Chapter Text
The first thing Pierre noticed was her silence. Not the awkward kind, not the shy kind; rather it's the sharp, exacting kind. Like the pause between a scalpel and skin.
She stood at the front of the race engineering room in a black polo with her arms folded and a headset around her neck like it was part of her. Not a trace of nervousness, even with the whole team gathered.
“Meet Yuki, Yuki Tsunoda,” said Laurent, the tech director. “She’ll be your new race engineer this season.”
Pierre’s smile tightened, seemingly wary of the new engineer.
She nodded once. No handshakes offered, no fake charms thrown around, Just a glance that's surgical and assessing.
“Hi,” Pierre said, out of politeness more than interest.
She looked him up and down. “Driver number ten. Right?”
“Gasly,” he corrected.
She blinked. “Right.”
God.
Two hours after his new race engineer was introduced, Pierre was halfway into a sim run, and he was already regretting everything.
“Brake pressure too high into Turn 6,” came her voice through the headset. Cool. Flat. Dismissive.
“I’ve done that corner a hundred times,” he muttered.
“And locked up 27 of them,” she replied instantly. “Reducing by 2% on your next lap.”
His jaw tightened. “You just got here. Maybe let me feel the car first before rewriting how I drive.”
“Maybe feel the right part of the car,” she said dryly. “Your front-left has feelings too, apparently.”
The comms went silent. The data engineer next to her stifled a laugh.
Pierre unclipped his helmet and pulled off his gloves, trying not to throw them across the sim room.
“She always like this?” he muttered to the tech.
The guy shrugged. “She’s… precise.”
“More like insufferable.”
Practice Day, Bahrain.
Pierre sat in the cockpit, visor half-open as mechanics did the final checks. He could already hear her voice in his head before she even keyed into the radio.
And sure enough,
Yuki: “Radio check, car ten. Do you copy?”
Pierre: “Copy.”
Yuki: “Shocking. I expected static and ego.”
He rolled his eyes so hard it almost spun the car.
Yuki: “Box, we’ll do a race sim. Mediums for the first run. Try not to cook them like yesterday.”
Pierre: “If you’d let me actually drive—”
Yuki: “If you actually drove we wouldn’t be in this situation.”
Her tone was calm, surgical, and straight to the point. He could practically hear her sipping her coffee on the pit wall like she wasn’t slicing his pride into neat little pieces.
Still, he stayed out, drove clean, and hit the deltas. Couldn’t admit it, but her corrections were spot on. Annoying as hell, but accurate.
On Lap 12, he caught a gust through Turn 14 and managed to hold it—but the snap made his heart spike.
Pierre: “Little tail-happy on exit there.”
Yuki: “Try using less throttle and more brain next time.”
His bark of laughter surprised even himself.
Later, in the garage, Yuki hovered over the telemetry screens while Pierre sat, towel around his neck, arms crossed.
“You brake late like you’re trying to impress a wall,” she said, not looking up.
He snorted. “You always this charming?”
She finally glanced at him. “Only when I’m babysitting someone who nearly destroyed two tires and his dignity in a single lap.”
“I finished the run.”
“And I finished your telemetry. Want to see who won?”
The mechanics exchanged smirks behind their hands.
Pierre leaned in, smiling like a wolf. “You enjoy this, don’t you?”
Yuki leaned in just as much. “Immensely.”
Team dinner, night before Qualifying.
Pierre nursed a beer. Yuki sat at the end of the table, legs crossed, laptop open even at dinner, sipping water.
Someone asked her, “So how’s working with Pierre?”
She didn’t look up. “He’s fast when he listens.”
Pierre raised a brow. “And when I don’t?”
She looked him dead in the eye. “We’ll find out when you crash.”
The table howled.
Pierre’s heart twisted in something too close to admiration or annoyance.
Qualifying – Q2.
He was fighting the wheel through Sector 2, the car dancing more than it should.
Pierre: “Feeling slippy. Might abort this one.”
Yuki: “Negative. You’re two tenths up. Hold it.”
Pierre: “You sure? Feels—”
Yuki: “I’m looking at your delta. You’re not psychic. Just drive.”
He clenched his jaw—and obeyed.
Cleaned up the final corner. Crossed the line. P4.
When he got back to the garage, she didn’t say “I told you so.”
She just handed him a bottle of water and went back to her laptop.
Race Day.
Final strategy brief. Everyone tense. Yuki cool as ever, pointer in hand, voice sharp.
“Softs for the start. Box on Lap 13 if no SC. Unless tire temps spike, then switch to Plan B and call it.”
Pierre raised a brow. “What’s Plan B?”
Yuki didn’t even blink. “Me saving your ass. Again.”
Lap 12. The tire deg was brutal.
Pierre: “I think the rears are dying.”
Yuki: “Lap 13 pit still good. Unless you want to pit now and come out behind Stroll and shame.”
Pierre: “Copy. I hate you.”
Yuki: “You’ll love me if this works.”
He boxed on 13. Came out just ahead of traffic. Clean air.
By Lap 27, he was up to P6.
Lap 34, a late Safety Car brought chaos. Some pit. Some don’t.
Yuki’s voice: calm, unshaken.
Yuki: “Stay out. We’re taking track position.”
Pierre: “You sure?”
Yuki: “No. But I sound like I am, and that’s what counts.”
He laughed again. Couldn’t help it.
Final laps. He fought off Alonso tooth and nail.
Crossed the line P4.
Not a win. But better than anyone expected.
Back in the garage, Yuki was waiting by the screens.
He took his helmet off, chest heaving.
She raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t crash. Congratulations.”
He grinned. “I drove well.”
“You listened.”
A beat.
Then Pierre leaned in, towel around his neck.
“You do realize, you’re the most insufferable, infuriating person I’ve ever worked with.”
Yuki looked up from her tablet.
“And you’re not even in my top five.”
He walked off, laughing.
And maybe—just maybe—looking forward to the next race.