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charanteleclerc · 5 years ago

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the sunsets will wait for us

For xoxodelvidestruction as part of the Summer Break Fic Exchange 2019. As usual, crossposted to my AO3 (Charante_Leclerc). Prompts are always open. Enjoy! ❤️

There was something about lying on a beach, pretending that the world didn’t exist. The sun was warm, the sand was soft and white, and the sound of families and children having fun was almost like a lullaby. He’d chosen a beach in Sicily, knowing that no-one he knew was going to be there. Everyone else was either on holiday on some far-away destination, or staying at home. He was far away from everyone, and he loved it.

“This is the life.” He smiled, putting his shades on. “I’m never leaving this beach.”

“I think McLaren might have something to say about that.” He heard someone say from above him. Someone who sounded a lot like…

“Robert?” Fernando peered over his shades, frowning. “What are you doing here?”

“Escaping the world, probably like what you are doing.” Robert shrugged. “I have been coming here for years.”

“It is a lovely beach.” Fernando sighed. “I have never been more comfortable.”

Robert laughed, dropping onto the sand by Fernando. “It is pretty perfect here. And do you know what makes it even more perfect?”

“What is it?”

“There is the best ice-cream shop round the corner. We could go and get some, come back and eat them? If you wanted some company?”

He’d come to find some solitude, away from everyone. He was trying to put the first half of the season behind him, and he was hoping that a bit of peace and quiet would do the trick. But having Robert around didn’t feel like an intrusion, it never had done. And Robert was far enough removed from his life at the minute, it wasn’t really like his career was following him. Not completely.

“Sure, that sounds good.” Fernando yawned, pushing himself up. “I don’t know how I am tired, I’ve only been napping on the beach all day.”

“It’s the most tiring thing, doing nothing.” Robert gave him his hand, pulling Fernando up. “Come on, ice-cream is waiting!”

~*~

“You’re right, this ice-cream is fantastic.” Fernando moaned, tilting his head back. “I want to marry this ice-cream.”

“Told you.” Robert grinned. “I said it was the best ice-cream.”

“Do you think that they can move around with me?” Fernando asked. “I’ll pay them double. No, triple! They could be my own personal ice-cream people!”

“I think that ice-cream is getting to your head.” Robert chuckled. “So, did you have anything else planned for the day? Or just lying on the beach?”

“Lying on the beach is good.” Fernando tried to defend. “But I was not expecting company, and now that you’re here… it might be nice to do something. What do you normally do here?”

“Well, there’s going back to the beach. Or swimming. Or there’s a swim park, that’s not far away.”

“There’s an amusement park?!” Fernando cried, almost losing control of his ice-cream. “You needed to lead with that!”

“Ice-cream the swim park?” Robert asked, keeping an eye on Fernando’s ice-cream.

“Ice-cream, then more ice-cream, then swim park. Then maybe more ice-cream.” Fernando corrected. “I never want to leave this place, are you sure they can’t come with me?”

“Pretty sure.”

~*~

“Oh my god…” Fernando breathed, looking around with wide eyes. “This is heaven.”

“And you had planned to just stay on the beach all day.” Robert shook his head. “No adventure Alonso. You have no adventure.”

“I have lots of adventure, just watch.” Fernando resisted the urge to stick out his tongue. “Race down the slides?”

“I bet I can get down that slide in 30 seconds.”

“I bet I can do it in 20.” Fernando countered, heading towards the slide tower. “What shall we go for? Zoom of Doom?”

“With a name like Zoom of Doom? Why are we not on it yet?”

~*~

“This has officially been the best day ever.” Fernando sighed, stretching out on a sun lounger. “I did not think I wanted to see anyone, and it turns out that seeing you was the best thing that could have happened.”

“No problem.” Robert yawned, stretching his arms out. “You were just going to lie on a beach all day. You can do that anywhere. You just needed a little push, no-adventure.”

“I totally have adventure.” Fernando replied lazily. “I have so much adventure, I am going to order two very amazing and awesome cocktails, cocktails that I don’t know what is in them, and they are going to have little umbrellas in them.”

“Go for it, no-adventure.”

“I will, once I have the energy to move.” Fernando wiggled a little, rolling on to his side. “How did you find me, anyway? Did you actually just turn up by accident?”

“Happy accident. But I was really glad to run into you. We have not really seen each other in such a long time, and it’s nice to see someone from the old days. I’ve missed this.”

“I’ve missed this too.” Fernando agreed. “I did not want to see anyone from the Paddock, not even Mark, and he’s the only one I’d happily talk to. But it was nice to hang out with you, we haven’t caught up in ages.”

“It really was.” Robert smiled, nudging Fernando. “And we really did have the best ice-cream.”

“That ice-cream.” Fernando moaned. “I really want to marry that ice-cream.”

“Cocktails and ice-cream?” Robert offered. “We can go and watch the sunset?”

“Sounds great.” Fernando smiled. “Actually, that sounds amazing.”

“Good. Come on.” Robert stood up, holding out a hand to Fernando. “That ice-cream waits for no-one, not even you.”

“That ice-cream will wait for me.” Fernando growled. “It will.”

~*~

“I’m so glad we got back to the ice-cream.” Fernando said happily, shuffling into the sand. “I’m so comfortable, and we have that ice-cream again. This is happiness.”

“I’m glad.” Robert grinned. “You looked so tense this morning, and now… more relaxed in years.”

“Easy to relax when you’re with friends.” Fernando smiled. “I’m really glad you’re here. Really, really glad.”

“I’ve really missed you, Fernando.” Robert said quietly, not looking him in the eye. “Out of everything, and everyone, I’ve missed you most.”

“Do you think… we missed our chance all those years ago, sí?” Fernando smiled sadly. “We never really got there, and then you had your accident… did we miss our chance?”

“I don’t think so.” Robert shrugged. “I’ve never stopped waiting, I figured you had.”

“I did not want to bring everything you were missing right to you.” Fernando replied. “I am sorry, can I make it up?”

“I don’t know, can you?” Robert smirked. “That is a yes, please do.”

Fernando leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Robert’s lips, smiling as Robert moaned a little. “Did that do it?”

“I don’t know, maybe you should try again.” Robert said, a little hoarsely. “Please.”

“Okay, I can do that.” Fernando agreed, kissing him again. “I am going to do this forever, for as long as you want.”

“Forever sounds good.” Robert smiled. “I will hold you to it.”

#fernando alonso #robert kubica #f1 summer break fic exchange 19 #f1 fanfic

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jashasedai · 2 years ago

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Introducing Robert Kubica's Racing Driver: Bulka

Bulka

Alternate Universe- Tame Racing Drivers

Fandom- Formula 1, WRC

In an AU where a secret species is used as Racing Drivers, matches will give almost anything to keep their Racing Driver safe.

When Robert Kubica's partner, Bulka, experiences a career-ending crash, what will Robert give to keep his Buttered Roll safe?

Tags: Formula 1, WRC, Robert Kubica, (Inkeri Pedersen, Maciek Barran) AU Tame Racing Drivers, Alternate Universe, Major Crash, Life Threatening Injuries, Real Life Crash and Injury References

Lies, Then Rally, Then Lies

Could there be sleet without rain? The wind felt like it, Robert thought.

It didn’t stop the Racing Driver. He powered through the gale, shoulders moving in time with his feet, like he was leading a band of warriors in an action movie. Obrońca stalked through the pitlane on his right, with Maciek on his right, Robert to Bulka’s left.

Bulka led them trailing in his wake.

He was by far the strongest stallion on this grid, today. This was just a game. Most of these Racing Drivers were polytones. He was a Formula 1 winner. None of them would meet his eye.

Today they would be racing for second.

Robert watched him. He wasn’t just the strongest, he had spent the evening after last night’s prep talking with the weaker stallions, making sure they were ready for their race this afternoon, that their bodies and matches were in fine working order.

It was the strongest stallion’s job, he confided in Robert.

Maciek looked over at Robert and grinned.

The co-driver’s match knew the expression of a match in thrall of their Racing Driver.

Bulka settled into the car with Maciek beside him. Obrońca watched, cross armed from the canopy that made up their team’s base.

[I will see you at the checkpoint, Robert,] Bulka told him.

Maciek tapped the notes on the dash. “Ready, Robota?” He always called Robert’s Driver by his official name.

Only Robert was allowed to call him Bulka.

[At the checkpoint, Mój Bułka Z Masłem.] Robert touched Bulka’s face through the open helmet.

Bulka wasn’t Robert’s child but he used the endearment, anyway.

Mój Bułka Z Masłem.

My buttered roll.

Precious.

He stood back. The Driver and co-driver rolled out of the lane of tents, and Robert stood angled towards Obrońca so he could see the stallion’s gestures, linked with Bulka’s mind, and the two Racing Drivers connected, making the complicated link that would function as their only means of communication during the drive. Bulka and Maciek in the car, and Robert and Maciek’s Racing Driver in the tent, a figure 8 of information rendered necessary by the requirement that someone in the car be able to speak.

Just in case something bad happened.

Today, something did.

‘No!’ Came Bulka’s alarm, miles into the race.

Robert got a flash of a wall, and a sensation like falling, and then his mind exploded in pain.

The next thing Robert saw was trees rushing by. He shook himself into consciousness and realized he had been moved into the back of a car. He felt Bulka’s mind, running so low he may as well have been asleep. Getting closer. They were taking him to his stallion.

There was a woman in track orange and a neon safety vest seated beside him. When she saw him moving, she leaned in. “Robert,” She said, in flawed Polish, “Your Racing Driver has been in a crash. He is still alive and the team is extracting him. He is in distress, and quite a lot of pain. When we get there, you will approach the car calmly, and you will be able to reach in through the drivers window and comfort him. It is important, Robert,” She touched his arm and made sure he was looking at her face when she said it, “It is important you keep him calm and still. If he struggles, we’ll lose the chance to save him.”

His eyes kept drifting out the window, in the direction he could feel the other half of himself.

She touched his arm again. “Robert.”

He looked back to her. She had brown eyes.

“Did you hear me?”

“What?”

“I said, it is going to look bad. No matter how bad it looks, you need to keep calm. Keep him strong. Keep him brave. Do you understand?”

“Bulka is strong. He’s a winner. He is going to be a champion.” Outside, the trees gave way to a small village.

“What do you need to do?”

That hadn’t been the answer she wanted. He pulled himself together. “I will keep Bulka still and calm, so the EMTs can get him out. So he can be a champion.”

It must have been good enough, because the car stopped and she rushed around to open his door. He was already out and stumbling towards the barrier.

Bulka’s pain was quite sharp in his mind, now, consuming all other physical sensation. Robert was even struggling to remember how to walk.

Everything ached.

‘Bulka,’ He sent.

There was no answer.

The mind in the car was still. Present and alive, but still.

Not churning with excitement and anticipation.

Not sharded with fear.

Still.

Like his brain was running, but who he WAS had gone off to hide.

A hand grabbed Robert’s arm, slowing his stumble towards the car. It didn’t look too bad. A little caved in at the front where it had impacted the barrier and stopped.

He came to the driver side window where Bulka’s yellow coverall was visible. He moved to where he could see Bulka’s rolling eyes through the face of the helmet.

He looked so pale.

His eyes focused on Robert when the man knelt beside the rearview mirror and reached in through the gaping window.

‘Hi, Bulka. I came to get you,’ He thought, as casual as an absence of only a few minutes.

‘Missed the turn,’ Bulka thought.

He sounded uncertain.

‘Wrecked the engine, killed the car.’

‘She is not too bad,’ Robert thought, ‘Your mechanics will fix the engine and straighten the frame, and you will be sliding her around in no time.’

Bulka felt that this was untrue, but in his confusion, he couldn’t be sure why. He looked down, uncomprehending.

Robert followed his eyes.

Cold terror rushed through him.

There was steel pressing Bulka to his race seat.

The barrier was a few paces longer than Robert had thought.

The edge of it had sheared through the engine.

Through the frame of the car.

Into Bulka’s body.

He looked into Bulka’s eyes and smiled. ‘I will buy you a new race car.’

The stallion frowned. ‘I feel sad. I liked this one.’

Robert nodded. ‘I know. The important thing is that you are alright.’

‘My arm is cold. The fluid that leaked everywhere is making me uncomfortable.’

Fluid?

He wasn’t in a puddle of petrol was he?

Robert stood up. He walked around the back of the car.

The woman who’d ridden with him called his name, but he raised a hand to ward her off. There were some men working at the other side of the car.

He looked in the window.

The barrier’s raw edge was visible on this side.

So was the barrage of blood.

He couldn’t even locate Bulka’s arm at first.

He finally recognized the tip of one of Bulka’s yellow gloves, and traced the blood soaked lump back to where it met the barrier.

Bulka squealed.

Hands grabbed Robert’s arms, both of them, this time, and dragged him back, around the back of the car.

One of the EMTs was holding him in a wrestling grip.

All he could hear were Bulka’s screams.

“I said you have to keep calm!” The woman shouted at him. “He is reacting to YOUR fear!”

The EMT shook Robert.

He took a deep breath. “It cut his...it cut him…” He gasped.

‘Please!’ Bulka begged. ‘Please Robert, be patient. When I get out I will help you. Please don’t be afraid.’

His precious one was not strong, now. He needed Robert to be the strong one.

He choked back his fear and returned to the place beside the rearview mirror. He forced a smile. ‘I am sorry I went away. I am here, I am here with you.’ He reached into the car and touched Bulka’s face. ‘Here with my buttered roll.’

Bulka’s tension drained away and he relaxed into the touch. ‘Do not be afraid, Robert. I will take care of you,’ He whispered, as his mind relaxed back into stillness, and they waited.

Corta

‘Robert, where are you going??’ Bulka was confused, but too addled to be frightened. ‘Your mind is getting fuzzy.’

The anesthesia was making Robert too addled to really understand what was happening either, and the feeling of being wheeled away from Bulka on the stretcher, was like having the world stretched like taffy. ‘They are taking me to make me like you again,’ He managed to think, and then the tenuous connections between their drugged minds stretched too thin and snapped as the medication put him under.

The fog cleared, and he became aware of the noise of someone speaking and lifting his left arm. His eyes felt dry and he raised his right hand to rub them.

Fire coursed along his nerves and he arched off the hospital bed, screaming through his teeth.

He dry screamed for a moment, caught and instant’s view of Bulka’s fearful face surrounded by white hospital linens, and then he lost consciousness again.

The next time, Bulka took the decision out of the doctors’ hands and woke Robert himself, gently opening the door between them and warming up Robert’s mind, like slowly turning on the lights.

‘Bulka y Masalam?’ Robert wondered.

‘I am sorry, I was not trying to wake you up, I wanted to know what kind of drink my arm is having?’ He was filing through Robert’s understanding of ‘doctor stuff,’ paging through Robert’s memories of hospitals and medical TV shows and movies.

He sent Robert the feeling of a firm hug that in no way interfered with his skin.

Their skin.

Robert could see through the door between their minds that the garage that Bulka pictured encapsulating his mind, had a race car in it that was on fire.

The flames licked over the skin of the car that represented Bulka’s body, and the monitors around it were flickering with red alerts. The metaphorical fire wasn’t spreading, or going anywhere. Everything in this mind space, Bulka had told Robert, was a 3D metaphor for the way a mind work. Memories were files, skills were tools, Bulka’s body was a car and the monitors were his senses telling him what his body was sensing.

Robert became aware that since Bulka was looking through Robert’s memories, they must be in Robert’s mind. He looked around. It was organized like a garage, too. There was a car in the center, similar to Bulka’s car, since their driving styles were similar, it was a rallycross car.

There were monitors around it, and they showed what Robert felt in his body. There were red alerts for him, too, but he only had flames over his right arm and shoulder.

The rest of the garage was less neat than Bulka’s. There were photographs and mementos on the walls, and one whole side of the garage was set up with homey chairs and a cozy little kitchen, a bed, and a lot of pictures of his family. There was a map of his city framed over the armchair.

Bulka followed his gaze, and glanced away, guiltily.

Like it was wrong of him to be aware of that part of Robert’s life.

He was sitting on a low toolbox, absorbing Robert’s understanding of their hospitalization, picking out names of tools and procedures, digging deeper to understand what “surgery” was, and then deeper, because he apparently didn’t know anything about what muscles were like, except that his flesh had to be made stronger with repetitive motions and would bleed if the skin were broken.

Robert watched him making notes, replacing ideas like “skin is a bag filled with blood and bones” with a barely more sophisticated “muscles are like springs and pistons made of meat.”

Then he stopped and sat still, then started to make a picture of his own arm as he was used to seeing it, he changed the picture, filling in the images of muscles as literal springs and pistons shaped out of steak.

Then he imagined, with horrible, shocking realism, a sheet of metal barrier bursting out of nowhere, slicing into his body. Robert jumped, the toolbox had been replaced by a memory of his race seat from his car. Bulka was pinned as he had been in the accident, but he displayed no pain at the self imposed memory. He merely examined, with the calm of having survived, the way his body was positioned, and how deeply the metal must have penetrated. He overlaid his new understanding of muscles onto his right arm, picturing what would happen to meat muscles and bone in his crash.

He looked up at Robert, pale with shock.

He echoed Robert’s own understanding of the extent of the damage.

‘It cut me in half.’

The memory disappeared, and like it had really been pinning Bulka in place, he fell forward.

Robert rushed forward and huddled in front of him.

Bulka’s face came up, more afraid now than he had been at the wreck. ‘How am I alive?’

‘You are STRONG,’ Robert thought. ‘Your muscles are strong and your heart,’ He pictured the large, powerful organ, ‘Is stong, and it would not stop beating. Your muscles,’ He looked down and pictured them, overlaid on Bulka’s body as Bulka had, but he pictured the severed muscles reaching for each other, connecting and growing tight and pulling Bulka back together. ‘They want you to heal. They want you to be whole again.’

He rocked Bulka, sending comfort and reassurance, comfort and reassurance, until Bulka felt safe again.

Bulka turned so his head was against Robert’s chest, and touched Robert’s right arm. ‘But what has happened to you?’

This took Robert a moment longer. He didn’t want to upset Bulka again. He didn’t want to mislead him, either.

He pictured the muscles again, on his own arm, and pictured the skin being very carefully lifted by imaginary hands and scalpels, and the muscles being very carefully, neatly cut from their places and lifted away, until only a little muscle remained, very near his arm bones. Then he imagined the skin being replaced over them, in such a way as to make scars apparent when he healed and his muscles began to regrow.

For him, there would also be some cosmetic surgery to reproduce scars elsewhere on Bulka’s body, but he didn’t explain that, now.

Bulka touched the skin over Robert’s desecrated arm. ‘You are a VERY brave man.’

‘It is because I love you.’

They were close and still.

‘I love you, too,’ Bulka thought.

The Roll at the Fence

Renault Stable- 1997

The Renault stable was always quiet. It was a long way from any human settlements, and aside from the busyness of the car manufactory, the trees hid any sound.

The foal traced his yellow gloves fingers over the diamond pattern of the big, wire wall, and looked out at the trees. There was a stretch of brushy plants covering the ground, out in that direction, and the trees grew up about 10 big strides from the wire wall that kept humans that didn't belong to the stable, from getting into the exercise yard. There were some out there, now. They weren't wearing proper Renault uniforms, but brown pants and pale green shirts. They were looking at the herd of heavy bodied birds that had landed in the stretch of low plants. Then they looked up and saw Focus.

They waved their hands side to side.

Focus tilted his helmet

He continued to watch them, and after the birds had walked away towards where Focus could hear water splashing on windy days, the two humans walked across the brushy ground and stood outside the fence.

Focus drew his fingers inside the wire, but left them flat on his side.

The taller human made some squelching noises and pointed to the foals playing in the exercise yard behind Focus. Then pointed in the direction of the street car test track.

Focus turned around to look behind him. The handlers weren't paying attention. They were smoking exhaust and chatting in the shade. "Vrrm." Focus murmured. He was supposed to get the handlers' attention if anything went wrong. They didn't look, though, so he turned back to investigate the wild humans. Maybe he could figure out why they had come. They must be very hungry, they wanted him and the other foals to race for them, on the track. He didn't think that would be allowed, since these weren't humans the stable was protecting, and they might be unpredictable, and not know how to behave at a race. They might get so excited they hurt some of the stable's humans, or maybe they would refuse to leave after the race, or get so jealous they tried to take the foals away with them, to a place with no safe stalls and racetracks, where the foals would be just as hungry and sad as themselves. He took a piece of potato bread from his inside jacket pocket and poked it through the wire.

[Here, eat this, and then go away.]

Neither of the humans reached for the food. Their eyes were white all around the brown iris, and the smaller one's mouth was open, like the hinge didn't work.

Focus revved to get them moving. [Hurry up, now. We don't have enough food for you. Go back to the woods.]

He pushed the bread farther out.

It slipped out of his fingers and fell into the dirt.

He gasped.

He dropped to his knees.

The stupid wild humans just stood there. They didn't even have the sense to pick up FOOD.

He scrabbled his hand under the bottom wires, where they made a sharp little v. The roll had bounced just a little too far away for his fingers to scissor it, but the wire gave just a little when he pushed at it, so he flattened his hand and pushed harder. He grunted desperately when the wire started cutting into his hand through the glove, but he reached the roll.

Shadows fell over him. There were legs standing on either side of him, now. The handlers had come to the fence. They were making loud noises, trying to scare the wild humans away. Focus crouched on his knees, the roll tucked to his belly, trying to stay out of the way so the handlers wouldn't step on him.

The humans outside the fence were making loud noises, too, pointing at Focus and making noises like screaming.

He realized he had made a BIG mistake.

These humans WERE getting dangerous. They might hurt his handlers, who were being good, trying to protect the foals. The foals were crowded against the wall near the door, revving and huddling together, afraid the humans were going to capture them and take them away. Someone was crying.

Then more of Renault's humans appeared around the side of the building. They were running. The two wild humans ran, but they were quickly caught. One of the handlers inside the fence, turned to the foals, putting his arms out, and herding them towards the door. The other grabbed Focus and picked him up to his feet, holding his arm while looking him over.

[Not hurt?] He gestured.

Focus shook his head. He had dust on his lips and stuck to the tear lines on his cheeks.

[I am sorry. I should have frightened them away. I am sorry!] He told the man.

The handler's touch made his skin itch, but when he put his arm over Focus' shoulders, Focus didn't try to push him away. He let himself be guided into the building.

[Hurt?] The handler asked again, pointing at Focus' right hand, still curled tight around his belly.

Focus managed to make his fingers unclench.

The crushed, dirty ball of bread wasn't a roll anymore.

The handler sighed. He picked it out of Focus' hand and threw it into a trash bin.

Focus started to reach after it, but the handlers stopped him. [You have another. That is gone. You have another,] The man reassured.

Focus nodded. He had wasted food. He was no better than the wild humans. He had put the handlers and the rest of the foals in danger, and wasted food.

Those humans didn't deserve food.

He would know better, now, than to ever care about humans outside the fence. He would know never to trust them.

For the next two weeks, the foals used the stallions' practice yard, and when they returned to their own, the wire fence had been replaced, with a nice, safe concrete wall.

—

Robert stared at Bulka when the stallion finished his story. [You were GLAD the yard got walled in?!]

Bulka nodded. [The wall made sure no wild humans could see us. We could play safely.]

Robert's hurt came through their connection. He often felt sad and afraid at inappropriate parts of the stories Bulka told about his childhood. Like he was understanding the fright of the humans yelling through the fence, trying to get to the foals, only now, at the end, when everyone was safe.

Silly Robert.

Bulka snuggled down into the hospital bed. His body still hurt, but he was feeling better. He could move himself, now, as long as it was not a big effort, or for long, and he LOVED spending all day with Robert this way, telling stories of their childhoods, and learning about each others' lives and feelings. This was how being a match and Racing Driver was supposed to be. They should be able to see each other whenever they wished- all the time, and be able to tell each other anything. He was glad Robert was one of the safe humans.

For Her Own Good

“A miss Pedersen is here to see you,” The nurse said. She tucked the blankets more comfortably around his long feet. She had a kind smile. Robert stared up at her with an expression of dull horror. He pushed back into the pillow like he’d seen some eldritch being.

“Południca,” He muttered.

She looked dismayed. She must have heard of the Polish monster before.

“Should I send her away?” She asked.

She glanced over at Bulka. The stallion was sleeping, mouth slightly ajar.

“She can only see me,” Robert confirmed, struggling higher in the bed. “But send her in.”

The nurse nodded. She pulled the curtain around Bulka’s side of the room, and went out the door.

Inkeri walked in. She was carrying a big green vase full of yellow daisies. “I didn’t know what to get you,” She said, pulling a tiny brown stuffed bear, a little heart shaped box of chocolates, and a pack of playing cards out of her purse, “So I got you everything.”

His eyes lingered on the playing cards and she slowly reached out and put them back into her purse.

“Maybe later for these.”

“Inkeri,” He said, slowly. He made his voice a little deeper than it was usually, trying to get her to take him seriously.

“I got you this, too!” She pulled a white T-shirt out of her purse. It read “Sometimes when I’m alone, I Google myself.”

He cracked a smile and chuckled.

He wanted her to leave the tshirt when she left.

He didn’t want her to leave.

She had to leave, because right now he could be covered in bandages that covered perfectly healthy skin, but a fiance...he caught himself.

The ring was still in the box at his physio’s house, where she could never find it.

A girlfriend, hanging around, would notice in short order that his wounds weren’t as bad as they needed to pass as.

And a girlfriend with no double-oh status would mean Bulka in a different room.

Robert was only here to help Bulka, really. His own arm would heal long before Bulka was up and around.

This was Bulka’s injury, Bulka’s recovery. Inkeri being here would just keep Robert away from where he needed to be. He’d already had this conversation with his parents and relatives. Of course, they were blood. It wasn’t over for good with them. He would apologize later and explain that he had been in so much pain.

Girlfriends, even ones you wanted to ask to marry you, didn’t wait around for guys who kicked them out of their lives to come crawling back. Not girls like Inkeri who had a strong draw for men, and a temper that could warm a small city.

He fought back the smile he felt at the thought of her temper.

He was going to feel it one last time.

“Inkeri,” He said, again, making himself cold. Making himself distant. “I don’t want you to come back.”

Approving Inkeri

“So now you know,” Frank Williams said, Inkeri’s first day on the job.

She was sitting on the thin legged chair in front of his desk. He’d been the one to recommend her to the program. She’d been required to pass, in order to work at Williams. She understood why there had been such a firm demarcation between this and other things in her life.

“No one races,” She murmured.

Frank scoffed. “Course they do.”

The Authorization program was 6 weeks of classroom work, and then the certification lasted the rest of your life.

She kept thinking about her father. He had worked as a mechanic for Williams racing for years. She had visited the pits thousands of times until Ayrton Senna’s crash had broken her father’s heart and sent him into early retirement. Frank had said her father had gone to this class, it was part of how he’d argued her into going. Her father had known all the things she’d been told.

Frank had always known.

But why was Frank so devastated every time something happened if these Racing Drivers who replaced the men were just animals?

A horse dying in a race was a difficult loss for a breeder to get over, but wasn’t the important part that the jockey survived? The Racing Drivers’ purpose was to save human lives by keeping the men out of the cars, the class had said.

But of course, animal owners got very fond of their pets. And horses were expensive. Racing Drivers even more so. Especially with all the care that had to be taken with them, and the precautions about their existence. That had not quite gone down with her the way it ought. If they could save human lives by racing cars, why couldn’t they save human lives by dismantling bombs and piloting fighter jets and tanks in war zones?

Why did they have to be altered to look just like a human? Wouldn’t it be better if the whole world knew about them and they could be used to replace humans in all dangerous lines of work? Underwater welding and so forth?

“Don’t buy the story about animals,” Frank said, suddenly. “They may be different, but they’re as smart as any of us. They think and feel like you do.”

“My father was so upset when that one of Ayrton’s died that he quit,” Inkeri said.

Expressions of horror, and then thoughtfulness, and then deep, deep regret followed one after the other on Frank’s face. “That wasn’t….”

He stopped and then pushed a button on his phone. “Come in here,” He said into the speaker.

The office door opened and Frank’s daughter and successor to the business, Claire, entered. Inkeri had known her since childhood, and Claire struck her as an iron pressed business woman, who wore her comportment like body armor.

She entered the room with a calm face, and her eye fell on Inkeri’s new Authorized Status level two ID badge.

Her attention turned to her father. “How can I help you?”

He rolled his head against the back of his wheelchair’s head support. “Inkeri wants to know about her father’s leaving us.”

Claire’s mouth opened. “Ah.”

Inkeri looked back and forth between them. Why did Frank have to bring in Claire to tell her this? Why couldn't he just explain to her what had happened?

“Your father wasn’t a mechanic,” Claire said. Then she stopped, read Inkeri’s eyes and started again. “That is to say- Williams racing did not employ your father as a mechanic. He was in place to provide extra handling services for the team’s Racing Drivers. He did some maintenance on the cars when his other duties did not interfere, but primarily, he was employed as a handler. To watch the Racing Drivers when their matches could not directly be present.”

Inkeri took this piece of information and slotted it into what she remembered of her father’s years working for Williams. He’d always had some piece of machinery or other in his hands when she had been in to see him, and the drivers when present, had spoken as clearly and understandably as any human, accounting for language barriers and accents.

But she wouldn’t have known what went on when visitors were not there. Wasn’t that the point? The Racing Drivers were secret even from wives, unless they’d gone through the same program Inkeri had.

“So he worked with Ayrton’s Racing Driver, and he was upset when it died,” She said.

Frank looked at Claire, who looked like she would rather her father do the job that was in front of her, now.

“Ayrton’s Racing Driver,” Claire began, “Died of an infection, in 1993. Ayrton took his place and drove for us in the races until his death. In 1994,” Claire said, slowly. “At Imola.”

Inkeri sat back in her chair.

“But humans don’t drive professionally.”

“Almost never,” Claire agreed. “But Ayrton was much faster than most humans. We believe he possessed a unique combination of traits, the calculating speed of a chess grandmaster, the reflexes of a fencer, the physical stamina of an Olympic marathoner, all in a perfect package, which allowed him to compete on an equal level with Racing Drivers.”

“And,” Frank chuckled. “We found it again.”

“You did?” Inkeri was floored. The studies she’d seen seemed conclusive evidence that such results should not be possible. It defied logic that a human should be able to operate under such incredible pressures, at such boggling speeds, if the studies she’d seen were true.

“Yes, the car had to be fitted with a radio, and to save time in removing it, it seemed simpler to find someone who could make use of it,” Frank told her.

“A radio? They all have radios.”

“No, the match makes his own arrangements,” Frank said impatiently.

“He brings his own radio?”

“No, girl, they talk to their Racing Drivers directly. Matches control the Racing Drivers’ thoughts. Like a perfect remote control.”

“Well if they can think fast enough to keep up, what prevents them from driving in the first place?”

“Exactly!” Frank crowed. “So we found a boy who had gone through every step in becoming a match except for actually becoming one, and we put him in our car! And can you guess what happened?”

“Well obviously he could drive it.”

“He could DRIVE it!”

“Okay,” Inkeri said, “So who was it?”

“Don’t you know? Can't you guess??”

“Well, no, Uncle Frank, obviously not.”

“It was David.”

DC?

“But he never won a championship or anything. You said he could keep up.”

Frank deflated a little. “Don’t you understand what this means? It means if one human can keep up with Racing Drivers, then others can. David simply wasn’t fast enough to BEAT any of them. Not Schumacher’s certainly. THAT one proved to be a special case.”

“None of the other Racing Drivers could beat him, either,” Claire said, crossing her arms and showing a hint of humanity. She leaned against Frank’s desk and ignored him when he shooed her.

“In 2002, Mark Webber tested for Arrows and beat the times of the Racing Drivers who tested,” Claire said.

“Then Jaguar ruined him by matching him with that stretched out waffler of his,” Frank grumbled. “When we had him all lined up to become the next great man in racing.”

Claire smirked. “But that is alright, because our next candidate is matched and is STILL faster than lightning. You’ll meet him later on. Since you don’t gesture, it will be easier for you to work with Valtteri when he doesn’t have his stallion with him. If you get along with him, we might just have the dream duo. You, our engineering wunderkind, and Valtteri, the fastest man ever clocked in an F1 car.”

Inkeri tried to take all of this in. There were many more layers to this than she had ever imagined.

One Year Later

She was going to be the phenomenal new mechanic for Williams. She was working in rally in preparation. They had been quite the item, before the crash.

Before the decisions that changed his life, and took him out of hers.

There was no way to explain what had happened to him.

Even his parents and siblings had been cut out of his life while the two of them recovered.

Robert held the jar between his forearm and his chest, twisting it open with his left hand. He sat down on the bench in the team trailer, facing his Racing Driver.

‘Hold out your arm,’

Bulka did.

The wretched sight didn’t bother Robert anymore. It looked better now than he would have imagined, months before. He scooped the arnica salve out of the jar with the fingers of his left hand and rubbed it gently over the skin of Bulka’s right forearm.

They had remastered shaving immediately, but this was their own private bonding ritual.

When the salve was worked in, and the skin was soft, Robert passed the jar to Bulka, who pinned it between his forearm and his chest, and scooped some out with his good left hand.

‘Hold out your arm,’ Bulka sent.

Robert did.

Bulka massaged the muscle stimulating salve into Robert’s identical right forearm.

It felt nice on the aching limb. Bulka’s careful touch felt nice.

Healing.

Robert relaxed into the mutual caring.

Having the muscles stripped away had been agonizing.

But it had been an easy decision.

Racing Drivers who couldn’t pass as their match couldn’t race.

Now Bulka looked just like Robert again.

And they understood each other more deeply than they ever had before, and they worked together to overcome their pain.

Bulka placed the jar of salve back on the shelf. [Ready to go to work?] He asked.

He gestured entirely with his left hand, now. Obrońca had told Robert that mother Racing mares gestured to their babies that way. Speaking with one hand while they held their baby with the other.

Obrońca jokingly called Bulka, [Mama,] now.

[Ready,] The half signing had been harder for Robert to learn, but Bulka helped him, and the increased strength of their connection had helped Bulka putting information in Robert’s head.

Things had never been clearer.

They walked into the team’s camp, and Robert felt his heart clench a little when he saw her. He would act professional. He and Bulka turned inside the tent and greeted the chief mechanic. He would have time to greet Inkeri, soon.

Very soon, it turned out.

“You son of a bitch.”

He turned to see her, hands planted on hips, glaring at him.

“You let me believe you were racing, you lying, backstabbing son of a bitch.”

She thrust a hand out at Bulka. “I cried when you turned me away from the hospital! I SWORE I would understand, that this had changed you, that things could never be the same between us. And you weren’t. Even. In. The. Car.”

She thrust a hand towards his arm, and did a double take.

He was being himself. Bulka was lightly disguised in sunglasses and a fake moustache. Obvious to her, who would know Roberts face no matter who was wearing it.

Robert was wearing a t-shirt.

His arm was perfectly visible.

“You were in the car?” She breathed.

He shook his head. “We had to match, Inkeri. I had to have scars...if he did.”

Bulka was watching them, head cocked to one side.

“You were in the hospital?” She sounded as uncertain as Bulka had, the day in the car.

“We both were. My recovery went differently, and the arm, and the scars, but nothing else. The doctors couldn’t fake the rest, not from someone seeing me close up.”

The mechanics had flowed out of the tent when this confrontation had begun, but Bulka was standing there, openly observing.

He took Robert’s hand, sent comforting feelings, and made a calm, winding down rev.

Then he just stood there, holding Robert’s hand, watching Inkeri with an expression of interest, waiting to see what she would do, next.

Mischief crossed into her expression.

“I guess it’s him I was always impressed with, then,” She said, voice heavy with sass.

Robert’s eyes didn’t drop, but he frowned.

Inkeri spoke again, in a whisper, “But Robert, it will always be you that I love.”

#AU Tame Racing Drivers #Formula 1 Fanfic #Motorsports Fanfic #Robert Kubica Fanfic

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