Chapter Text
Checo stared at the legal documents spread across his modest desk. The threats of lawsuits loomed heavy in the air, the weight of them settling in his chest like a stone.
Max had forged his signature— of course, he did.
It wasn’t surprising, considering Max’s singular determination to get what he wanted, but the implications were dire. Unlike in the original timeline, where Checo had wealth, connections, and a powerful network to shield him, here he was just a humble school owner in Mexico. He didn’t have the resources to fight this battle, not against Red Bull and certainly not against Max.
Checo exhaled deeply, running a hand through his hair. The thought of returning to Formula 1, of diving back into that chaotic, cutthroat world, made his stomach churn. He’d left that life behind for a reason, hadn’t he? But now, his back was against the wall. He had no choice but to go back.
The only silver lining was his students. Checo couldn’t help but smile faintly at the thought of their wide-eyed excitement when they saw him back on the F1 grid. He might not have wanted this, but maybe they could draw inspiration from it—proof that even someone like him, who had walked away, could rise again.
—
The process of re-entering F1 was a whirlwind. Medical tests, sponsorship meetings, and interviews consumed his days. Red Bull’s PR team wasted no time spinning the narrative: Sergio Pérez returns to F1 to help Max Verstappen chase glory one more time. The headlines plastered his name and Max’s across every outlet, stirring excitement and controversy alike.
Checo endured it all in silence, knowing he had little room to protest. This wasn’t about him—it was about Max. It always was.
After signing the final document sealing his return, Checo sought Max out. He found him in one of the paddock’s private lounges, casually sipping from a water bottle as if nothing in the world could bother him. Checo closed the door firmly behind him.
“We need to talk,” Checo said, his voice steady but laced with tension.
Max glanced up, his expression unreadable. “I’m listening.”
Checo crossed his arms, standing his ground. “I’ll do this, Max. I’ll race. I’ll help you win those two championships you think I owe you.” He took a breath, locking eyes with Max. “But after that, I’m done. For good. I’m retiring.”
Max’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. For a moment, Checo thought he might protest, might try to manipulate him again. Instead, Max simply nodded. “Fine,” he said quietly. “Two championships. Then you can leave.”
Checo studied him for a moment longer, trying to decipher the emotions swirling behind those intense blue eyes. But Max was a master of control, and whatever he was feeling, he kept it locked away.
—
The first race of the 2025 season arrived faster than Checo had anticipated. The energy was palpable as he stepped onto the grid, the roar of the crowd washing over him like a wave. The Mexican flags waved proudly in the stands, and for the first time in a long while, Checo felt a flicker of pride.
The cameras loved him. Headlines gushed about the return of Mexico’s hero, the man who had sacrificed so much and now stood ready to prove himself once more.
Max, of course, was his usual self—focused, sharp, and entirely in his element. Despite everything, Checo couldn’t deny the chemistry they shared on track. Red Bull had built an incredible car this year, and Checo’s experience, combined with his newfound clarity and lack of burdens, made him a force to be reckoned with.
The race was electric. Max led from the front, and Checo was right behind him, fending off the rest of the grid with precision and skill. It felt almost effortless, a far cry from the uphill battles he’d faced in the original timeline. He wasn’t fighting against the car, the team, or himself anymore.
By the time the checkered flag waved, Max had taken the win, and Checo finished second. The crowd erupted as they climbed onto the podium together, the Mexican anthem playing loud and proud. For the first time in years, Checo allowed himself to bask in the moment.
Max turned to him on the podium, a rare smile breaking through his usual stoicism. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” he said, his voice barely audible over the cheers.
Checo nodded, his own smile faint but genuine. “Yeah, it does.”
As they sprayed the champagne, Checo caught sight of his students watching from the stands, their faces lit with awe and excitement. It was for them, he reminded himself. If nothing else, this was for them.
—
The post-race debrief was a flurry of congratulations and analysis, but Checo stayed quiet, letting the team soak up the victory. He wasn’t here for the glory or the praise. He was here to fulfill his promise, nothing more.
Later that night, as the celebrations wound down, Max caught up with him in the paddock. “You did good today,” Max said, his tone surprisingly soft.
Checo glanced at him, wary. “Thanks.”
Max hesitated, then added, “You’re better when you’re not carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders.”
Checo raised an eyebrow. “Funny. I could say the same about you.”
Max smirked but said nothing more, leaving Checo to his thoughts.
As he walked back to his hotel, Checo couldn’t help but wonder how long he could keep this up. Two championships. That was the deal. But with every lap, every podium, he felt himself slipping back into the rhythm of it all.
Would he really be able to walk away again? Or was he fooling himself into thinking this could ever just be temporary?
Only time would tell. For now, he would take it one race at a time.
And as for Max...well, Checo had a feeling that the younger Verstappen wasn’t done throwing curveballs his way just yet.
—
Helmut stood in the Red Bull garage, watching Max as he prepared for another race. A faint smile tugged at the corners of Helmut's mouth. For years, Max had been Red Bull's golden ticket—a driver with unparalleled skill and relentless ambition. But since 2021, something had been missing. Max was still good—better than good—but he lacked the fire that had once set him apart. He went through the motions, winning races, but the spark, the raw hunger, was gone.
Until now.
Max’s recent performances were nothing short of brilliant. The aggression, the precision, the drive—it was as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. And Helmut, who had spent decades reading drivers like open books, knew exactly why.
Sergio Pérez.
Helmut wasn’t entirely sure what kind of hold the Mexican had over Max, but he wasn’t about to question it. If having Checo by Max’s side meant their number one driver was back to his best, then so be it. Red Bull’s strategy had always been simple: build the best car and back the best driver. If Max needed Sergio to thrive, then Red Bull would ensure Checo stayed as long as necessary.
Helmut leaned closer to Christian Horner, his voice low. “It’s working. Whatever Max needs, we make it happen.”
Christian nodded, his expression serious. “Checo’s proving himself out there. Consistent podiums, smart strategy—it’s like he’s been here all along.”
Helmut glanced back at the monitors, where Max and Checo were on track, trading fastest laps during practice. For now, the team was thriving. But Helmut couldn’t shake the nagging thought: How long would it last?
—
The fanfare surrounding his return was overwhelming. Though he had retired from F1 before joining Red Bull in this timeline, his reputation as a skilled tire manager and defensive driver preceded him. Every media outlet wanted a piece of the “unexpected comeback story,” and the comparisons to his original timeline felt surreal.
Checo’s students were elated, of course. Watching their teacher compete on the world stage ignited their dreams in ways Checo hadn’t anticipated. He found solace in their enthusiasm, even as the pressures of F1 began to creep back into his life.
The first few races were steady—podium finishes alongside Max, a testament to Red Bull’s superior car and Checo’s reliability. But the turning point came halfway through the season, in Baku, the track that he used to own.
The tension was palpable as the race unfolded. Max was leading, but the battle for second and third place was fierce. Lando Norris, Charles Leclerc, Lewis Hamilton, George Russell, and Carlos Sainz —all of them gunning for Max’s position.
Checo, running sixth, was called upon to hold them back.
And he did.
Lap after lap, Checo used every ounce of his skill to keep the pack behind him. Lando tried to dive down the inside; Checo cut him off with millimeter precision. Lewis attempted an overcut, but Checo’s impeccable tire management nullified the advantage. George, frustrated, radioed in: “He’s impossible to pass!”
The commentators were in awe. “This is incredible! Sergio Pérez is putting on a masterclass in defensive driving!”
When the checkered flag finally fell, Max crossed the line first, with Checo holding onto fourth. The crowd erupted, and social media was ablaze with praise for Checo’s performance.
“Minister of Defense,” one headline read. “Sergio Pérez Saves the Day Again!”
Checo stood on the sidelines, watching Max celebrate another victory. The praise for his efforts was overwhelming, far louder than anything he’d experienced in his original timeline. It was bittersweet. All the things he’d done before—his tire management, his defensive brilliance—were finally being acknowledged. But the weight of knowing this wasn’t his first time made the accolades feel hollow.
Later that evening, after the post-race celebrations had died down, Checo found Max sitting alone in the team’s hospitality area. A rare moment of quiet in the chaos of an F1 weekend.
“You know,” Checo began, sliding into the seat across from him, “I’ve done that before.”
Max glanced up, his expression unreadable. “What do you mean?”
“In the original timeline,” Checo said softly. “Abu Dhabi 2021. I defended like that for you. It’s what kept Lewis from getting close enough to fight you for the win. The way I try to spare my tires. My scrifiacal races for you to win”
Max’s gaze hardened. “And I didn’t win in this timeline’s 2021, did I?”
Checo flinched. The bitterness in Max’s tone was a reminder of the weight he still carried from that timeline. “No,” Checo admitted. “You didn’t.”
Max leaned back, his arms crossed. “But I will have my championship back. And you’re going to help me.”
Checo sighed, the exhaustion of the day catching up with him. “I’ll help you win the two titles you think I owe you, Max. But after that, I’m done. I’m retiring.”
Max’s expression softened slightly, but his resolve didn’t waver.
—
As the season progressed, Max and Checo became an unstoppable force. The Red Bull RB20 was a masterpiece, and with Max’s raw talent and Checo’s strategic brilliance, the team consistently dominated the podium.
Max won race after race, with Checo either finishing second or third. Their teamwork was seamless, and the media began to dub them the “dynamic duo” of F1. For Checo, it was a strange mix of pride and melancholy.
In the original timeline, he had fought tooth and nail for moments like these, often in Max’s shadow. Here, he was still in the shadow, but at least this time, he was being seen.
—
Christian watched the season unfold with a sense of satisfaction. Max was back to his ruthless, brilliant self, and Checo was proving to be the perfect complement.
But Christian wasn’t blind to the tension simmering beneath the surface. He saw the way Checo’s smile faltered during interviews, the way Max’s eyes lingered on him during team meetings. There was something unresolved between them, something that neither driver was willing to address.
Christian didn’t care. As long as Red Bull kept winning, he would let them sort it out on their own.
—
By the time they reached the summer break, Red Bull was miles ahead in the constructors’ standings. Max had a comfortable lead in the drivers’ championship, and Checo was firmly in second place.
During a quiet moment, Checo found himself reflecting on the season so far. The applause, the victories, the praise—it all felt hollow compared to what he had truly lost.
“You’re thinking too much,” Max said, appearing beside him.
Checo glanced at him, startled. “How do you always know?”
Max smirked. “Because I know you, Checo. Better than you think.”
Checo didn’t respond, his thoughts too tangled to untangle. But one thing was clear: no matter how many podiums he stood on, no matter how much praise he received, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t where he truly belonged.
And yet, as he looked at Max—at the spark in his eyes, the fire that had been reignited—Checo couldn’t bring himself to regret his decision.
Not yet, anyway.
—
Checo had been dreading this moment, but Max had cornered him after the Austrian Grand Prix. They’d shared another dominant 1-2 finish, and Max had been grinning ear to ear. But as they sat in Red Bull’s lounge, the mood shifted.
“You’re not planning to leave again, are you?” Max’s voice was calm, but there was an edge to it.
Checo sighed, setting his drink down. “Max, I told you. I’ll help you get those championships you want, and then I’m done. I’ll go back to my school.”
Max frowned, his hands balling into fists. “You owe me more than that, Checo. You’re the one who changed everything. Without you in 2021, I didn’t win. I didn’t win in 2022 either. Do you know what those years were like for me?”
Checo stiffened but kept his tone measured. “I know, Max. But this wasn’t my choice either. I didn’t ask for any of this.”
“You didn’t ask, but you caused it,” Max snapped, his blue eyes burning. “Do you think I would have let you leave if I had known what the future would look like without you?”
Checo looked away, guilt gnawing at him.
“I didn’t just lose titles, Checo,” Max continued, his voice breaking slightly. “I lost… me. Everything I built fell apart. And now that I have you back, I’m not letting go.”
Checo forced a smile, trying to lighten the mood. “So what are you saying, Max? That you’re proposing I stay forever? What am I, your teammate or your…” he paused, teasing, “your wag? This topoc again?”
Max didn’t laugh.
His silence was heavy, his gaze unwavering.
Checo’s smile faltered. “Max, I—”
“I need you, Checo,” Max said simply, his voice devoid of humor. “And I think you need this, too.”
—
Abu Dhabi came again, bringing with it memories Checo thought he’d buried. This time, he wasn’t holding back Hamilton alone. He was holding off four cars, all of them faster, all of them desperate.
Oscar, pushed hard, attempting to divebomb into Turn 6. Checo blocked him, forcing him to lock up and lose momentum. Behind him, Charles lined up for an overtake, but Checo’s tire management kept him steady through the corners, leaving George frustrated.
Lewis, attacked relentlessly. He knew Checo’s tactics from the past and tried to outwit him. But Checo anticipated every move, holding firm.
And Fernando, waited for a mistake that never came.
By the time Max crossed the line, victorious, Checo had done what he always did: given everything for the team.
This time, the world noticed.
The commentators couldn’t stop talking about his defense. The fans roared his name. Even his rivals—those he’d held back—came to congratulate him.
“You’re a pain in the ass, mate,” Lewis joked, clapping him on the back. “But damn, that was impressive.”
George shook his hand with a wry smile. “You make defending look like an art form.”
Even Oscar gave him a nod of respect.
But as Checo stood on the podium next to Max, champagne spraying into the night sky, he couldn’t shake the bittersweet feeling.
In another life, he’d done all of this. He’d been here before. And no one had cared.
—
As the celebrations died down, Checo found himself alone in his hotel room once more, staring at the ceiling.
Max’s words echoed in his mind: “I need you, Checo.”
Helmut’s praise lingered, too: “You’re the reason Max is back.”
And the crowd’s chants from earlier: “Checo! Checo!”
He should have been happy. He was finally getting the recognition he deserved. But at what cost?
His school in Mexico felt like a distant memory now, even though his students watched every race with pride. He missed the simplicity of that life.
But Max… Max had a way of pulling him back in.
And as much as Checo wanted to leave again, he knew, deep down, that he owed Max this chance.
At least, for now.