Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The paddock wakes up in layers.

First come the trucks. The doors groan open and slam shut with a racket like someone dropping sheet pans in a kitchen the size of a city block. Then the smell hits: fuel, hot rubber, scorched electronics, and the bitter, industrial-strength espresso that only gets brewed when no one has slept for three days.

Mechanics crawl out of the garages looking like they were grown under fluorescent lights and carbon fiber dust. Someone is already shouting about telemetry. Someone else is trying to juggle a laptop, a headset, and three tangled cables while backing out of a garage without tripping over a tire trolley.

Typical morning race stuff.

Heat shimmers off the asphalt in front of the McLaren garage. James stares at it through his visor until his eyes sting. The air ripples and warps, making the track look like it’s vibrating. He’s so tired the distortions start looking like little wiggly dudes. Just... tiny, blurry guys wobbling around on the tarmac.

He decides they’re doing a little dance. It’s a nice dance.

A marshal walks past the pit lane with a stack of orange cones tucked under one arm. In this job, you’re usually expected to give the "professional driver" nod, but James doesn't really do "professional."

He waves with a big, frantic arm flap over his head, like he’s trying to catch a friend's attention at a crowded airport. It is an absurdly cheerful gesture for a man sitting in a car that costs more than several apartment complexes combined.

The marshal laughs and waves back.

James beams. He pulls his helmet on, the carbon fiber shell with his name painted across the side settling into place. It’s a serious piece of safety equipment, but he wears it like a kid wearing a superhero mask.

“Radio check,” his engineer’s voice crackles in his ear, sounding flat and professional.

“Loud and clear!” James chirps. He answers so fast it’s like he’s been sitting in the dark just waiting for a reason to talk. “Oh, and also—this might be weird, but your coffee smells amazing from here. Is that hazelnut?”

There’s a long, heavy silence on the other end of the line. You can practically hear the engineer rubbing his temples. “…James.”

“Right. Sorry. Focus. Race mode.” James sits up a little straighter, gripping the steering wheel.

"..." A few seconds of static pass. James fidgets. He can’t help himself.

“…It is hazelnut though, right?”

“…Yes, James. It’s hazelnut.”

“Nice.” James nods to himself inside the cockpit like this information has significantly improved his morning.

The thing about James—according to every journalist who has ever had to hit a word count on him—is that he just doesn’t act like a Formula One driver is supposed to act. Most are built out of polished soundbites and PR-approved nods. They say things like “the team worked hard” and “we’ll look at the data.”

Then there’s James Partoza who never really got the memo.

James once accidentally complimented a rival team’s pit strategy during a live post-race broadcast. He actually apologized for it mid-sentence because he remembered, halfway through the thought, that he was technically supposed to be annoyed by it. He’s also the only driver on the grid to ever give a podium interview that included the phrase: “I totally forgot which corner I overtook him on, but man, it felt really cool.”

The fans absolutely love him for it. It’s a good thing too because being charming wouldn’t matter nearly as much if he couldn't actually drive.

James isn’t one of those "once-in-a-generation" prodigies that commentators talk about in holy, glazing whispers. He isn’t untouchable, and he definitely isn't a robot. He makes the kind of mistakes that make his engineers want to retire early.

Everyone remembers the time he went into a full-blown panic, shouting over the radio that he’d ‘lost his steering wheel’ while he was literally using it to steer through Turn 6. The engineers had to confirm—twice—that the steering wheel was still attached.

Then there was the legendary Saturday in Monaco. James had sprinted back to the hospitality suite, breathless and sweating, because he was convinced he’d forgotten his car keys. His trainer had to gently remind him in a shouting voice (in front of three rolling cameras live by the way) that Formula One cars don’t have ignitions, let alone keys!

James had just blinked, laughed, and said, “Right. Yeah. Obviously. Just checking if you knew.”

But when the visor drops, he’s locked in. Because the second he’s on a lap, he doesn’t choke. He drives like he’s having the time of his life, and that makes him unpredictable. And being unpredictable in a car going two hundred miles per hour is how you win.

Last year he won his first race in rain so heavy the cameras could barely see the track. Visibility was awful. Spray turned every straight into a gray tunnel and half the grid drove like they were tiptoeing across ice.

James drove like he’d done it a hundred times before. And he crossed the finish line laughing.

Two races later he buried the exact same car in a gravel trap while waving at fans during a cooldown lap. “My bad!”

The interview tent is cold. It’s the kind of air-conditioned chill that makes the sweat on the back of James’s neck turn clammy and his hands go numb. Or maybe it’s just the nerves. Probably the nerves.

He’s standing there, shivering slightly in his damp racing suit while a reporter shoves a microphone toward his face. Milo had finished two places ahead of him today, a gap that usually turns teammates into enemies.

“You two seem… unusually relaxed around each other for Formula One teammates,” the reporter says, leaning in like she’s trying to catch a secret. “Especially after a result like today.”

James frowns. He looks genuinely stumped, like she just asked him why he bothers to breathe air.

“Wait, why is that strange?” James asks, tilting his head. “Milo was just faster. Like, way faster. Did you see his sector two? It was incredible! I asked him how he did it and he told me he just ‘read the strategy sheet and braked later,’ which is honestly such a nerdy answer, but hey—it worked.”

The reporter blinks, waiting for the "but" or the part where he complains about the car or the mechanics. It doesn't come.

“But aren't you… frustrated?” she tries again. “He’s got the same car as you. He’s the first person you’re supposed to beat.”

“I mean, yeah, I’d like to be faster,” James says. For a second, he actually looks like he’s reflecting on his career. Then his face brightens. “But if I can’t win, I’m glad it’s him. Plus, it’s not like he got on the podium either, so in a way, it’s a draw. And that’s a win-win, right? I mean, it’s also a lose-lose, technically, but you get the point!”

He gives a thumbs-up to a nearby camera, looking completely confident that his "draw" analogy made perfect sense.

Race weekends start early.

Earlier than people think. Earlier than the broadcast graphics and the pre-race shows and the helicopters hovering over the circuit.

Drivers are usually ghosts this time of morning. They do the power-walk: sunglasses on, head down, a quick polite wave that says please don’t stop me. They’re in and out before the crowd even realizes they’ve passed.

James Partoza tries to do the ghost thing. He really does. He gets about six steps past the turnstile before someone in the crowd shouts his name, and his brain just... short-circuits. He stops instantly, his head snapping toward the sound like a golden retriever that just heard the word treat. He can't help it. The professional "ignore everyone" mode doesn't exist in his settings.

There’s a cluster of fans mashed against the metal barrier, a messy sea of papaya-orange shirts and crumpled caps. Phones are already out, and someone is waving a sign that looks like it was colored in with highlighter.

And then, right in the front row, James sees a kid holding a car.

James stops dead. What he finds even cooler than a die-cast model is that this thing is handmade. It’s a paper model, the kind you print off a website and attack with a pair of kitchen scissors. The rear wing is crooked. One of the sidepods has a visible fold where the paper didn’t quite line up. There’s so much Elmer's glue around the suspension arms that the wheels have fused to the chassis.

It looks like it would fall apart if the kid breathed too hard. In fact, it looks like it’s about to disintegrate right now because the kid is gripping it with the white-knuckled force of a true believer.

James’s security escort lets out a very quiet, very professional sigh.

“Morning!” James says. He steps right up to the barrier, oblivious to the fact that his trainer is currently tapping a watch.

The kid stunned like he didn’t expect the plan to actually work.

James drops into a full catcher’s squat, oblivious to the damp pavement. He studies the paper car with the terrifying seriousness of a lead engineer evaluating a prototype in a wind tunnel. He tilts his head. He squints at the lopsided rear wing. He carefully takes the car into his hands, rotating it like it’s made of thin glass.

“Whoa,” James says softly. “Did you build this yourself?”

The kid’s eyes go wide, almost forgetting to respond. The kid nods so hard his hat nearly falls off.

James whistles under his breath, a low sound of genuine respect. “This is incredible. Seriously.”

He points a finger at the wonky rear wing. “Look at this downforce situation you’ve got going on here. It’s aggressive. High-drag, high-reward. I like the vision.”

“James,” the security guard prompts. “Engineering briefing. Three minutes ago.”

“Hang on,” James says. He doesn't even look up. He’s already reaching for a silver marker someone in the crowd is holding out.

He signs the top of the paper engine cover, moving the pen with agonizing care so the ink doesn't bleed through and ruin the structural integrity of the paper. Then he hands the car back like he’s returning a trophy.

“Take good care of it,” he says. “That’s a one-of-a-kind aero package right there.”

The kid nods again, speechless.

“And hey,” James adds, leaning a little closer over the metal rail. “Next version? Make the wheels spin. That’s how you get the extra tenths in the corners. Total game changer.”

The kid finally breaks into a laugh.

James straightens up and starts jogging backward toward the paddock entrance, throwing a frantic salute to the rest of the fans. “See you guys after the race! Drink some water! It’s gonna be a scorcher!”

His security escort shakes his head as they pass through the final checkpoint. “You’re late. Again.”

James glances over his shoulder. The kid is still standing there, holding that glued-together mess of paper like it’s the most valuable thing in the world.

“Worth it,” James says.

Then he disappears into the McLaren garage, looking like a man who has absolutely forgotten he was ever in a rush.

Inside the cockpit, the world is reduced to a narrow strip of gray asphalt and the flashing shift lights on the steering wheel. James is breathing in a rhythmic, jagged cadence, his neck muscles straining against the G-force as he throws the McLaren into the penultimate corner.

"Gap to the Leclerc is point-eight," Gabe crackles over the radio. The engineer’s voice is tight, stripped of its usual long-suffering patience. "He's struggling with his rear tires. This is the lap, James. Don't overthink it."

James doesn't reply. He doesn't need to.

He sees the opening before the Ferrari even leaves the apex. It’s a gap the size of a postage stamp, shimmering in the heat haze. A rookie would wait for a better line. A clinical driver would check his deployment and wait for DRS.

James just sends it.

The car screams as he downshifts, the floorboard vibrating against his boots like a live wire. For a split second, he’s side-by-side with a world champion, their wheels inches apart, the high-speed blur of Ferrari Red and McLaren Papaya. James holds his breath, leaning into the physics of the machine, trusting the carbon fiber not to betray him as they scream toward the exit.

Then, he’s clear. The red car shrinks in his mirrors.

"P3, James! P3! Keep it tidy, three laps to go!"

James doesn't cheer yet. He just grips the wheel tighter. The goofy kid who tripped over a tire trolley this morning is gone. In his place is a predator who just found blood in the water.

He crosses the line ten minutes later, the checkered flag waving against a bruised orange sky. High above him, the new driver of the silver Mercedes has already taken the win, but for James, this feels like the world.

"YES! HAHA! YES!" he screams into the helmet, the adrenaline finally breaking the dam. "Did you see that?! Gabe, tell me you saw that move!"

"We saw it, James. Incredible drive. Bring it home."

By the time the garage finally starts quieting down, the paddock has slipped into that strange, blue in-between hour. The sun has dipped behind the grandstands, leaving the sky the color of a fresh bruise, and the humid air is thick with the smell of scorched carbon fiber and high-octane exhaust.

The roar of the crowd has faded into a distant, rhythmic murmur—thousands of people shuffling toward the exits. In its place, the industrial thunder of the "tear-down" begins. Heavy transport crates roll across the concrete with a low, bone-shaking rumble.

James is still buzzing, a live wire in a room of exhausted people.

He’s halfway out of his race suit, the heavy fireproof sleeves tied clumsily around his waist. His white undershirt is damp with sweat, and his hair is sticking up in jagged tufts that defy basic aerodynamics—the "helmet hair" of a man who just pulled off the overtake of the season. He’s holding a bottle of water he keeps forgetting to drink, using it to trace an imaginary racing line through the air as he talks.

“—no, but you should’ve seen it from the cockpit,” he’s telling a tire engineer, his eyes wide and bright. “Gabe is in my ear going 'back off, James, watch the rears,' and I’m looking at the Ferrari’s gearbox thinking, 'okay, this is either going to be legendary or I’m going to be explaining this to the stewards for the next three hours—'”

A few mechanics chuckle. James grins, riding the high.

“—and then the car just stuck. Like she knew exactly what I wanted. Best date I've ever had.” He finally takes a long, desperate swig of the water, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Anyway, I’m telling you, that move—”

“James.”

It’s Gabe. The engineer is leaning against a tool chest, his headset hanging loose around his neck like a heavy collar. He isn't smiling. He isn't scowling, either. He just looks… worried.

James pauses, the water bottle halfway to his lips. “What's up?”

Gabe jerks his head toward the back corridor, toward the glass-walled offices where the air conditioning actually works and the floors are too clean. “Team principal wants a word. You and Milo.”

James blinks. The adrenaline stutters in his chest. “Now? Like, right now? I haven't even had a shower. I smell like a burnt radiator.”

“Now,” Gabe repeats.

The energy in the garage doesn’t shift dramatically. No one drops a wrench. But James feels the air get thinner. He looks around, but the mechanics are suddenly very busy with their data logs.

“Okay,” James says, trying to find his grin again. He tosses the water bottle into a bin and misses. “Did I break something? Is this about the celebratory donuts? Because the fans loved those.”

“Not today,” Gabe says. He doesn't follow up with a joke. He doesn't even meet James’s eyes.

The hallway is a different world. The fluorescent lights buzz with a high-pitched frequency that sets James’s teeth on edge, reflecting off the polished white floor like stagnant water. His racing boots, still caked with bits of track rubber, make a sticky scritch-pop sound with every step.

The meeting room door is already open. Milo is already there.

Milo is sitting at the long glass table, fingers interlaced. He’s still zipped all the way up in his suit. James slows down as he enters, his damp undershirt sticking to the cold leather of the chair.

“Oh. Team meeting?” James asks, sliding into the seat beside him.

Milo looks up. His expression is unreadable. “Looks like it,” he says.

The Team Principal clears his throat, a sound that feels too loud for the size of the room. James sits up a little straighter. That’s when he notices who else is there. The Performance Director. Someone from the board he only ever sees when contracts are involved. A laptop is open on the table, the screen casting a pale blue glow across the polished wood.

This definitely isn’t a “nice overtake today” meeting.

“First of all,” the Principal says, his voice steady and practiced. “Good race today. Both of you. The double-points finish is exactly what the team needed after the last few rounds.”

Milo nods once. James nods too, still riding the leftover buzz of the podium ceremony, the champagne probably still drying in his hair.

“As you know,” the Principal continues, “this is the point in the season where teams begin looking ahead.”

He clicks the remote. The laptop screen changes. A news headline fills the room:

Under it is a photo from earlier that afternoon: Adonis standing on the top step of the podium in his silver suit, champagne still dripping from his jaw. He looks like a statue. Perfect.

James blinks. “Whoa,” he says under his breath. He leans forward, squinting at the screen. “He’s leaving? After a win? That’s… bold. Man, I wonder where he's going. Imagine being that fast and just saying 'nah, I'm good.'"

No one reacts. James glances sideways at Milo.

Milo hasn’t moved. Not even a little. He’s gone absolutely, terrifyingly still. The stillness is strange enough that James’s grin fades slightly.

The Team Principal folds his hands on the table. “He’s exploring opportunities for next season,” he says. Another pause. “And we are one of the teams currently in discussions with his management.”

The words land quietly. No drama. No raised voices. Just information.

James nods slowly. “Oh,” he says. He looks back at the screen again. At the photo. At the name. Adonis Reyes. The guy who just won the race. The guy who is currently the most wanted man in the paddock.

James exhales through his nose. “That’d be… huge for the team,” he says. His voice is a little smaller now, the logic finally starting to untangle in his head.

Across the table, Milo is still staring at the screen. James has never seen him that still.

The Principal closes the laptop. The blue light disappears from the room, leaving them in the dim, warm glow of the office lamps.

“We’ll keep you both updated as discussions progress,” he says. “For now, focus on the remaining races.”

The meeting is clearly over. Chairs shift. Papers move.

James stays seated for a second longer than everyone else. Something about the room suddenly feels different. The air-conditioned chill feels sharper against his sweaty skin.

The smile he’s been wearing since the podium—since his rookie days—finally slips off his face. For the first time, James Partoza doesn’t know what to say.

He stands up, his boots squeaking on the floor, and follows Milo out into the hallway. Outside, he can still hear a mechanic laughing in the distance, but for James, the music has stopped.