#writing vale as the omnipresent villain at the same time as watching his fuji stint and giggling kicking my feet

[kingofthecotas]

paradoxical

pecco contemplates his márquez taxi | ~450 words

spiritual sequel to this fic i guess

——

They’re all staring at him when he’s back in the box, knowing, smiling. Gigi looks fucking delighted.

“You made it back,” Carola says, just shy of a smirk.

Pecco pulls off his helmet, making a face as his hair sticks to his head. “Yes.”

“Good.” She hands him his cap, his water bottle. Back in their careful routine.

In the five minutes before he has to leave the box, before he has to peel off his race suit and centre himself for the media, Pecco sits. He thinks.

He knows—he knows—what Valentino told him, even before it was all announced. How Marc plays with his opponents, bats them about like a ball of string. Smiles. Bites.

This wasn’t that. He’s sure it wasn’t that.

He’s going to hear about it anyway, if not from Vale then from Luca, Luca who had extended a hand even as Marc’s foot was already brushing Pecco’s bike. Gentle.

It’s nothing. It’s probably less than nothing, because Marc is nothing if not a PR dream, nothing except the protective façade he’s constructed for himself.

(Pecco knows why that is. He knows.)

Except—

Except Marc didn’t have to do that. No one made him do that.

It’s hot. Pecco takes a long drink.

Marc must know how badly Davide wants this to work. He must. Except—

Except Marc doesn’t look for approval from anyone, not anymore. He doesn’t reach for anything. Except—

He’d reached for Pecco.

“Your thinking face.” Carola taps his leg. “A few minutes, and then you have to get changed.”

“I was thinking.”

“Yes?”

“About—qualifying. Tomorrow. We will have to do something different. The Pramac bikes are fast.” About the brush of Marc’s gloved fingers over his for the briefest moment, warm and firm. Claws sheathed.

Whatever.

It’s maybe a little more than nothing.

Carola hums, almost to herself.

In Pecco’s most sympathetic thoughts of Marc, he had always imagined a once-wounded animal: wary, with good reason; lashing out whenever anyone got too close. And now—Marc pulling Pecco’s hand over his battle-scarred arm, skimming his foot over the red chassis. Pecco had never pictured him capable of gentleness.

Because Marc, even at his worst, is a predator, stalking, watching, waiting for his moment to pounce. Moving softly, letting them all believe they’re safe.

And he’s —he’s aware enough to understand that Valentino has shaped this image, that everything he knew about Marc was warped recollections and resentment.

(And something else.)

It’s at odds with the Marc who dances on podiums, who smiles yet doesn’t bite, who stops and waits because Pecco is waving for help.

Don’t be fooled, Valentino whispers in his head, arm heavy around Pecco’s shoulders. He will smile when he stabs you in the back, too.

Maybe. Maybe.

Maybe not.

Marc has no reason to ever get in Pecco’s good graces in the first place.

He doesn’t understand.

“Ready?”

“Yeah.” Pecco pulls his cap down. No.