Work Text:
Tick, tick, tick.
"Why am I still awake?"
Tick.
"Why can’t I sleep?"
Tick.
"I need sleep."
Tick.
The clock echoed deafeningly in the still, silent room, dutifully registering each second slipping past with its monotonous:
Tick.
Each treacherous second.
Tick.
A maddening aural checklist, each tiny fragment of time being-
Ticked
-Off.
And in the silence, between each;
Tick.
Time seemed to mock him.
Tick.
You’re getting old, Mark.
Tick.
Another second gone.
Tick.
And another.
Tick.
Before you know it, Mark, yet another year has passed.
Tick.
Another wasted chance.
Tick.
Another missed opportunity.
Tick
How many more of these do you think you’ll get, Mark?
Tick.
Sebastian didn’t waste time.
Tick.
He achieved everything you ever dreamed of in less than half the time you’ve been here.
Tick.
And now he’s taking his second crown.
Tick.
Time is passing you by.
Tick.
And you’re getting old.
Tick.
Of course you’re not the oldest on the grid Mark!
Tick.
Don’t you think I’ve visited Rubens too?
Tick.
Ferrari’s eternal bridesmaid.
Tick.
Then Jenson’s.
Tick.
Now desperately clinging to his seat in that dog of a car.
Tick.
Just so he can pretend.
Tick.
That I haven’t passed him by.
Tick.
You dare compare yourself to Michael Schumacher?
Tick.
The great Michael Schumacher!
Tick.
I never had to remind him.
Tick.
He used every second I gave him to achieve his goals.
Tick.
Yes, he may be defying me now.
Tick.
But with every fleeting moment I gave him beforehand, he made this sport his own.
Tick.
He owns everything here.
Tick.
He could drive your car if he wanted.
Tick.
All he’d have to do is give the command.
Tick.
And you’d be gone.
Tick.
To even think your career was comparable to his!
Tick.
“Next year will be my year.”
Tick.
You say this year after year, Mark, what makes you think it’ll be any different next time?
Tick.
The team tire of you.
Tick.
And there’s always another driver waiting in the shadows, waiting for your seat.
Tick.
A man unravaged by time.
The mocking clock hit the wall, smashing into pieces, yet still it’s mangled, twisted face seemed to jeer, “You cannot silence me, Mark, any better than you can stop the sands of time running through the hour glass.”
As the hateful sunrise glared through the gap in the curtains, a weary man left the hotel room, leaving a couple of notes atop the shattered wreck of the seemingly innocent time piece for the hotel management to repair the damage and as an offering to Time itself to slow its passing before he let another chance slip through his fingers.