Chapter Text
The drive from your place to the Top Gear office took forty-five minutes, but you made it in thirty-five, your knuckles white on the steering wheel of his battered Fiat Panda. The little car rattled and groaned as you pushed it faster than it had any right to go, the engine whining in protest. You didn't care. You'd had enough of being second place to a television show, to a workshop full of greasy tools and endless bickering with his two best mates.
You parked the Panda in the visitors' lot, slammed the door harder than necessary, and marched through the main entrance. The security guard recognised you—gave a sympathetic nod—and waved you through without a word. Everyone knew. Everyone could see the tension simmering between you and James these days.
His office door was cracked open. You pushed it wide and walked in, dropping your bag onto the visitor chair with a thud. The room smelled like him: old books, machine oil, faintly of stale tea. Papers were strewn across his desk, blueprints and notes and photographs of car interiors. A half-empty mug sat on the edge of the desk, a ring of dried tea staining the wood.
You didn't sit. You stood by the window, arms crossed, watching the test track below. A sleek black car—some kind of luxury saloon, you didn't care what—was parked on the tarmac. His car for the week. Of course.
The door swung open twenty minutes later. James stepped inside, still in his driving gloves, a sheen of sweat on his brow from the afternoon heat. He froze when he saw you.
"What are you doing here?"
His voice was flat. Not surprised, not angry—flat. That was worse. That meant he'd been expecting this.
"Nice to see you too, James."
He pulled off his gloves, tossed them onto the desk. "I asked a question."
"I know you did." You turned to face him fully. "I came to talk. Since you clearly don't have time to come home anymore."
He exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I'm working. We have a deadline."
"You always have a deadline. You've had a deadline for three months, James. Every night you come home after ten, every weekend you're in here, and when you are home you're on the phone to Clarkson or Hammond or Wilman. I'm starting to think I'm dating a car, not a man."
He flinched—just a fraction—but recovered quickly. "That's not fair."
"No? Then tell me what's fair. Tell me when the last time was we had dinner together that didn't involve you checking your phone every five minutes. Tell me the last time you touched me without it being a quick grope on the way to bed."
"Don't be dramatic."
"I'm not being dramatic—I'm being honest. Something you've clearly forgotten how to do."
His jaw tightened. He crossed to his desk, picked up a folder, flipped through it without really looking. "I'm sorry if my work is an inconvenience to you."
"Don't you dare put this on me." Your voice rose, and you didn't care who might hear. "I have been patient. I have been understanding. I have listened to you talk about differentials and torque and engine blocks until my eyes glazed over, because I love you and I want to support you. But there's a limit, James. There's a point where supporting becomes enabling, and you've crossed it."
He slammed the folder down. "You think I enjoy this? You think I like spending sixteen hours a day here? This is my career. This is what I've built. And yes, it takes time, but that's the price. I'm not going to apologise for being dedicated."
"I'm not asking you to apologise for your dedication. I'm asking you to remember you have a partner. A life. A home that isn't this bloody office."
He stepped closer, and you could smell the dust and petrol on him. "I remember. I think about you all the time. But I can't just walk away from a shoot because you're lonely."
"Lonely?" You laughed, but there was no humour in it. "I'm not lonely, James. I'm neglected. There's a difference. Lonely means I miss you. Neglected means you're not even trying to be there."
His eyes narrowed. "That's unfair."
"Is it? When was the last time you said 'I love you' and meant it, not just as a reflex when you were hanging up the phone?"
He opened his mouth, closed it. The silence was answer enough.
"Right," you said quietly. "That's what I thought."
He turned away, ran a hand through his hair. "What do you want me to say? That I'll change? I can't change. This is who I am."
"I don't want you to change who you are. I want you to see what you're doing to us."
"We're fine."
"We're not fine. We're a ticking time bomb, and you're too busy staring at your bloody spreadsheets to notice."
He spun back around, and now the anger was there—sharp and hot in his eyes. "Then what do you suggest? I quit? Give up everything I've worked for because you can't handle a few late nights?"
"I can handle late nights. What I can't handle is being an afterthought. A checkbox. 'Went home, said hello, went to sleep, repeat.' That's not a relationship. That's roommates."
"Is that how you see it?"
"That's how it's become."
He stood there, chest heaving, fists clenched at his sides. The silence stretched between you, thick and awful, and you felt your eyes sting. You blinked hard.
"I'm going home," you said, your voice steadier than you expected. "I'll leave the Panda here. You can have it back. I'll call a taxi."
You grabbed your bag and walked past him, shoulder brushing his. He didn't move. You reached the door, hand on the handle, when his voice stopped you.
"Wait."
You paused. Didn't turn around.
"Wait," he said again, softer this time. "Don't. Don't go."
You heard him take a step, then another. His hand landed on your shoulder, warm and tentative.
"I'm sorry," he said, and this time it sounded real. "I'm sorry. You're right. I've been... blind. Stupid. I've taken you for granted and I didn't even realise."
Slowly, you turned. His face was open, vulnerable in a way you hadn't seen in months. His eyes were glassy.
"Then prove it," you said. "Don't just say it. Show me."
He nodded, swallowed hard. "I will. I promise."
You wanted to believe him. You wanted to fall into his arms and let him hold you. But the anger was still there, coiled tight in your chest, and you weren't ready to let it go.
"Come on," he said, picking up his keys from the desk. "Let's get out of here. Let's go somewhere and talk. Properly."
"I don't want to talk anymore. I'm talked out."
"Then we'll just drive. Please."
You hesitated, then nodded. "Fine. But I'm not getting in the Panda. I've had enough of that thing today."
He almost smiled. "Alright. We'll take the test car. It's got more space anyway."
You followed him out of the office, down the corridor, out into the cool evening air. The black saloon sat gleaming under the floodlights, sleek and expensive, its leather interior visible through the tinted windows. He unlocked it, opened the passenger door for you.
"I don't need you to open doors for me," you snapped, but you got in anyway. The leather was soft and cold against your legs. The interior smelled new—that synthetic, sterile scent of a fresh car.
He got in the driver's side, started the engine. It purred to life with a low, throaty growl.
"Buckle up," he said, and pulled out of the lot.