đïž The Racing Line đïž
đ„ Chapter 3: Canada - Into the Gravel đ„
F1 Driver!Bucky Barnes x F1 Driver!Fem Reader
Read on AO3 | Series Masterlist | Bucky Masterlist
Race weekend #7 gets underway in Canada.
Did you meet the AGP Team last week?
... well, in this chapter, you're going to find out why they're so driver focused đ
I am OBSESSED with your enthusiasm about this story đ Truly, please, as usual, do feel free to jump into my inbox and scream about this one - I'm right there with you and I LOVE to hear which drivers they remind you of, where you think it's all going, absolutely all of it. I'm having the time of my life with this - it really might be the best/most intense/most accomplished piece I've written yet! And if you've enjoyed this, please do reblog and help it get seen.
So...
.... Let's go racing! đïž
This ticks off square Y5 of my Bucky Barnes Bingo card - Car Trouble đŹ
Warnings: This one does get more intense. Angsty - hopefully the kind that makes you really angry đ , crash injuries, past trauma, Storm probably has PTSD.
Word Count: 9.2k
The rain had gone from heavy to torrential in a matter of seconds.
Spray from the car ahead collapsed your remaining visibility into a wall of water.
Buckyâs car was still beside yours, bright red and impossibly close.
He braked for the apex of the corner a fraction before you.
You felt it.
The way his car wavered under braking, searching for grip.
The nudge was nothing, barely a kiss.
On a dry track it wouldnât have mattered.
But here, with a river running between your wheels, it was everything.
Your tyres lost the track completely.
And suddenly, you werenât driving anymore.
You were aquaplaning.
The only sound was your blood in your ears - loud and overwhelming.
The car spun wild circles across the rain-slicked track.
You felt the impact with the kerb.
The car was airborne.
Instinct finally took over.
You let go of the wheel.
Crossed your arms over your chest.
Waited for it to stop.
...
..
.
Time stretched.
The rain against the halo turned into something else -
Lights. Noise.
The AGP garage, the first day you walked in as their driver.
Everything cleaner and shaper. Faster than anything youâd known before.
You tried not to stare.
âDonât hover. Câmon -â heâd said, his voice low in your ear.
You hadnât even heard him behind you, already in his black racesuit.
Like he belonged there in a way you were still trying to understand.
You stepped forward before you could second guess it.
Not toward the garage.
Toward him.
Like you always did.
Sam waited further into the garage, his arms crossed.
You glanced at Bucky who shrugged like your move to AGP had been inevitable.
Like you were.
This was always how it was going to go.
âWelcome home,â Sam said warmly, amused when you reached out to shake his hand.
He pulled you into a hug instead.
But even then -
- even standing in the centre of it, the dream youâd worked for your entire life -
you looked past Sam.
Back at Bucky.
Just for a second.
Just to check -
The memory fractured.
The rain -
The barrier, right there -
You held your breath.
And closed your eyes.
.
..
...
âStorm? ⊠Storm, radio check? Nothing, bossâ
...
..
.
âStorm, it's Sam, do you copy?â
.
..
...
The impact sounded like a bomb.
One moment the AGP car was fighting for grip through the chicane, battling with the Thunderbolt car for third place.
The next it was flying through the air.
Sparks tore across the circuit as the chassis slammed sideways into the barrier, tyres exploding in a cloud of smoke and shredded rubber.
For a moment nobody moved.
Not the crowd.
Not the commentators.
The powerless drivers flew past the wreckage at two hundred miles an hour.
Buckyâs own car had spun off at the contact, straight into the gravel but still only feet away from the track.
He'd felt it. The lightest touch of his wing against your front tyre.
He could see the closest marshal waving double yellow flags, the back marker cars slowing down to a pedestrian stroll.
Smoke curled above the barrier.
They hadnât reached the car yet.
They hadnât reached the car yet.
Bucky gasped, dragging air into his lungs.
He could hear the radio chatter in his ear, Ava and Bob communicating to the rest of the team.
âDouble yellow flag. Double yellow, reduce speed now.â
âCar stopped at turn eight.â
âMedical car deployed.â
Words he should understand - better than anyone.
Instructions he should follow.
But he couldnât.
The cold crawled up his spine, seeping into the join of vibranium to pale, stretched skin.
He wasnât scared of the crash.
Or of the incoming penalties.
His hands shook on the wheel he still hadnât released.
âBucky, turn off the engine.â
He didnât move.
His heart raced like he was still going flat out on the straight.
Too fast.
Too loud.
Wrong.
His world shrank to a single thought.
Not you.
Anything but you.
Because if it was -
His breath hitched.
Because if it was you -
He didnât know what came next.
He should move.
Obviously.
Unclip. Get out. Run.
Thatâs what youâd do.
Thatâs what you did.
Your hands shaking as you dragged him clear of the car, screaming for medics like you could force the world to move faster.
He remembered that much.
He remembered your hands on him.
He remembered thinking -
Stay with me, love.
His fingers didn't move.
đïžđïžđïžđïž
The air reeked of scorched rubber and wet asphalt. Marshals finally swarmed in like bees in orange overalls.
Static crackled through the radio.
âStorm, can you hear me?â
Sam.
Wonderful, incredible Sam whoâd tethered himself to you but let you fly.
âYeahâŠâ you croaked. âIâm here.â
âJesus fuckinâ christ,â he whispered.
You tried not to listen to how close to tears he sounded.
You unclipped the belts with shaking hands and ripped the HANS device from your neck, your heart jack-hammering against your ribs.
Your legs didnât quite work when you climbed out, your feet caught on the edge of the sidepod, on the halo as you tried to step over.
You wobbled on the spot, jelly legs threatening to topple you.
Then you saw the red Thunderbolt fifteen feet ahead. Something in you recoiled.
Not fear.
Not where he could see it.
Not where the whole world could see it - again.
Anger was easier to stand on than fear.
The grandstands erupted the moment they saw you standing, it drove strength into your legs.
You staggered out into the gravel trap with your helmet swinging from your fist as the world roared around you - engines still screaming past behind the safety car, camera drones whirring above, and the rain still pouring.
You swayed precariously on the spot.
Jelly legs again.
And then he was there.
Scrambling to get out of his almost unscathed car.
His visor was up, his pale blue eyes wide behind the tear-off film, his breath fogging in the damp air. He jumped from his car - abandoned in the gravel - and ran straight for you.
"Hey - hey, babe, are you OK?!" His voice cracked, raw with panic.
He reached for you -
For a fraction of a second, your body almost let him.
Then -
You slapped his hand away so hard his entire body jolted.
"Donât you fucking touch me, Barnes!" you screamed, your voice slicing through the rain-soaked air.
A marshal stumbled to a halt nearby, frozen.
The cameras caught every furious second.
The fans in the grandstand next to you were transfixed, phones held aloft.
There would be hell to pay later. And a few fines.
"It was a miscalculation - I swear, the rain, I didnât see -"
"Oh, you didnât see?!" You stepped closer, shoving him hard in the chest with your helmet. He stumbled backwards. "You always see everything, Bucky! What the fuck was that?!"
Your helmet thudded into the gravel as you threw it towards him, your blood boiling.
You squared up to him again and shove, harder this time.
"I hit the barrier at two hundred because you miscalculated?" Your voice splintered on the last word, raw with betrayal.
"I would never hurt you -"
"But you did!"
He flinched.
The crowd noise faded for a second. You felt the eyes of millions through the broadcast, every word replaying already in slow-motion highlight reels. You could hear Sam on the radio, your earpiece still tucked in place. Get your ass back here, now.
"I trusted you," you said, quieter now. Just as dangerous. Just as sharp. "I fucking trusted you more than anyone on this grid. And you took me out."
He stared at you, rain dripping from the edge of his helmet. His hand flexed at his side, fingers twitching like he didnât know whether to grab you or let you go.
Your chest heaved. Your racesuit clung to your arms in the rain.
"Stay the fuck away from me," you spat finally, stepping back. "Donât you dare come near me after this."
You shoulder barged past him, grabbing your helmet on the way, ignoring the marshals shouting, ignoring Buckyâs broken, half-choked call of your name.
When they led you toward the medical car, you didnât look back.
Over his ragged breath he heard Yelena in his ear.
"Radio Bucky, please confirm youâre OK."
He watched the marshals move the barrier to let a crane though, one of them trying to herd him out of the way. "Iâm sorry, guys. I fucked up."
đïžđïžđïžđïž
You didnât let anyone help you.
You made sure to get out of the medical car by yourself, your boots slipped slightly as rain seeped though the thin soles, and offered the waiting cameras a clear thumbs up.
âIâm fine,â you told them automatically.
The words came too fast.
Your hands wouldnât stop shaking.
You curled them into fists before anyone could see.
Circuit staff ushered you away from prying eyes and into the medical suite.
âIâm fine,â you muttered the minute someone suggested you take a seat.
Youâd said it so many times it didnât even feel like lying anymore.
The room tilted for half a second.
You ignored it, blinked hard, and brought the room back into focus again.
The casual lean against the bed was deliberate.
Because your legs still felt⊠off.
Like they didnât quite belong to you anymore.
âAnyone ever tell you youâre a terrible liar?â Sam asked from the corridor. He knocked unnecessarily.
âWhat are you doing here?â you snapped. âYouâre supposed to be at the garage. Joaquinâs still out there.â
He waved it off. âHeâs fine. Heâs got MJ.â
His eyes flicked over you, taking inventory.
âYou, on the other hand -â
âI said Iâm fine.â
âYeah? That why the bedâs holding you up?â
You rolled your eyes so hard pain spiked behind them.
âCould you remove your gloves and the top half of your racesuit please?â A medic asked.
Your hands were freezing under the gloves.
Sam stepped into the puddle gathering at your feet and tore open the velcro, pulling off a glove at a time.
Before you could reach for the zip of your racesuit, he took your hands in his own and warmed your numb fingers.
He leaned down to drop a kiss onto your forehead.
There was no comment on how much your hands shook as you drew the wet sleeves down your arms.
You winced at the ache through your shoulders.
The medic reached for the sleeve of your base layer.
âJust need to check -â
âI said Iâm fine,â you snapped, jerking your arm away.
Too fast.
For a second, it wasnât Canada.
It was blood on your gloves. Someone shouting -
You blinked hard.
Gone.
Outside, you knew the footage was already on a loop.
Every angle.
Every second.
Another moment for them to freeze you in.
Another moment that would be tied to him forever.
Instead of the medic, Sam stepped in again.
He gently wrapped the blood pressure cuff around your bicep, and then stepped back.
âCâmon now, letâs get you checked over and then you can come back to the garage.â
âPromise?â
âAs long as no medical intervention is required, I promise.â He said solemnly but his smirk spoke volumes. âFinish up here, Kamâs just outside if you need her. Sheâll bring you back later.â
âFine,â you mumbled indignantly.
He squeezed your shoulder, his grip significantly lighter than normal - your muscles still protested - and then he was gone.
The door clicked shut behind him, and just like that it was quiet.
You could just about hear the sound of cars out on track, but they were too far away.
Youâd held it together because of Sam. Alone though, was much harder.
The medic stood just in your periphery, waiting for your go-ahead.
âCan you tell me your name?â he asked gently.
You stared at him. ââŠSeriously?â
He gave a wry smile. âThe question set doesnât take your job into account.â
The snatch of pain when you rolled your eyes was worth it, but you gave your name anyway.
âAnd what race are we at?â
âCanada.â
âCan you recall what lap were you on?â
Easy. âTwenty -â
You paused.
The number slipped.
Just for a second.
ââŠeight?â
The pen stopped its scrawl on the page. âAre you asking me, or telling me?â
âTelling you. I saw the board on the straight,â you huffed.
Had you? On that lap?
He looked apologetic. âThese are standard checks.â
âYeah, I know what they are,â you snapped.
âWhy donât I stop the questions for a minute or two. Letâs do some physical checks.â
The blood pressure cuff still clung to your arm, lobsided from where Sam had placed it.
âYour heart rate is still a little high.â
âYeah. I just crashed at two hundred miles an hour,â you muttered.
âAnd?â
âAnd Iâm fine,â you told him through gritted teeth.
âOK, letâs listen to your lungs, check for bruising.â
The stethoscope was cold on your back, making you realise you were still shivering.
âTake a deep breath for me, please.â
You did.
It caught halfway in, tight and painful. The medic didnât comment.
He took a penlight and pointed it directly into your eyes. âFollow my light, please.â
You tracked the light from side to side.
âAny blurred vision?â
âNo.â You blinked. â⊠Just a bit when I move.â
The medic tsked. âThatâs still a yes.â
Your hands wouldnât stay still, not even when you clenched them.
You rubbed them together under the pretense of searching for warmth.
âNearly finished. Turn your head slowly to the left.â
You didnât listen to the slowly part.
You turned too fast -
- and the world tilted again, taking your stomach with it.
Just slightly.
You steadied yourself against the bed before he could comment.
ââM fine,â you mumbled a lot less convincingly.
Pain flared sharp behind your ear, pulling down your neck.
âDo you remember the crash?â
Great, he was back to the questions.
âI aquaplaned, itâs wetâ
âAfter that?â he pushed. âDo you remember the impact?â
Which one?
Do you remember the last time you almost lost him?
âThere was a car beside me.â
âWho?â
...
You looked away.
âDoes it matter?â
âNot to me,â he said simply. âYouâve got a mild concussion, youâre in shock, and thereâs some bruising on your ribs and shoulders -â
âIâm racing again in two weeks.â
âThatâll be down to your team doctor and the FIA, not me.â He glanced up from the paperwork with a brief smile. âFortunately. Iâd hate to be the one telling you youâre not driving.â
You shrugged guiltily. âIâm sorry. I - I didnât mean to make your job harder.â
He waved off the apology and gestured to his notes. âIâll get this written up and get you some painkillers. Rest. Please. Youâre safe in here, no one will come in.â
A muted TV flickered in the corner of the room.
You hadnât noticed it before.
You looked past the medic to see who was leading the race - and immediately wished you hadnât.
The replay rolled again.
The spray from Walkerâs car, the rain getting heavier.
Buckyâs car in-line with yours.
Your car snapping sideways -
You didnât watch the impact.
You couldnât.
Instead, your eyes dropped to your hands, like they might tell you something different this time.
They didnât.
When you looked up again, it was already over.
The Thunderbolt car had joined yours in the gravel.
But Bucky -
Bucky hadnât moved.
He sat there.
Like heâd forgotten how to get out.
Your jaw tightened.
Of course he didnât move.
Of course he didnât.
The image flickered -
And for a second it wasnât Canada.
It was humid.
Warm rain.
Your knees hitting gravel hard enough to bruise.
Hands slick with blood as you tore at his suit, screaming for someone - anyone - to help.
Move.
Move, Buck -
You blinked.
Back in the medical room.
Safe.
On the screen, on the replayâŠ
He was still sitting there.
Doing nothing.
Your jaw tightened.
Of course he didnât move.
Of course he didnât.
đïžđïžđïžđïž
The route to the medical centre was filled with chaos.
Team personnel, FIA officialsâŠ
None of them mattered.
Bucky barely slowed as he cut through them, still in his soaked race suit.
âMedical suite is closed -â one of the circuit staff started.
He didnât stop.
âI need to see her.â
âSir, you canât -â
âIâm her -â he stopped himself. âIâm not asking.â
That got some attention.
A couple of heads turned.
The door was right there.
Kamala Khan stepped in front of him, blocking the handle.
âSheâs being assessed.â
âI donât care,â Bucky snapped. âI just need -â
He cut himself off again, his jaw clenching hard enough to make his teeth ache.
âI need to see her.â
âYouâll have to wait.â
âIâm not waiting,â he growled quietly, somehow making things worse. âShe just went into the barrier at -â
âYeah, we know,â Kam snapped bitterly. âThatâs why sheâs here.â
Bucky felt something pull at him.
Guilt. Anger. Fear.
All tangled up so tightly it was impossible to tell where one ended and the next began.
âI put her there,â he said, like it would suddenly change Kamalaâs mind. Like sheâd suddenly open the door for him.
It didnât. She didn't.
âAll the more reason to give her space.â
For a second, he just stood there.
He stared at Kam who held his gaze.
His fist clenched and unclenched, debating whether to just take the handle clean off.
âShe hates me right now,â he said mostly to himself.
Kam didnât answer him.
Bucky dragged a hand through his damp hair and paced. Caged energy with nowhere to go. Race adrenaline which hadnât worn off.
âI just need to know sheâs OK.â
And there it was.
Kam frowned disapprovingly.
He wasnât there for you.
He was there for himself.
She didnât move from the doorway.
âIâm sure youâll find out when sheâs been cleared. I'll do a press release,â she said firmly. âItâll be around the same time the FIA decides how to punish you.â
That was it. Final.
He stared at the door a moment longer, wondering if he waited long enough, whether youâd come out anyway.
Then he left.
đïžđïžđïžđïž
There were raised voices outside.
You could hear Kamala using the tone she saved for fighting her way through the fanzones.
â- I need to see her -â
Your stomach dropped.
âSheâs being assessed.â
âI donât care,â Bucky snapped. âI just need -â
The voices dropped. You couldnât make out what was being said.
â- sure youâll find out when sheâs been cleared -â
Of course he was here.
Of course he didnât listen.
Of course he thought he could just walk in without being stopped.
You turned away from the door and back to the TV where Walker was still leading the race.
Kamâs knock was more tentative than Samâs.
âHey, I got you a change of clothes,â she smiled gently, placing jeans and a warm hoodie on the bed next to you.
You didn't look at her.
âHas he gone?â
Her hands stilled. âYou heard?â
âThin walls,â you shrugged.
âHeâs gone. Heâs not very happy about it, though.â
âThank you for keeping him away. And for this,â you gestured at the clothes. âI might get a hot shower first. Iâm freezing.â
âAdrenaline is wearing off,â Kam nodded knowingly. She pulled a chocolate bar from the pocket of her jacket. âYou need to boost your blood sugar. Eat this and as soon as youâre let out, Iâll take you the back way to the motorhomes.â
âOh fuck that,â you sighed. âWeâre going the public route.â
Kam pressed her lips together tightly. âStorm -â
âI'm serious. If Barnes wants to see Iâm OK so badly, he can see it with everyone else on Sky Sports.â
Your voice was steadier than it had felt since the crash.
âHmmâŠ. Speaking of, Ted Kravitz is hanging around. Waiting for you.â
âGood. Let's go give him what he wants.â
The medic cleared his throat.
âWhat do you think, Doc, am I good to go?â
He narrowed his eyes, then sighed. âFine. But you need to rest. Try and keep away from screens for a few hours.â
You glanced at the TV. ââŠRight.â
âI want you to monitor your symptoms, look out for the dizziness getting worse, any nausea, confusion -â
âIâm always confused,â you laughed. He didnât.
âAnd sensitivity to light.â
âYou got it.â
âThose bruises are gonna come out in a few hours and youâre gonna feel like youâve been hit by a truck -â
âThis isnât my first rodeo. Thank you, though.â
The medic didnât look convinced.
You didnât wait for him to be.
You hopped down from the bed. The room spun again - just a little this time - but still there. You ignored it.
âCâmon,â you said to Kam, already moving for the door.
She hesitated, concern etched on her face. âStorm -â
âIâm fine,â you cut in sharply.
Harsher than you meant to.
âIâm fine.â You tried again, a little softer, a little quieter.
Kam didnât argue. She grabbed the clothes and your helmet, and moved to your side, close enough that if you stumbled, sheâd catch you before anyone else noticed.
The noise hit you instantly when you opened the door, the lights were brighter. There was no press, fortunately, but the sounds of the crowd bled through the concrete walls.
You squared your shoulders.
Let them look.
Let them talk.
Let him see.
đïžđïžđïžđïž
It was even louder outside.
The sound of the crowd bounced off the water surrounding the island track.
You kept walking anyway.
Kam stayed close at your side, near enough that you could feel her there.
Just in case.
You were flagging. Every part of your body ached more and more as the adrenaline from the crash began to die away, leaving you cold from the dampness of your racesuit, and trembling from the onset of shock.
You wished youâd put the hoodie on.
âStay close,â Kam murmured.
âIâm not going to bolt,â you muttered.
âThatâs not what Iâm worried about.â
The noise of the crowd was building around you the more people spotted you.
âStorm! Storm!â A kid wearing your baseball cap leaned over the railing and waved. Behind them, phones were held up and fans called your name.
âYouâre OK, yeah?â
You lifted your hand and gave them a thumbs up, the same lie as before.
Kam spotted the moment the noise of the fans had alerted the media to your arrival. She angled herself across you, her warm hand gripping your wrist tightly.
âWeâre not taking any questions -â Kam started.
It didnât stop them trying.
You felt a dozen cameras locking on to you as they surged forward.
âThought you said it was just Ted?â you grimaced at the number of reporters gathered.
âIt was when I got here,â she frowned. âShall we go back inside?â
You shook your head, your vision dancing in protest. âNo, letâs get it over with.â
âGive us some space, please -â Kam ordered, forcing a space for you to follow her.
Questions rattled like gunfire.
âStorm! Was that reckless from Barnes?â
âDo you blame him for the crash?â
âAre you okay after that impact?â
âIs this going to affect your championship fight?â
One in particular stood out.
âStorm, is this what happens when you push too hard?â
It cut through the noise and the camera flashes.
Push too hard.
Just another way to paint you as reckless.
The sign theyâd hung around your neck before every race weekend.
The first thing they always reached for.
You stopped walking and turned to the reporter, Kamâs hand losing its grip. You hoped they didnât notice how you swayed on the spot.
The ground didnât feel quite solid under your boots.
The concrete felt like quicksand, like it might give way and suck you in if you shifted your weight.
You locked your knees and held yourself upright.
âIf you canât handle pressure, you shouldnât be on this grid,â you said to the camera hovering behind them.
âAre you saying Barnes canât handle it?â
âAre you saying you -â
âThatâs enough,â Kam cut in quickly, her hand found yours again, firmly this time, her fingers linking with yours in a gesture so welcomed, you thought for one horrible second that it might be the thing to make you crumble in front of the worldâs media. âThatâs it - sheâs just been cleared, give her some space.â
You didnât remember walking the next few steps, only the soft warmth of Kam's hand covering yours and squeezing gently.
I've got you.
The noise faded, sounding woolly in your ears.
Kam tightened her grip.
You didnât have to look at her to know she meant it.
âHey,â she said quietly, âyou still with me?â
âYeah.â you said quickly. âYeah. Kam, I -â
âHey - this is my job, OK? Youâre my job. Letâs get you out of here.â
She guided you through the crowd, the bodies and voices blurring together as you tried to keep up, your steps half a second behind your own thoughts.
You shouldâve taken another route.
All but one of the cameras stayed behind in the media area, a lone operator tailed you all the way to the garages, jogging to stay just ahead of you.
You shouldnât have looked.
But the screens were everywhere - mounted above food trucks, hanging from scaffolding, reflected in every glass surface.
They were impossible to avoid.
You saw yourself, looking drawn and tired, frowning at the camera.
You tried not to look again.
Then your eyes caught on another before you could stop yourself.
It wasn't showing the race, or the timings.
It had cut to him.
Sitting at the Thunderbolt pit-wall, a chair sandwiched between Bob and Ava.
His helmet off, hair damp and roughly pushed back.
He raised a hand in a half-hearted salute to the camera.
His hand -
Raw.
Grazed and red, the knuckles split.
Your stomach twisted.
Not concern.
Not really.
Just -
You wondered what heâd taken it out on.
Underneath his image flashed a news ticker.
Barnes receives ten second penalty in Monaco for crash with Storm.
Good.
Ten seconds wasnât much, but on a track like Monaco, it was everything.
You had to be fit to race and make the most of the opportunity.
You didnât look at the screens again. You didnât look for him.
You certainly didnât care what heâd broken.
đđđđ
The shower had been hot enough to scald, but the heat hadn't quite reached your bones yet.
The walk back to the motorhomes had sapped any remaining energy you had left so youâd left Kam just outside your room.
Her calm voice trickled through the door, washing over you like water.
She kept up a quiet commentary - Joaquinâs race, the uproar on Twitter, the fact youâd been followed all the way from medical to the motorhomeâŠ
You wrapped your hands around the AGP-branded travel mug she handed you afterwards, still trying to hide the shaking.
In the garage, no one stood on ceremony.
âHere she is. Good to see you back,â one of the engineers said warmly, nudging an empty chair toward you.
The pit crew had taken over your side of the garage, rows of folding chairs filled with yours and Joaquinâs technicians, all watching the last few laps of the race unfold.
You could just about hear the commentary from the monitors.
You could still feel it under your skin, the rhythm of the race hadnât left you yet.
It never really did.
But you werenât in it anymore.
You were⊠adjacent.
Surplus.
The crumpled car sitting on the back of a flatbed was more use than you were right now. An assortment of salvageable parts and total scrap - much like you felt.
You thought about sitting down beside them - no one would stop you.
You could slot back in like nothing had happened.
You wanted to.
God, you wanted to.
But your head still felt half a second behind everything else, there was still too much noise, and the lights felt like they could pierce the backs of your eyeballs.
And the thought of sitting still -
- of watching -
of not being able to do anything -
felt worse than the crash.
Sam didnât call your name.
He just stepped into your path like heâd been waiting for you to join him.
âTook the scenic route?â
âThought Iâd give them something to talk about,â you muttered.
His arms came around you without hesitation.
He was solid and warm, and at last, you felt something other than cold.
It was steady in a way nothing else had been since the crash.
He always had been.
You knew there were cameras.
You knew this would be on every feed within seconds, but you didnât pull away.
You let your forehead rest briefly against his shoulder.
Just long enough to steady yourself, just long enough to take a breath.
His hand came up to the back of your head instinctively, but then stopped short, not wanting to hurt you.
âI hope you were gentle with them after I left,â he teased.
âI was polite.â You mumbled into his sweater.
âThe FIA are going to want to see you before Monaco, check your good to drive.â
âI will be,â you glanced at the screens showing the championship leaderboard - Walker in third overall after your second place in Saudi and a win in Miami.
Then the graphic shifted.
Walker jumped above both you and BuckyâŠ
⊠into first.
You didn't react.
âHe hasn't won this race yet,â Sam said with an arched eyebrow.
You laughed, your ribs protesting. âBoss, he's got a five-second lead.â
The coverage switched to the battle between Joaquin and Ben Grimm for second place.
âCâmon, son -â One of the race engineers called out, his elbows on his knees, leaning forward.
There were only three laps left.
The gap didnât close - not fast enough.
On the monitors, Joaquin pushed hard through the final sector, the car chasing something that was always just out of reach.
âCâmon, câmon -â someone muttered beside you, their fingers tapping anxiously against their headset.
On track, Grimmâs car held firm.
The chequered flag came out before anything could change, less than half a second between them.
The garage erupted in a ripple of noise - relief, approval, a slightly muted celebration.
âP3, thatâs strong. Really strong,â one of the engineers said, already half-standing. âHe's a good lad.â
Not the weekend theyâd wanted, but still a podium.
You felt Sam shift slightly beside you, his shoulder brushing yours.
âGood drive,â he said.
It was, you thought, a flicker of pride cutting through the fog.
You watched as Joaquinâs car slowed on the cooldown lap,
Sam held out a headset. âHe's been asking about you. Wanna congratulate him?â
You hesitated - just for a second.
Then pulled it over your ears. âJoaquin, that's P3! Great drive, lindo - I'm proud of you!â
âWoooo! Querida! Te extrañé, me da gusto que estĂ©s bien! I missed you out here, girlie.â His voice crackled faintly over the radio - excited, breathless, proud.
You smiled.
It came more easily this time.
His voice contained the kind of energy you knew by heart.
The kind you shouldâve been part of.
Around you, the garage started to come alive again. The engineers hustled out of the garage and into the pitlane, making their way toward the podium.
You stayed where you were.
You reached out and wrapped your hands around your tea, long since gone lukewarm.
âStorm -â someone called, gesturing toward the monitors. âHeâll be buzzing if he sees you at the podium.â
You nodded.
âYeah,â you said.
Your voice sounded steady enough.
On screen, Joaquin climbed out of the car, punching the air as the crowd roared.
P3.
You exhaled slowly.
Then, with a small nod to yourself, you pushed up from the chair and out into the celebrations.
đïžđïžđïžđïž
Bucky had walked back from the medical bay in a daze.
Heâd told himself that he needed to see you, to know you were OK.
You were, and it didnât fix anythingâŠ
⊠And Kam - bright, brilliant Kam - who had spent her first five years at AGP doing for him exactly what sheâd done for Storm.
Sheâd shown no remorse or hesitation in sending him away.
Sheâd given him a look heâd never seen before - not even when sheâd visited him in hospital after his crash.
A look of pity.
He was disgusted in himself.
Heâd only ever been there for himself.
The countless hours of therapy following his crash - examining every modicum of his psyche⊠It had taught him to recognise the patterns of his self-destruction, just not how to stop him from repeating them.
That sorry task remained with him, and despite his promises to himself to do better, heâd still walked in there trying to take control instead of giving it to you.
Heâd trudged back to the Thunderbolt garage with a look so fierce even Martin Brundle gave him a wide berth.
The noise of the track followed him, the rain continued to seep through his racesuit and into his shoes.
He could hear snatches of commentary over the speakers, Walker well in the lead.
Your number was everywhere. Every other fan seemed to be wearing it.
The cold crept into his shoulder, making the seam between skin and vibranium ache.
Heâd always been so precise and deliberate on track.
The colour of your helmet flashed in the corner of his eye.
He felt his head turn towards it, a beacon calling him.
Was that it? Had he turned toward you on track? Inadvertently angled the car in your direction just for a glimpse?
A couple of engineers reached out to shake his hand as he wandered past them through the garage.
âShit happens, mate. Least you kept our car in one piece!â One joked.
ââBout time you got back,â Yelenaâs shout stirred him from the pitwall.
He checked for cars coming in to box and crossed to meet her.
âHad to swing by medical.â
âNot for yourself,â she rolled her eyes.
Next to her, Bob moved into an empty seat and left a space for him next to Ava.
His right hand flexed on the back of the chair as he lifted himself into it.
His knuckles stung.
Split skin, already stiffening, dried blood pulled tight across his hands.
At first, he didnât remember hitting anything.
Then it came back. The fog of anger and adrenaline he couldnât process on his way out of the medical block.
Heâd taken it out on something.
Old patterns.
He hadnât felt the blood.
He felt the focus of the cameras though, the unmanned lens mounted to the Thunderbolt pitwall.
âYou have a penalty in Monaco -â Yelena started, âand a fine for punching the security gate outside medical.â
He saluted the camera, knowingly showing his bloodied knuckles.
The garage was still loud behind him - cheers and voices rising as the team eagerly awaited Walkerâs win.
âYeah, itâs fine. Iâll pay up,â he shrugged.
âWeâll need to rethink the race strategy -â
âYep, I know.â
âJesus, Bucky, could you fucking engage here? Youâve just derailed this weekend, and Monaco -â
âDonât worry about it, sweetheart,â he muttered bitterly. âLooks like Johnnyâs got it handled. For once.â
She threw up her hands as he went to move, offering a nod to Bob as he left.
He couldnât stay at the pit wall.
Heâd tried for all of thirty seconds.
But the noise, the screens, the constant chatter in his ear, Yelenaâs sniping, none of it landed. None of it stuck.
It just slid straight past him.
He was moving again before the end of the race - not wanting to see an ending he wasnât part of.
From the garage, he briefly saw Walker take the win, the championship graphic shifting to bump him down the list into third overall.
And then the cameras cut to the AGP garage.
He finally got just a glimpse of you.
Drawn and tired, but watching. Smiling at Torresâ well-fought third place.
Alive and fine in a way that should make him feel relieved⊠instead it made the guilt worse, because you were fine despite him, not because of him.
He could hear the crowd getting louder as Walker pulled into parc ferme.
Around him, the crew began to assemble, ready to greet their winner at the podium, to celebrate.
Bucky wouldnât be there.
As if someone at the FIA were watching him watching the screens, the crash footage ran again.
Then a cut to you standing in the rain, screaming at him.
I trusted you.
Your biting comment rang in his ears.
You always had.
That was the problem.
From the moment youâd appeared at the dusty kart track outside Brooklyn with a helmet that didnât fit and knee pads that slid down every time you walked, youâd trusted him.
He was older, wiser, arrogant and smug.
A career plan heâd recited to you over lunch.
Heâd recited it to himself every night before he went to sleep from the age of six.
Karting til Iâm fourteen.
F4 for a couple of years, then F3, then F2.
Formula One by the time Iâm twenty-one.
Heâd been twenty-two.
Stepping into the second seat once Tony Stark retired and with a dominating Steve Rogers taking the number one car.
Heâd won three world championships before youâd even made it to Formula One.
No team had wanted to be the first one to promote a woman into their cars.
Five years his junior, and more years in the lower stages under your belt.
Youâd been Steveâs reserve driver first.
Then heâd moved on to your old team. It had been an intentional downshift. Bucky knew he wanted to coast his last couple of seasons while he held out for a senior role on Starkâs board - designing the cars rather than driving them.
Who better than an artist who knew every nut and bolt holding him off the track?
In the changes, youâd gone from always being right behind him to being up there next to him.
Ahead of him in so many ways.
He remembered your first Canadian race as an AGP driver.
He watched a wide stream of water make its way down the pitlane, people dodging the huge puddles on their way to the podium.
The rain had been just as relentless back then.
A three hour delay to the start of the race, drivers, engineers, mechanics all wandering around aimlessly, trying to keep themselves occupied.
Your solution had been paper boats.
He hadnât understood it at first.
Hours to kill, a championship on the line, and you were tearing pages out of a notebook like a bored kid.
âCâmon,â youâd said, not even looking up at him. âDonât tell me you donât know how to make one?â
He thought about it. He wasnât sure heâd ever even tried before.
Youâd even coloured in the paper - as much as you could with a narrow selection of ballpoint pens.
Each crease sharpened under your nails until the little boat stood proudly beneath the TV screens showing an impatient crowd.
You balanced little haribo bears inside as boat crew, then you crouched in the rain outside the garage.
It dripped down from the gutter and into the back of your racesuit, youâd squealed from the chill.
The little boat floated in the puddle running through the pitlane. With an official salute and a wave, youâd sent it down stream towards your former garage - Green Machine Racing Hulks - where Bruce and Steve eagerly awaited its arrival.
At itâs destination, Bruce stepped out to catch the boat and held it aloft with a grin.
âHey, thanks Storm!â
Youâd bounced on your heels, happy in the rain.
Ten minutes later, heâd had joined you with boat of his own, as had MâBaku and the Starmachine team of James Rhodes and Peter Quill.
Peter Parker had dug a whiteboard out from under one of the benches and was creating a leaderboard.
Bucky had laughed in pure disbelief as David Croft and the Sky F1 media team decided to televise the boat races, complete with commentary.
âThis is ridiculous,â he muttered from underneath an AGP umbrella.
âThis is whimsy, Barnes,â you grinned. âLive a little!â
Heâd seen you like this before - countless times - youâd always been so full of light and impossible to ignore.
But it hadnât felt like this.
The rain blurred everything around you, turning the paddock into nothing but streaks of colour and movement, but youâd turned back to him and smiled.
Soft and unguarded.
It caught somewhere in his chest.
Heâd known, of course. He wasnât blind.
They way you hovered around him for just half a second too long, the way even after all these years your attention always circled back to him.
Subtle, but not as subtle as you thought.
Heâd made a point not to encourage it. He kept everything above board, called you kiddo at every opportunity.
But you werenât a kid.
And something had shifted.
You werenât looking at him like he was untouchable anymore.
You were looking at him like you already had all of the answers.
He held your gaze for a moment too longâŠ
Long enough to realise it - long enough to feel it.
Then he went back to the garage like nothing had happened.
The noise snapped him back to the present, a season where your relationship - whatever it had been, or could have been - had fractured beyond repair.
You no longer looked at him like you used to.
You looked straight through him.
Heâd hoped to be hiding in the hospitality suite by the time the team returned from the podium, but the steady drips of rain had pulled his attention for too long.
Out in the pitlane, Walker stood with the trophy in his hands.
The mechanics around him cheered and laughed, clapping him on the back and opening bottles of beer.
Bucky turned to leave before he could be dragged into the celebrations.
âHell of a call in the wet, Barnes,â Walker called.
Bucky stopped slowly.
Walker set the trophy down on a stack of tyres.
âDidnât think you took risks like that anymore.â
Bucky didnât turn around.
âGuess you were wrong.â
The noise carried on around them, he heard the squeak of Walkers wet shoes on the polished floor as he took a step closer.
âThey gave you ten seconds.â
Buckyâs jaw tightened, he half turned, not quite enough to look Walker though. âYeah.â
âThatâs about right,â he nodded.
Bucky finally glanced at him. Walker held his gaze for a second, then looked past him instead.
âBrazil was⊠what? Five?â
There it was.
Bucky said nothing.
Walker huffed a humourless laugh.
âWasnât enough.â
No Iâm sorry.
Not even close. Buckyâs hand flexed at his side, the split skin stinging as it pulled tight.
âNo,â he said evenly. âIt wasnât.â
There was another pause as Walker shifted his weight, looking at the screens, the back of the garages - anywhere but directly at Bucky.
âShe walked away.â
It was meant as reassurance.
You were fine.
Buckyâs expression didnât change though.
âYeah,â he said eventually.
But it didnât sound like agreement.
Walked looked back at him. Frustrated with the nothing Bucky was giving him.
No anger, no absolution.
Just space.
Whatever it was, Walker swallowed it down again.
âIt wasnât enough,â he repeated, picking the trophy back up. âSee you in Monaco.â
Bucky didnât answer.
Walker didnât wait.
At the back of the garages, those not celebrating were packing.
A familiar figure leaned against the wall, out of sight of the media and away from the rain.
âIf youâre here to chew me out -â
âNow why would I do that?â Sam said lightly. âItâs not like you took out my top driver today.â
Bucky bristled. âI went to apologise.â
âYeah, I know. You know she wonât want to hear it though.â
Bucky nodded, the cold from the rain starting to sink into his racesuit. He hadnât bothered changing after the crash.
âYou look like shit, man.â
âThanks, brother.â
He felt the pause as Sam looked around. Not uncertain, just waiting.
Sam was sure about everything.
âYou got a ride back to the States?â he asked.
Bucky looked up sharply. âJust with the team,â he gestured toward the Thunderbolt garage.
Sam followed the movement, then let his gaze drift past it towards the AGP garage.
âCome on the Stark jet. Weâll talk on the way back.â
It wasnât a request, or a suggestion.
Bucky hesitated. âI dunno, man⊠that feels like a bad idea.â
Sam didnât reply.
âSheâs gonna freak -â
âDonât worry about Storm,â Sam cut in. âThatâs my job.â
Something in his tone made Bucky look away.
âSee you at the airfield,â he added. âWe take off at ten.â
He walked past Bucky without a goodbye, heading for the small cluster of media outside the AGP motorhomes.
The hospitality suite was louder that it had been all afternoon.
Not with race tension, but something looser and more celebratory.
Walkerâs win had settled in.
Bucky still barely registered it.
He cut through the back of the suite, already halfway out of his racesuit, ignoring the glances thrown his way - some curious, some cautious.
âBarnes.â
Yelena.
Of course.
He didnât stop straight away.
She was leaning back against the coffee bar with her arms folded. Her expression was unreadable which usually meant sheâd already worked out how angry with him she still was.
âYouâre not going to the debrief,â she said.
Bucky pulled one arm free from the suit. âNo.â
He shrugged. âNot much point when I didnât finish the race, I got nothing to debrief.â
âYou got somewhere else to be?â
âYeah. Iâve got another ride back.â
Alexei let out a short laugh from somewhere behind her. âOf course. Winter Soldier need to decompress.â
Yelena tilted her head slightly, studying him.
âYouâre going back with them,â she said simply.
Again - it wasnât a question.
Bucky didnât answer.
Something flickered across her expression - gone almost as quickly as it appeared. Frustration, again.
âTry not to punch anything on the way out,â she added dryly.
She glanced at his knuckles.
Bucky huffed something that mightâve been a laugh.
âYeah,â he muttered.
He turned before she could say anything else.
âEh, Barnes - try to extract some secrets from the opposition, da?â Alexei laughed, it boomed through the suite.
Bucky raised a hand in acknowledgement as he departed.
Behind him, the suite carried on celebrating.
đïžđïžđïžđïž
The AGP plane was already boarding by the time he got there.
Samâs invitation didnât feel like an olive branch - it felt more like a test, or a trap.
Maybe both.
He knew full well what would be sitting between them on that plane.
He climbed aboard the familiar Stark Industries jet to find Sam already pouring him a drink.
âWasnât sure youâd come,â he said, one eyebrow raised.
He passed Bucky the glass and gestured to a seat.
âDidnât feel like I really had a choice,â he admitted, setting his backpack down.
âYouâve always had choices, Buck.â
Bucky hummed thoughtfully.
âShe here yet?â
âShe was waiting on Joaquin. Theyâre on their way.â
Sam settled into a window seat, leaving the space across the table open for him.
Bucky didnât sit.
His gaze drifted instead to the table further down the cabin.
The one he knew too well.
Where heâd sit with you and review every second of whichever race youâd been in that day.
He could almost hear it -
âYou gotta hold the line there, babe - donât leave the door open.â
âThereâs a whole ass kerb there, Buck, thatâs not my line!â
âYou make it your line. Donât give this guy an option.â He tapped the screen, pointing at the car edging alongside you. âHold it.â
âYeah, yeah, whatever you say,â you muttered, but you tucked yourself closer anyway, your head settling against his shoulder.
Your eyes slipped shut.
You smelled like shampoo and the insanely expensive moisturiser youâd taken to using⊠but underneath it there was still smell rubber and champagne.
âEarth to Bucky.â
The memory snapped, disappearing from reach.
He blinked.
âSorry - what?â
Sam watched him carefully.
âI asked if you were gonna sit down,â he said mildly, âor if youâre planning on playing air hostess.â
âAnd here I thought pretty boy Joaquin had already filled that position.â
Your voice cut through the quiet cabin, precise and razor sharp.
Bucky turned to find you already halfway down the aisle, Joaquin followed just behind you.
âDamn right Iâm pretty,â he quipped with an easy grin, taking no offense at your tone. âI look even better in a mini-skirt.â
You looked at Bucky for half a second, there was no warmth or hesitation.
He may as well have been a stranger.
âSam,â you said, nodding once you reached the table.
âHey Storm.â He gestured at the seat across from him, the one Bucky hadnât yet taken. âYou wanna sit?â
You didnât.
Instead you reached out and took a bottle of water from the table.
âHowâs the head?â Sam asked, stealing a glance at Bucky.
âIâve had worse.â
You finally looked at Bucky again, taking him in from undamaged head to toe.
âI didnât realise we were opening this flight up to guests,â you said with disdain.
Your gaze flicked to the end table, then away again like it meant nothing.
âCâmon cariño, letâs leave these guys to it,â Joaquin interrupted, nudging you gently. âYou need to rest.â
You squeezed past Bucky and moved to the back of the cabin, as he followed, Joaquin held his hand out to Bucky.
âGood to see you, man. Tricky race,â he said sympathetically.
Sam grinned and shot Joaquin a wink.
âSo, now you gonna sit?â
Bucky took the seat across from Sam, giving him a perfect view of the back of the cabin.
Youâd already claimed the corner, your arms crossed on the table and your head resting on top.
Next to you, Joaquin took a deck of cards from the pocket of his jacket and dealt two each.
You moved sluggishly and picked up the cards.
Buckyâs hand tightened around the glass in his hand.
âCareful,â Sam said lightly. âThatâs Starkâs crystal.â
Bucky didnât look away.
âSheâs not sitting up here?â
Sam followed his line of sight and watched as Joaquin beat you.
You rolled your eyes at his victorious laugh, but smiled anyway.
âWell she doesnât want to sit with you,â Sam said, leaning back in his seat.
Bucky finally looked across the table.
Sam was already watching him.
Above him, the seatbelt light flicked on and Bucky felt the jet rumbling underneath him.
âSo you gonna keep staring, or you actually wanna talk about what happened out there?â
Bucky sighed.
âIt was a mistake, the rain -â
âRight, the rain.â
Buckyâs voice dropped. âYou think I woulda done something like that on purpose? Câmon Sam, I thought we were friends -â
âAre friends, Buck. Just cos you moved teams⊠weâve got a lot of history. I donât want to lose that.â
An uneasy silence settled between them, punctuated only by the occasional laugh from the back of the cabin and the rush of air outside as the plane gathered speed on the runway.
Sam let the glass rest loosely in his hand.
âYou know what nearly broke this team?â
Bucky watched the comfortable shorthand you had with Joaquin, the same as the one you used to share with him.
âTony Starkâs ego?â
âFunny, but no.â
Bucky didnât respond, just looked back down the cabin.
âWinning stopped being enough.â
âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â Bucky asked, bringing his attention back to the table.
The plane turned, tilting to show the city of Montreal lit up in the night sky.
âIt means,â Sam said carefully, âit stopped being about racing.â
He took his own opportunity to look back at you, still quietly chatting with Joaquin, your eyes getting heavier.
You moved gingerly, your arms drawn around you to protect your ribs, the bruises he couldnât see.
âWe didnât change because we got soft,â Sam said. âWe changed because we almost lost her.â
âSheâs fine,â Bucky said.
Sam didnât look at him.
âNo,â he said quietly. âShe isnât.â
Bucky exhaled, impatiently. âShe walked away.â
âI know.â
He looked back at Bucky shrewdly.
âBut you didnât see her last year.â
Buckyâs brow furrowed. âWhat do you mean?â
Silence stretched between them.
âShe thought she had something to prove,â he said at last. âTo the media. To the paddock.â
âShe didnât -â
âTo you.â
That stopped him.
âShe stopped pacing herself,â Sam said. âShe stopped listening. Every run had to be faster than the last one. Every lap had to be cleaner, tighter.â
Bucky looked down at his hands, then up at you.
Joaquin was still talking, filling the silence, but Bucky could tell you werenât really listening.
You nodded at the right moments, detached until Joaquin sighed and with a soft smile, opened his arms out to you.
You slotted in easily, your head on his heart while he continued to talk.
Bucky didnât look away quickly enough.
The warmth Torres gave you was effortless.
Something Bucky had long since lost the right to.
He turned away, back to Sam who watched him intently.
âShe wouldnât let it get like that.â
âShe did. She wasnât driving to win anymore,â Sam added. âIt was like she was trying to exorcise you somehow -â
There was a long pause as Sam stopped himself.
âWe used to let that kind of thing slide,â he went on. âStark thought it was what made champions.â
âWhat changed?â Bucky asked, quietly.
Sam finally looked at him.
âShe did.â
Another beat.
âShe scared the hell out of all of us,â he said. âTony included, he damn near staged an intervention. Thatâs why she spent her summer break at a wellness retreat.â
Buckyâs jaw tightened.
âWe had to decide what kind of team we were going to be,â Sam said. âBecause if we kept going the way we wereâŠâ
He didnât finish it.
He didnât need to.
Bucky swallowed.
âIâm the reason sheâs even hereâ
Sam looked up sharply.
âThe hell you are, don't flatter yourself.â
He shook his head and looked out of the window.
âI would've signed her before you,â he added quietly. âYou really think you were the reason we met? I'd been watching her since day one.â
Bucky didn't interrupt.
âYou didnât put her in that seat. I did. And you may remember her being easy, but she wasnât. She's worked just as hard as anyone else on that grid.â
Joaquin slid into the empty seat beside Sam.
Bucky looked down the cabin where he could just about see your sleeping form laying across the chairs.
âYou weren't there, hombre. You pushed her away, we picked up the pieces. If you're mad about that, that's on you.â Joaquin shrugged as if it were the most simple truth of all.
Delivered to him by someone who may as well have been a complete stranger.
Sam took a long drink, then reached for the bottle in the table.
âBet you don't get this kind of moral support from the Thunderbolts,â he teased.
Bucky didn't reply.
He couldn't bring himself to admit that Sam, and Joaquin, were right.
It felt - you felt - so far removed now from the life he'd known.
He looked over at you. Asleep under Torres's jacket. Your face finally unguarded in a way it hadn't been with him since before Mexico.
âShe's gonna race in Monaco, isn't she?â
Sam didn't answer straight away.
"Get some sleep, Buck."
Driver Standings after Canada:
Taglist pt.2
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