Chapter Text
Checo walked out of that little “meeting” more pissed off then when he came in. Why he was angry before, he couldn’t even remember anymore — some adrenaline-high thing, probably — but now he definitely knew why he was angry.
Jenson Button — because it always had to be him, didn't it? — had radio’d in that Checo was driving “dirty”, and that he needed to calm down. Calm down, his ass! It was big talk from the senior who had just been outpositioned again by Checo in the 4th race. Unfortunately, Mr. Big-Shot gets all the calls of a #1 driver in this team, so Checo had to just withstand a proper chewing out from Whitmarsh on respect for the car and the race, blah blah blah. The pecking order had been made clear as soon as he stepped his foot into McLaren HQ, so he figured he shouldn’t be half as surprised as he was right now. But he was. And he had some shit to say about it.
Jenson was chatting on his side of the garage with someone showing him the telemetry of the race accompanied with video. Jenson had never really understood all the stats, but he figured he should view them anyway, even if that’s not his place. It was because of this that he did not notice Checo storming behind him like a man on a mission.
It was only until Jenson felt the hot whisper of “Pendejo” in his ear that he even knew someone was there, causing him to let out a startled yelp.
“Geez, Sergio, you scared me! Why are you sneaking up on me like that?” Jenson responded with a firm frown. He still had not forgiven Checo for his actions on track.
”I ask the questions. Excuse me.” That last bit was for the guy Jenson was speaking with, providing apology for what he was to do next: pull Jenson by the shoulder to somewhere they were less likely to be bothered.
”Sergio, wait— what is this?” Jenson protested whilst startled as his legs disobeyed his command.
Fuck, Checo hated the way Jenson would say his name, all soft British sounds. He hated the fact that Jenson just had to call him Sergio, like he was better than him for not calling him “Checo” like everyone else. He hated being the subject of Jenson’s words at all, in fact. He hated that Jenson never had anything good to say when it was to his face
Checo pressed Jenson onto a wall, his grip firm and restricting — not because Jenson needed to be restricted, but because Checo needed the power. “´¡Pendejo!” Checo repeated, angrier now that they were alone.
”What?” Jenson asked, confused as to what he had done. It had still not clicked to the Briton exactly what was going on here, and why exactly he was shoved onto a cold, hard wall.
”Asshole.” Checo practically spat with the amount of hate in his tone. His eyebrows were drawn tight, and his eyes were squinted, which didn’t really work with the freckles and red coloring adorning his cheeks.
”I know what that means, I’m not thick.” Jenson now automatically met Checo’s anger minus a couple notches, just because he doesn’t appreciate being disrespected. “I’m asking what did I do? I haven’t even spoken to you all day!” Jenson defended, getting a heavy urge to try to break Checo’s grasp.
”You know what you did. Telling the teacher, really Jenson? Because you were upset I was racing? That's what the whole sport is, asshole.” Checo’s nose crinkled as well, adding more to his perceivable anger. Jenson hated the way Sergio said his name, with all its Spanish-tinted hoarseness instead of its clean and hard syllables. For a man whose name had been mispronounced or missaid all his life, he had never hated it more than when it came out of Sergio Perez’s mouth.
His anger finally clicked to Jenson then, and he had to scoff. “Oh my word, Sergio, you call that racing? You were making a missile of the car, that's what you were doing, willing to destroy and harm everyone in your path for that finish. And for what, even? 6th isn't that great, mate.” Jenson clicked his tongue for the final word, deciding that if Checo was going to call him an asshole, he would be a massive asshole.
It worked, supposedly, according to the sharp breath Sergio let out and the decreased space in between their faces. “10th isn’t amazing, too, Jenson.” Checo growled out and Jenson had to hold back a laugh. “And I’m sorry I’m not Señor Super Suave like you, but just see how that has helped you, huh? There is no ‘dirty’ driving, it's just good.” Checo finished off firmly, staring in Jenson’s eyes like inside them is the apology Jenson has not yet said.
“Sergio, you saying that makes you a bad driver. You don’t need to be tricky with others to be good, joven.” Jenson delivered with a shit-eating grin, leaning forward closer as Checo had done previously for his own display of power. It was true in Jenson’s mind, and even though he was smiling, he found it appaling that one could rationalize moves such as the ones Checo had pulled as “good.” No matter the positions, it was still far too aggressive to be seen as any form of good sportsmanship.
Checo just stared for a while after Jenson had said that. The rug had been swept from under his feet and it was as infuriating as it was embarrassing — made worse still by the fact that for the life of him Checo could not think of a comeback. “Voy a matarte… no vas a estar tan feliz cuando voy a hacer eso, pendejo.” Checo muttered the threat because he could not think of anything else to say in English that wouldn’t embarrass him.
Jenson caught onto that quickly. He smiled even wider and leaned in until the tip of his nose was touching Checo’s, which made the impacted jerk away, giving Jenson more leeway to move. “I rendered you speechless in English, didn’t I, Sergio?” Jenson bit his lip, humming slowly and lazily as he mulled over his final blow. Checo nearly had to hold back a wince from that look of pure confidence and power on his face. “You’re a lot cuter like that, Mexican boy. Maybe you should shut up more, and people would like you.”
Checo’s jaw dropped to the floor and before he could pick it back up, Jenson ruffled his thick hair, jerked off of the wall, and walked away. As he left, his arms and legs swung casually, as if the whole fiasco was as important as a drop of paint on a busy canvas.
Checo could not believe the audacity of the Briton. If Checo could be accused of audacity on track, he figured that Jenson could be charged ten-fold off track. Well, not even in the bitter, blistering heat of Bahrain was Checo a drop of surprised that Jenson was being an asshole now. Checo had tried to be nice, and when that didn’t work, he tried to lay low because he could tell he was stepping into the Jenson Button #1 fan club in the same place that the McLaren HQ was supposed to be, coincidently. Even through all that, Jenson was at best distant, at worst a ditzy asshole whose position in Checo’s life was to guilt and demean. For a man who seemed to always victimize himself in Checo’s eyes with claims to be so fragile and gentle — needing to be nursed like an orchid — the only thing Checo actually respected is that, yeah, he was an orchid, because he was such a pain in the ass to work with.