Oscar feels the power surge and the subsequent wheelspin, he knows the car is going to spin. Even before it hooks around, he knows he is destined for the wall. And all he can think is, I already paid my dues last year. I wrecked last year. Don’t I deserve a chance this year? His head is already in his hands as he makes impact, the crash jolting through his tailbone, his spine, his neck. Why me? Why me? What have I done to deserve this?
As the car slides to a stop, radio crackling as his engineer asks if he is okay, Oscar can’t help but imagine the disappointed faces of all his fans, sitting in his own personal grandstand, now faced with the fact that they won’t get to see him race. He whimpers to himself, jaw clenching in his helmet as he wonders if he will even have any fans after this. He was supposed to break the Australian curse. He’s the only one who could—the only Australian driver on the grid. And now that chance is gone for another year.
Eventually, he remembers he needs to assure his team that he’s okay. He does so, and he can hear the relief in Tom’s voice when he tells Oscar that the marshals are on their way. Oscar barely hears him, removing the steering wheel before climbing out of his car on shaky legs. The world feels off-kilter, like someone flipped everything upside down and then back again without giving him time to adjust. It wasn’t even a bad hit, so Oscar can’t help but wonder why he feels so awful. His hand automatically jerks towards his helmet, thumb trying to push its way through his visor to his mouth, and that’s when he realizes.
He’s slipping.
Oscar makes a mournful noise, halfway between a sob and a whine, rooted into the ground where he stands until the marshals start corralling him off the track. He stumbles after them blindly, looking around desperately for someone who knows him—the little him. He hasn’t exactly told the world about his age regression, though he doesn’t truly hide it, either. But all of the permanent paddock members—drivers, WAGs, trainers, team members, the like—know about little Oscar, even if they haven’t all interacted with him while little.
Mark isn’t in the McLaren garage this race, even if he is in the paddock. After all, he and Oscar decided that professionally, Mark needed someone else to take some of his responsibilities, to help him keep the racing separate from being Oscar’s caregiver. When Mark isn’t at the race to be his caregiver, one of the drivers takes over, but all of the drivers are currently getting ready to race. No one could have predicted this situation they’re in now, but it means that no one is coming to get Oscar, to lead him back to safety. The marshals send him on his way, expecting him to easily find his way back to McLaren hospitality. But Oscar feels frozen, unsure who he should seek out. Everyone in McLaren is busy preparing for the race, and besides, he’s pretty sure they all hate him now.
He takes a couple of unsteady steps in the general direction of the hospitalities, pulling off his helmet so he can fist one hand into his curls and tug rhythmically. He’s not trying to hurt himself, just trying to ground himself in his body, but deep down he does feel like he deserves the sting in his scalp. Then he shoves his helmet back on. No one needs to see the tears in his eyes.
All of a sudden, James Lloyd, the communications officer from Alpine, is at Oscar’s elbow, his eyes softening with recognition as he sees the way Oscar’s gone soft with regression. He knows Oscar, and he knows the signs of a slip from Oscar’s Alpine days. He tells the cameras to back off, and Oscar realizes he didn’t even notice them following him. It’s just another sign of how out of it he is, and he gladly lets James lead him away from the camera-wielding vultures towards McLaren’s hospitality.
“Are you feeling little?” James asks quietly once they’re out of earshot of the paparazzi, flipping Oscar’s visor up so he can see the little’s eyes. Oscar nods, words slowly slipping away as he sinks deeper into the soft arms of his littlespace. “Okay, do you want me to get anyone for you?” Oscar looks up at James with big eyes, fidgeting restlessly before murmuring under his breath,
“Mark?”
“You want Mark?” James checks, and when Oscar nods, he lets out a short breath. “Okay, bud. I don’t know where he is right now, but we’ll find him together.” Oscar just blinks at James, the older man chuckling before placing a hand at Oscar’s back to guide him through the paddock.
Time goes hazy for Oscar, his vision narrowing to James’s feet as he shuffles after the man. They walk through the paddock a few times, Oscar’s sniffles getting louder each time they don’t find Mark in one of the spots they check. Eventually, James hears the pitiful sounds and kneels in front of Oscar.
“Oh, Oscar. I’m sorry. We’re going to find Mark, okay? But why don’t we go back to your driver room and wait there while someone else finds Mark? Do you have any little gear in your driver room?”
“Have a few t’ings,” Oscar nods. “But McLaren don’ like me right now.”
“That’s not true,” James immediately assures Oscar. “They will know that it wasn’t all your fault. But if you don’t want to have to talk to anyone right now, I will make sure we can go straight to your driver’s room without stopping.”
“P’ease,” Oscar whispers. So James takes the younger man by the hand and leads him to McLaren hospitality, shaking his head when staff members in bright orange—papaya—try to approach.
“Give us some space, please. He’s regressed and not feeling up to talking right now. But if you could find Mark Webber and send him our way, that would be incredibly helpful.” Everyone is respectful, nodding their heads in understanding and allowing the mismatched duo to make their way to Oscar’s driver room. Usually, an Alpine employee in McLaren hospitality would be a nonstarter, but everyone is a bit more lax when it comes to keeping little Oscar safe. The rules are more flexible when the most important thing is to make sure Oscar is okay.
Once they reach Oscar’s driver room, James lets Oscar take the lead. Just as he expected, Oscar makes a beeline for what turns out to be a duffle bag of little gear. A well-loved, somewhat ratty kitten stuffed animal is tucked under Oscar’s arm while his other hand closes around a pacifier holder. He holds it out to James with big eyes.
“Help, p’ease?” James unzips the pouch for Oscar, heart warming as Oscar promptly sticks the pacifier in his mouth the moment it gets handed to him. Then he takes the pouch from James and shoves it back into the duffle bag, obviously still conscientious of staying clean even while little. It’s adorable, really, watching the young man clean up after himself so seriously, all while sucking on the Cars themed deco pacifier in his mouth.
Once he’s got his pacifier and stuffie secured, Oscar shuffles over to the couch, curling up on it and motioning James over. He holds the corner of a chunky blanket out to James, then opens his arms as if trying to coax a shy kitten to him. James chuckles under his breath when he realizes Oscar is trying to convince him to cuddle. He wouldn’t pass the opportunity up for the world, but of course, Oscar thinks he has to convince him to help. Sometimes, he thinks Oscar doesn’t realize the effect he has on people. There’s something so instinctual and human about the way James’s heart begs him to take care of and protect Oscar, especially when he’s regressed. And James knows it’s the same way for most people in the paddock.
But Oscar has always been good at underestimating his worth.
James joins Oscar on the couch, not tucking himself under the blanket but instead using it to wrap Oscar up like a swaddle. He knows that deep down, Oscar doesn’t want to share his blanket. He’s so polite, even when little. But James knows the deep pressure of being swaddled by his weighted blanket will help keep Oscar grounded and calm, and that’s more important than being under the blanket with him. He still cuddles him, though, knowing that Oscar, contrary to popular belief, does love physical touch—he just only likes it when it’s his choice.
James wraps his arms around the younger man, who nuzzles into his shoulder and begins to doze off, the adrenaline from the crash beginning to fade. The rhythmic sucking of the pacifier and the hum of the air conditioning make a good backdrop for a nap, and James finds himself resisting the urge to fall asleep. He knows it would be okay if he did; Oscar is safe right now, but part of him refuses to leave the boy unsupervised. Besides, it’s not like he gets the chance to spend time with little Oscar very much anymore. He wants to soak up every moment of this rare occurrence.
He’s glad he stayed awake when, after twenty minutes of quietly letting Oscar use him as a pillow, the Australian boy begins whimpering in his sleep. James immediately adjusts his grip on Oscar, leaning down to try and glimpse the boy’s face. Oscar’s eyes are still shut, so he’s obviously stuck in some kind of bad dream. A flinch from the sleeping little sends his stuffed kitty to the floor. James quickly grabs it and places it on the other end of the couch in relative safety before turning back to Oscar.
“Oscar,” he murmurs, gathering the little into his lap with a grunt and beginning to rock back and forth. “Oscar, bud, wake up. It’s just a bad dream. You’re okay.” James says the boy’s name a few more times, and slowly Oscar’s eyes flutter open, anxious sounds still coming from his throat. He looks up at James, confused, as if he can’t fully remember how he got here. “Bud, are you okay?” James asks, worried. Oscar lets out a shuddering breath, pulling the pacifier out of his mouth.
“Papa?” His eyes are wet, teardrops on his eyelashes and cheeks, curls mussed from his balaclava and his nap against James’s shoulder. “Where Papa?” Oscar repeats, his tone becoming increasingly urgent, pitch creeping higher.
“Oh, bud, I’m not sure. But he will come here once he’s able, and I’ll keep you safe until then.” James tries to keep his tone cheerful as he breaks this news, hoping to stave off the sobs that he knows will come, but he’s unsuccessful. The moment Oscar realizes his Papa isn’t right there with him, his face screws up, bottom lip wobbling before he bursts into loud, hiccupping sobs, the emotional exhaustion of the day hitting him all at once. James’s heart breaks at the sight of Oscar’s bawling, but he stays strong, simply gathering the boy more firmly into his arms and continuing to rock side to side. He knows the rhythmic movements should help the boy regulate, at least somewhat—but he also knows that nothing he does can change the fact that Oscar wants his papa, and his papa isn’t here.
“Shhh, shhh, bud, it’s okay. Just cry it out. I know it’s hard. You can cry as much as you need to,” James assures Oscar. Oscar just buries his face in James’s shirt and keeps sobbing, getting tears and snot all over the older man’s shirt. James doesn’t care. A shirt can be washed. Oscar getting all the yucky feelings out is much more important than James’s shirt.
James rubs Oscar’s back in an attempt to soothe him, knowing there’s only so much he can do to help the boy calm down. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, as if to call Mark himself, but he doesn’t have the man’s number. Why would he? But Oscar does, he realizes. He scans the driver room, looking for Oscar’s phone. It’s plugged into a charger on the opposite side of the room. James weighs his options. He could put Oscar down and grab the phone as fast as possible before getting back to the couch, but the moment he tries to lift Oscar off his lap, the boy sobs even harder, tightening his arms around James’s neck in a death grip.
James thinks of himself as decently fit, but Oscar is still an F1 driver with a lot of muscle mass and a sizable frame. He’s not sure if he truly can carry Oscar all the way across the room and back, but he has to try. So he mentally steels himself, adjusts his grip on the younger man, and hoists himself up from the couch, Oscar in his arms in an odd variation of the bridal carry. As quickly as he can with a full-size adult in his arms, James walks to the charger, grabs the phone, and then pivots, making his way back to the couch. It’s with a sigh of relief that he sinks back into the cushions, Oscar settling into his lap again with a hiccup. His tears had quieted while James had been moving, but it seems that now that they’re stationary again, he’s back in his feels, sniffles beginning to escalate.
“Bud, can you unlock this for me so we can call your papa?” James asks, holding Oscar’s phone out to him. Oscar usually isn’t allowed on his phone while little, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Oscar takes the phone from James with a sad huff, holding it up in front of his face with such a determined look of concentration that James is afraid the Face ID won’t recognize him for a second. But then it unlocks, and Oscar is putting the phone back into James’s outstretched hand.
“Can I use this to call Mark?” James asks, and Oscar nods, his tears flowing slightly slower at the mention of hearing from his papa. James navigates to the younger man’s call history, assuming that Mark is in the recents, and sure enough, Mark’s contact appears right at the top, favorited, if the little star in the right corner is to be believed. James quickly taps the small picture of Mark, putting the man on speaker the moment he picks up.
“Pup? Where are you? I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” comes the slightly distorted voice of Mark Webber. Before James—or Oscar—can reply, Mark continues, “Someone said you went off with some Alpine employee, so I tried to look for you over there, but no one would listen to me and kept accusing me of trying to steal information from them!” The man on the phone takes a deep breath, as if preparing for another tirade, so James quickly jumps in.
“Mark, it’s James Lloyd. Senior communications officer for Alpine. I’ve got Oscar here in his driver room.” James can hear the breath leave Mark, as if it’s been punched out of him. It’s a manifestation of both relief and annoyance, he’s sure.
“Is he okay?” Mark asks, anxiety clear in his voice.
“He’s regressed,” James answers, even if it’s not the answer Mark was looking for. “He’s asking for you, and I can’t really tell how he’s feeling. He’s just been crying a lot.” As if on cue, Oscar sniffles loudly.
“Pup, is that you?” Mark asks. Oscar had been content just hearing his papa’s voice before, but now he’s realizing Mark still isn’t in the room with him, and he whines.
“Yeah, Papa. I wan’ you, Papa. P’ease.”
“I’m on my way, Oscar,” Mark assures him. “I have to make it all the way over there from Alpine, but I promise I’m coming as fast as I can. You just stay there with Mr. James, okay? He’s going to keep you safe and sound until I’m there.”
“Okay, Papa,” Oscar agrees, albeit with a few sniffles, as if he’s offended that Mark isn’t going to just teleport right into the room with him. The call ends, though James isn’t sure if Oscar ended it after taking the phone from James’s hands or if the bad cell connection did the job. Still, now that it’s just a waiting game again, he takes the phone from Oscar and places it on the side table next to the couch. Oscar looks at him with a pout, but doesn’t argue, knowing that he only got to hold the phone to talk to Mark in the first place. He fidgets in James’s lap for a few moments before turning to face him, pressing their chests together and laying his head in the crook between the older man’s chin and shoulder.
“Cuddle ‘til Papa’s here,” Oscar murmurs. It sounds like a demand, but James knows Oscar isn’t being bossy. He’s asking for what he needs, just in his own way. Oscar already struggles with tone when he’s big, and those struggles only increase when he’s little. Thankfully, the people around him know how to interpret his idiosyncrasies.
“Of course, little guy,” James agrees, letting Oscar soak up his warmth and presence while they wait for Mark, the boy’s pacifier bobbing up and down in his mouth.
Oscar keeps his head tucked into the crook of James’s neck for the next ten minutes, only looking up when he hears a knock on the door and his papa’s voice.
“Pup, I’m coming in” Mark calls before opening the door, the anxiety on his face melting into empathy as he takes in the scene on the couch—Oscar, clinging tightly to James as if he thinks he’s going to disappear. The older Australian quickly closes the door and rushes over to the couch, catching Oscar as the boy launches himself off James’s lap and into his papa’s arms.
“Oh, bubs,” Mark coos, rubbing Oscar’s back as the boy begins to cry again, burying his face in Mark’s shoulder. “It’s okay, pup, it’s okay.”
Mark sits down on the couch with Oscar in his lap as James stands up, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Oscar’s head before heading towards the door.
"Thank you for taking care of Oscar,” Mark says.
“I always will,” James reassures Mark. “He may not be my driver anymore, but I’ll always care for him.” Mark smiles at that, trying to convey all his gratitude in one expression. He thinks James understands, the other man placing a hand over his heart before exiting the room and shutting the door behind him quietly.
Alone with Oscar now, Mark tries to coax his little’s face out from its hiding spot. Oscar whines, batting at Mark’s hands, but eventually lifts his face up from Mark’s shoulder. His eyes are puffy and rimmed with red, and from his sniffles, Mark can tell that his nose is stuffy, too. He’s still sucking furiously on his pacifier as if trying to win some kind of race. Mark wipes the tears from Oscar’s cheeks, brushing the little’s hair back from his forehead before gently kissing below his hairline.
“Oscar, pup, what do you need right now? What’s wrong? Are you just sad about the race, or is there more?”
Oscar’s eyes are glassy as he blinks up at his papa, a small wounded noise coming from the back of his throat. He doesn’t make any other attempts to answer, obviously having gone nonverbal so Mark asks,
“Do you know how old you are right now, bud?” Oscar furrows his brow before attempting to hold up the correct amount of fingers, but his temporarily weakened motor skills thwart his attempts. He tries to use his other hand to fold over some of his fingers, but he can’t seem to do it. After a few unsuccessful tries, he gets frustrated and flaps his hands angrily, a heartbreaking wail working its way past his pacifier’s shield.
His hands gravitate towards his mussed hair, trying to grab hold of the curls and tug on them, but Mark anticipates their path—it’s one of Oscar’s most common stims when he’s frustrated, one that they’re trying to replace with a healthier one. Mark gently pulls Oscar’s hands away from his scalp and folds them tightly in between his chest and Oscar’s, securing them so that he can’t cause himself any harm.
“I’m sorry, pup, I should have known that using your hands is hard right now. Sometimes they just don’t want to cooperate, huh?” Oscar just stares up at Mark with sad eyes, letting out a mournful hiccup as he wiggles on his papa’s lap, attempting to free his hands from their makeshift prison. “Are you going to be nice to your body if I let you have your hands back?” Mark asks. Oscar nods, the first true answer Mark has gotten out of him since he took him from James, and the older Australian takes that as a win.
The moment Mark loosens his hold on Oscar, allowing Oscar to pull his arms out from in between him and Mark, the boy grabs fistfuls of Mark’s shirt, bunching the soft fabric in his fists. Mark smiles down at Oscar, proud of him for remembering their plan for replacing his hair pulling. He’s supposed to find something else to hold tightly, like a piece of clothing. His favorite, so far, is any clothing of Mark’s, particularly if it’s on Mark’s body, but Mark isn’t surprised.
Oscar gets clingy when he’s little—not in a bad way; it’s just the facts. Oscar doesn’t want to be alone, so he clings. Mark likes to call it how it is because he’s absolutely certain of the fact that being clingy isn’t a bad thing, and he’s spent lots of time trying to convince Oscar of this fact, too. The first step in that process is getting comfortable with the word by detaching any negative associations Oscar has from it.
Mark can feel Oscar rubbing the fabric between his fingers, finding comfort in the texture of his papa’s shirt. It makes his heart bleed a little bit, his love for the boy exceeding every expectation he ever had for how much he could love someone.
After a few minutes sitting in silence, letting Oscar stim and regulate with his face tucked into Mark’s chest, the air shifts. They’re out of the woods; Oscar’s made his way out of meltdown territory, but Mark knows he still needs to be gentle, because the current peace is still fragile.
Oscar squirms a bit in Mark’s embrace, leaning back so he can see his papa’s face. Mark lets him adjust, holding his arms behind the boy loosely in order to stop him from falling. Eventually, Oscar settles again, this time further back in Mark’s lap, looking up at Mark with tired, teary eyes.
“Hi there, Osc,” Mark says gently, a grin creeping onto his face. Oscar doesn’t respond verbally, instead raising his hand in a small wave. His face stays blank, but Mark knows that Oscar just doesn’t show his emotions on his face sometimes, especially after getting that close to a meltdown. Trying to keep up with facial expressions is pretty exhausting for his boy, and sometimes he just needs to let his face rest. Mark doesn’t mind. He can tell Oscar’s mood from his microexpressions, the ones that are always there. Not everyone notices them, but Mark does—every crinkle of an eye, every slight curve of his lips, every clench of his jaw—Oscar has plenty of mood indicators, even when he’s not going all-out on facial expressions.
“I know you're feeling lots of emotions right now,” Mark says, “but I also know that right now you probably just want to cuddle and regulate before we try to work through them. Is that right? You can just nod or shake your head if talking is too hard right now.” Oscar nods. “Okay, then we’ll just focus on feeling safe and sound right now, my little cuddle bug,” Mark soothes.
Oscar giggles at the nickname, and Mark’s spirit lifts a little. It was a quiet giggle, yes, but it was a giggle all the same.
“Do you want to stay here for a little while longer, or should we go back to your house for now?” He holds his palm out in front of Oscar. “Tap once for staying here, and twice for going back to the house. You can tap three times if you want something different.” Oscar gets a concentrated look on his face, his pacifier bobbing up and down slightly faster than before for a few seconds before he makes a decision, relaxing now that the weight of the choice is no longer on his shoulders. He gently taps Mark’s palm twice.
“House, it is,” Mark grins. “Why don’t we start getting ready to go?” Oscar nods, but when Mark tries to shift him off his lap and onto the couch, Oscar places a hand on Mark’s shoulder. “Yeah, bud?”
“Wha’ ‘bout ‘Claren?” Oscar asks, brow furrowing. “And ‘brief?” Mark chuckles at that. Leave it to Oscar to still be worried about what his team needs even after a crash.
“No need, bud. McLaren will not mind you missing debrief to rest. On Monday you can get all caught up, okay?” Oscar nods, accepting this easily. Mark knows Oscar didn’t really want to stay for debrief, but he feels obligated, even when it’s detrimental to him.
They’re working on it.
Mark makes quick work of gathering Oscar’s things. He double-checks to make sure they don’t leave anything behind, but it seems like Oscar never got around to taking anything out of his paddock backpack in the first place.
Oscar is yawning loudly by the time they’re walking to the car, the little struggling to walk in a straight line because of the exhaustion hitting him after such huge emotional upheaval. Mark places a gentle hand on his back and guides him carefully, relieved when they’ve finally made it to the car and no cameras have appeared.
Mark has to fasten Oscar’s seatbelt for him, the younger man too sleepy to remember. By the time Mark makes it back around to the driver’s side and slides in behind the steering wheel, Oscar has drifted off into dreamland.