Chapter Text
The drive to Brackley had been… normal.
Suspiciously normal.
The winter sky hung pale and quiet over the English countryside as George Russell guided his AMG along the familiar road toward the Mercedes headquarters. The heater hummed softly inside the car and the radio murmured in the background with some afternoon talk program he wasn’t really paying attention to.
He had left London later than planned that morning, having already sent the team a quick message letting them know he’d be arriving a bit behind schedule.
It wasn’t unusual.
Winter break meant the factory moved at a slightly slower rhythm anyway. Meetings about simulator programs, engineering briefings for the upcoming season, occasional marketing commitments.
Nothing urgent.
Certainly nothing that suggested the entire Formula One world had just detonated.
George pulled into the parking lot and slid neatly into his usual space before stepping out of the car. The air was cold enough to sting his face slightly as he adjusted the cuff of his coat and headed toward the main entrance.
Inside the building, the reception area looked exactly as it always did.
People walking through the lobby.
Engineers talking in small groups.
Computers humming quietly behind the desks.
The familiar, controlled bustle of a Formula One factory.
George stepped through the doors and offered his usual polite greeting to the reception desk.
“Good afternoon.”
Several staff members looked up immediately.
They smiled. But the smiles looked… strained.
Awkward.
Like people trying very hard to act normal.
George paused for half a second.
One of the reception assistants waved quickly.
“Hi George!”
“Afternoon.” he replied with a small nod.
She nodded back.
A little too quickly.
Then immediately looked down at her computer like it had suddenly become the most interesting object in the world.
George frowned faintly.
That was… odd.
Still, he continued walking deeper into the building.
More staff passed him in the hallway.
Each one greeted him.
Each one also looked… strangely nervous.
“Hey George.”
“Hi George.”
“Good afternoon.”
One engineer even gave him what looked suspiciously like a sympathetic smile.
George slowed his pace slightly as he walked.
Now he was definitely suspicious.
Had something happened while he was driving?
He tried to mentally review the past few days.
No incidents. No crashes. No dramatic team announcements that he knew of.
Had there been a sudden regulation change?
Did the FIA alter something again without warning?
He turned the corner toward the main operations wing.
And that was when he heard it.
Shouting.
Very loud shouting.
Coming from the direction of Toto Wolff’s office.
George stopped walking.
But the voice wasn’t actually coming from inside the office.
It was echoing from somewhere further down the hallway nearby.
And it was unmistakably Toto.
“LAURENT, THIS IS NOT FUNNY!”
George blinked slowly.
The Austrian accent carried sharply through the corridor as Toto continued pacing somewhere out of sight, clearly speaking into his phone.
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘I CANNOT COMMENT’? HE IS YOUR DRIVER!”
There was a pause.
Then Toto’s voice rose even louder.
“OF COURSE I AM TAKING IT PERSONALLY!”
George stared down the hallway.
…That did not sound good.
A small group of Mercedes personnel stood clustered outside Toto’s office door.
Some engineers.
A few mechanics.
Peter Bonnington.
Andrew Shovlin.
They all looked deeply tired. And extremely stressed.
The office door itself was closed.
Locked.
From inside came another voice.
A younger voice that is very very familiar.
“Kimi.” Bono called through the door with the patient tone of a man who had clearly repeated the same sentence several times already.
“Please open the door.”
“FOR THE NINTH TIME, I AM NOT OPENING THE DOOR!”
George blinked.
“…Why…” he asked slowly as he approached the group, “is Kimi locked inside Toto’s office?”
Shovlin sighed the long, exhausted sigh of someone who had lived through far too much chaos in the last hour.
“It’s been…” he said tiredly, “a very long day.”
From somewhere further down the corridor Toto’s voice erupted again.
“NO, LAURENT, YOU LISTEN TO ME—”
George glanced between the adults.
Then back at the office door.
Inside the room, Andrea Kimi Antonelli’s voice echoed again, filled with furious teenage drama.
“I’M NEVER GOING TO FORGIVE HIM!”
George tilted his head slightly.
“…Never forgive who?”
There was a brief silence.
Then Kimi’s voice rose again, louder and even more ferocious.
“I’LL MAKE BROCEDES LOOK LIKE CHILD’S PLAY!”
The hallway went very still.
Bono slowly pinched the bridge of his nose.
Shovlin made a strange choking noise that might have been a laugh he was desperately trying to suppress.
George blinked again.
“…I’m sorry…” he said carefully, “but what exactly is happening right now?”
Inside the office Kimi shouted again with the fury of a betrayed toddler king.
“GEORGE WILL NEVER SEE THE LIGHT OF DAY AGAIN!”
The hallway froze.
Several engineers slowly turned to look at George.
Bono groaned quietly under his breath.
Shovlin abruptly turned away, shoulders shaking as he tried not to laugh.
George stood there, completely baffled.
“…I’m sorry.” he repeated slowly. “What?”
No one answered immediately.
Several Mercedes engineers suddenly found the floor extremely interesting.
One mechanic coughed into his fist.
Bono dragged a hand down his face like a man reconsidering every life choice that had led him here.
Inside the office Kimi continued pacing loudly.
Something crashed against a desk.
“I MEAN IT!” he shouted dramatically. “HE’S DEAD TO ME!”
George blinked again.
“…Right.”
He looked back at Bono.
“Just so I’m clear…” George said carefully, “what exactly have I done this time?”
Bono opened his mouth.
Closed it again.
Then sighed heavily.
“George…”
“Yes?”
“…You really haven’t checked your phone at all today?”
George shook his head.
“I’ve been driving for the past two hours.” he explained. “I wasn’t exactly scrolling social media on the motorway.”
From somewhere down the corridor Toto’s voice erupted again.
“LAURENT, YOU CANNOT JUST ANNOUNCE SOMETHING LIKE THIS AND EXPECT ME TO BE CALM!”
A beat.
Then even louder:
“I AM VERY CALM!”
Everyone in the hallway collectively winced.
Inside the office Kimi shouted again, his voice suddenly cracking with raw betrayal.
“MAX WOULD NEVER LEAVE US!”
George blinked.
The name landed in the hallway like a dropped wrench.
“…Max? Leave?” George repeated slowly.
Shovlin rubbed his temples.
“Oh dear.”
Bono groaned quietly.
George frowned.
“…Leave where, exactly?”
Inside the office Kimi shouted again, sounding like the world had personally betrayed him.
“THIS IS ALL GEORGE’S FAULT!”
George’s head snapped toward the door.
“…Mine?”
Another loud thud echoed from inside the room.
“I’M NEVER SPEAKING TO HIM AGAIN!”
George glanced around the hallway.
“…I speak to him all the time.” he said mildly.
Bono sighed the sigh of a man whose patience had officially expired.
“George.”
“Yes?”
“Take out your phone.”
George hesitated.
“…Should I be worried?”
Shovlin answered immediately.
“Yes.”
George slowly pulled his phone out of his pocket.
The moment the screen lit up, notifications exploded across it.
Messages. Dozens of them.
No. Hundreds.
The Mercedes team group chat.
Driver chats.
Friends.
Media alerts.
George frowned deeper as he stared at the screen.
“What on earth…”
He opened the top notification.
The official post from Oracle Red Bull Racing.
The press release filled the screen.
His eyes moved down the statement.
Then stopped.
Then went back up.
Then carefully read the entire thing again.
Silence stretched across the hallway.
George did not move. Did not blink. Did not breathe.
Behind him, Toto’s distant voice roared once more.
“LAURENT, THIS IS INSANE!”
Inside the office Kimi sniffed loudly.
“I CAN’T BELIEVE HE’S GONE.”
George finally looked up from the phone.
Very slowly.
“…Retired?”
No one answered.
Bono simply nodded grimly.
George stared at the screen again.
At the name.
Max Verstappen.
Retired.
For a long moment George simply stood there, trying to process the information his brain was refusing to accept.
Then he let out a short, disbelieving laugh.
“…Right.” he said, almost under his breath. “Very funny.”
No one around him laughed.
George looked up, brows slightly raised, like he was waiting for someone to admit this was a joke.
“…No, seriously.” he added, gesturing faintly with his phone. “Who’s done this? Is this one of those hacked account things? Because it’s not particularly well-timed.”
Bono didn’t say anything.
Shovlin looked like he was trying very hard not to react.
George frowned a little deeper.
“…You’re all being very committed to the bit.”
Silence.
Inside the office, Kimi let out another wounded, dramatic noise.
“I CAN’T BELIEVE HE’S GONE!”
George blinked, then shook his head slightly.
“No, he’s not.” he said firmly, like he was correcting a minor misunderstanding. “Max doesn’t just retire. That’s not a thing he does. He complains, yes. He sulks a bit when the car’s not perfect, absolutely. But retiring? In February?”
He let out another small scoff.
“This is clearly him throwing a bit of a tantrum because something’s not gone his way.” George continued, warming to his point now. “Red Bull’s probably built something questionable, the engine’s not where he wants it and now he’s decided to make a statement.”
Several engineers exchanged looks.
One of them mouthed is he serious?
George carried on, completely confident.
“He’ll be in Australia.” he said with certainty. “He’ll turn up, he’ll complain about balance for two days and then he’ll be on pole by Saturday. That’s literally how this works every year.”
Bono rubbed his face.
Shovlin looked at the ceiling like he was asking for strength.
From down the corridor, Toto’s voice thundered again.
“LAURENT, THIS IS NOT HOW YOU HANDLE THIS!”
George waved a hand vaguely.
“See? Toto’s overreacting as well. Everyone just needs to calm down for a moment and think logically. Max Verstappen is not retiring at twenty-eight because of ‘personal reasons.’ That is the least believable sentence I’ve ever read in my life.”
Inside the office, Kimi suddenly shouted again, voice cracking.
“MAX WOULD NEVER DO THIS UNLESS HE WAS FORCED!”
George frowned slightly.
“…Forced by what? Poor rear stability?”
No one laughed.
George looked around.
“…You’re all taking this far too seriously,.” he said, a bit more insistently now. “I’m telling you, this is nothing. He’ll be back in Australia and we’ll all look a bit silly for reacting like this.”
The looks he got in return did not reassure him.
If anything, they looked worse.
Like people watching someone confidently walk inside a mental asylum.
From further down the hallway, Toto’s footsteps approached… fast, heavy and deeply irritated.
He rounded the corner still gripping his phone, looking like a man who had just spent twenty minutes arguing with a brick wall.
“Laurent refuses to say anything useful!” Toto snapped. “Only ‘personal reasons’ and ‘respect privacy’… as if that explains anything—”
He stopped when he saw George.
Standing there. Perfectly calm.
“…Ah.” Toto said flatly.
George gave him a polite nod.
“Toto. I think everyone’s overreacting slightly.”
Toto stared at him.
Inside the office Kimi screamed again.
“BRING HIM BACK!”
Toto closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them again, something in his expression had shifted from anger to pure, exhausted determination.
“That is enough.”
He turned sharply toward the office door.
“Kimi.”
Silence.
Then from inside.
“GO AWAY!”
“You cannot stay locked in my office like this.”
“I AM GRIEVING!”
“You are watching highlight videos!”
“I AM GRIEVING WITH CONTEXT!”
Toto inhaled slowly then turned toward the corridor.
“Maintenance.”
Two very nervous maintenance workers appeared almost instantly.
“Open the door.”
Inside… Immediate panic.
“WAIT—NO—DON’T YOU DARE—”
The lock rattled.
Tools clinked.
“THIS IS ILLEGAL!” Kimi shouted. “THIS IS A HUMAN RIGHTS VIOLATION!”
The door clicked.
Then swung open.
The scene inside looked like emotional devastation had physically manifested.
Tissues everywhere. A laptop on the desk playing a Max highlight reel. And sitting right on top of Toto’s desk… was Kimi.
Wrapped in an oversized Red Bull hoodie that very clearly belonged to Max Verstappen.
Clutching it like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
He looked up and saw George.
Everything went still.
Kimi slowly stood.
He pointed.
Dramatically.
“THERE HE IS.”
George blinked.
“…Oh, hello.”
Kimi’s expression darkened.
Then with absolutely no warning, he launched himself off the desk like a missile.
“FOR MAX!”
Chaos erupted.
“KIMI—NO!”
“STOP HIM!”
“WHY IS HE SO FAST?!”
Kimi slammed straight into George.
The chair went down.
George went down.
His dignity went down with him.
“WHAT—WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” George shouted, trying to fend him off.
“THIS IS FOR BETRAYING HIM!”
“I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING!”
“GRAB HIM!” Bono yelled.
“I’VE GOT HIS ARM—NO I DON’T—”
“I THINK HE’S GOING TO BITE GEORGE’S EAR OFF!” someone screamed.
“HE’S GOING FOR THE FACE!”
“Someone leash the kid!”
Kimi clung on like a feral cat, absolutely committed to the attack.
“YOU MADE HIM RETIRE!”
“I DID NOT MAKE HIM RETIRE!”
Shovlin had completely turned away at this point, shoulders shaking violently.
Toto stood there, watching the entire scene unfold with the hollow expression of a man who had accepted his fate.
George suddenly yelped.
“OW—WHAT WAS THAT?!”
“I THINK HE GOT YOUR EAR!” a mechanic shouted in horror.
“I STILL NEED THAT!” George yelled.
Kimi, undeterred, went in again.
“FORTH EORLINGAS!!!”
George flailed.
“GET HIM OFF—WHY IS HE SO STRONG?!”
And then, a sharp crack.
A pause.
George froze.
“HE BROKE MY NOSE!!!”
The hallway outside Toto’s office did not so much settle after the attack as it shifted into a different flavor of chaos.
For several long seconds, it was just noise.
Shouting. Footsteps.
Someone swearing under their breath.
Someone else asking, with genuine distress, “Is that blood?”
At the center of it all, George Russell was still halfway on the floor, one hand braced awkwardly against the overturned chair, the other pressed instinctively to his face as he blinked in stunned disbelief at the world around him.
“I—what—” he started, then stopped, because the sentence had nowhere to go.
A sharp, throbbing pain pulsed across the bridge of his nose.
He inhaled and immediately regretted it.
“Ohhhh…” George said faintly, his voice tightening despite himself. “This is… significantly unpleasant.”
“Kimi, let go—let go of him!” Bono snapped, his patience having very clearly expired somewhere several minutes ago.
“I AM NOT FINISHED!” Kimi shouted back, voice cracking with equal parts fury and heartbreak as two very determined mechanics tried to peel him off George like an emotionally unstable barnacle.
“This is a disproportionate response!” George protested, attempting to push himself upright while also avoiding further injury. “I would just like to formally state that this is wildly disproportionate—”
Kimi lunged again.
“I’LL SHOW YOU DISPROPORTIONATE RESPONSE!”
“Absolutely not!” one of the mechanics yelped, tightening his grip and physically hauling Kimi backward before he could reconnect with George’s face.
Another engineer grabbed Kimi around the shoulders.
Between the three of them, they finally managed to drag him away, though not without resistance.
“This is NOT OVER!” Kimi shouted, twisting in their hold like a feral cat that had just been denied vengeance. “I WILL NOT FORGET THIS BETRAYAL!”
“I haven’t betrayed anyone!” George shot back, now fully upright but still slightly off-balance as he pressed his fingers more firmly against his nose.
He pulled his hand away for half a second.
Looked at it.
Paused.
“…Right.” he said quietly.
That was blood.
Quite a bit of it, actually.
“I think…” George added with careful composure, “we can all agree that things have escalated unnecessarily.”
“Oh, we’ve well passed unnecessary,” Shovlin muttered from somewhere off to the side, sounding deeply entertained despite himself.
“Take him to medical.” Toto said flatly, already moving toward George with the air of a man who had accepted this as his reality.
“I’m perfectly capable of walking.” George replied immediately, though he did not object when Bono took hold of his arm anyway.
Behind them, Kimi’s voice continued to echo down the hallway as he was physically removed from the immediate vicinity.
“THIS ISN’T JUSTICE!”
“It’s literally assault.”
“No, it’s attempted murder.” someone muttered.
“IT’S JUSTICE FOR MAX!”
George glanced over his shoulder as he was guided away, expression still caught somewhere between polite confusion and mild irritation.
“I would just like to reiterate…” he called back, “that I have not, in fact, caused anyone to retire.”
“Just walk forward, George.” Bono said wearily, steering him toward the medical wing.
The walk to the medical room was… eventful.
Not because of any further attacks, thankfully, but because George insisted on maintaining a pace and posture that suggested absolutely nothing was wrong, which would have been more convincing had he not been actively bleeding.
“I’m fine.” George said again, as they turned a corner.
“Yes, I can see that.” Bono replied in a tone that suggested he did not believe that for a second.
“It’s a minor impact.” George continued, voice measured, as though delivering a technical debrief. “There’s no need to dramatize it.”
He walked directly into the edge of a doorframe.
Not hard. But enough.
There was a very small, very noticeable thunk.
George stopped.
Blinked.
Adjusted his coat like nothing had happened.
“…Bit narrow.” he said calmly.
Bono closed his eyes briefly.
“Medical room, now.” he repeated, as if invoking it like a mantra.
The medical room itself was a stark contrast to the chaos outside.
Bright. Clean. Quiet.
Almost offensively normal.
Which made the current situation feel even more absurd.
A medic looked up the moment they entered, immediately registering the situation with professional efficiency.
“Hi!” she said, already moving toward George. “Right, let’s have a look.”
“It’s really not necessary—” George began.
“SIT.” she said, in the tone of someone who was not asking.
George sat.
“…I was going to sit anyway.” he added, as if that mattered.
Bono leaned against the nearby counter, arms folded, watching with the quiet resignation of a man who had accepted that this was simply how his day was going to go.
“Head back slightly.” the medic instructed, gently but firmly guiding George into position.
He complied, though his attention was already drifting.
“Does this hurt?” she asked, pressing lightly along the bridge of his nose.
“No.”
She applied slightly more pressure.
George inhaled sharply.
“…Yes.” he amended. “But that’s not the point.”
“And what is the point?” Bono asked dryly.
“The point…” George said, as if this were obvious, “is that everyone is reacting disproportionately to a situation that is, in all likelihood, being misinterpreted.”
Bono stared at him.
The medic glanced briefly between them.
“…We’re talking about your nose or something else?” she asked.
“Something else.” Bono said.
“Definitely something else.” George confirmed.
He shifted slightly on the examination table, wincing despite himself as the medic continued her assessment.
“This entire situation…” George went on, gesturing faintly with one hand while the other still hovered near his face, “is being blown out of proportion.”
Bono made a quiet, incredulous sound.
“Out of proportion…” he repeated.
“Yes.” George said firmly. “Max is not retiring.”
Bono didn’t respond immediately.
He simply looked at George for a long, silent moment.
“George…” he said finally, very carefully, “there was an official statement.”
“I know…” George replied without missing a beat, “and teams have never exaggerated or strategically communicated anything before?”
“That’s not—”
“This is clearly a negotiation tactic.” George continued, warming to his point as if presenting a perfectly reasonable argument. “Or a reaction to internal dissatisfaction. The car’s probably not where he wants it to be. The engine might be underperforming. There’s any number of variables that could lead to this kind of… statement.”
The medic paused for half a second, then resumed, clearly deciding it was best not to engage.
“He’ll be in Australia.” George added, with complete certainty.
Bono dragged a hand down his face.
“Of course he will.”
“He always is.” George said, as though that settled the matter entirely. “He’ll show up, he’ll complain about balance, he’ll say the car is undriveable and then he’ll qualify on pole by half a tenth. It’s practically a routine at this point.”
From somewhere down the hallway, faint but unmistakable, came a muffled shout.
“I WANT MY LAWYER!”
George tilted his head slightly.
“…Is that Kimi?”
“Yes.” Bono said.
There was another distant bang.
“WHY IS THE DOOR LOCKED AGAIN?!”
“Because you tried to rearrange George’s face.” another voice shouted back.
“HE DESERVED IT!”
George sighed softly.
“Well, that’s not ideal behavior.” he said, as though discussing a minor etiquette issue.
Bono stared at him.
“You don’t say.”
The medic stepped back slightly.
“Good news.” she said. “It doesn’t appear to be broken.”
George gave a small, satisfied nod.
“Excellent.”
“It’s swollen…” she continued, “and you’ll likely have some bruising but structurally it’s intact.”
“Of course it is.” George said. “I have a very resilient—”
“You’ll still need to keep ice on it.” she added, cutting him off gently as she handed him an ice pack.
George accepted it, pressing it carefully to his nose.
“…This doesn’t change anything.” he said after a moment.
Bono blinked.
“…Your nose?”
“The situation.” George clarified. “This doesn’t change the fact that Max is not actually retiring.”
Bono let out a long, slow exhale.
“Right.”
George adjusted the ice pack slightly, settling more comfortably into his seat despite the tissue now lightly packed at his nostrils.
“I think everyone’s allowing the emotional reaction to override the logical analysis.” he continued. “Which is understandable, to a degree but ultimately unhelpful.”
The medic turned away, very deliberately focusing on her instruments.
Bono looked at the ceiling.
“George…” he said, with the patience of a man hanging by a thread, “he’s not coming back next week.”
“He doesn’t need to come back next week.” George replied calmly. “The first race isn’t until—”
“He’s retired.”
George gave him a polite, almost sympathetic look.
“He’s made a statement.”
Bono closed his eyes briefly.
From the hallway:
“I WILL NOT BE SILENCED!”
A beat.
“Someone take his phone away!”
“No!”
George winced slightly at the noise.
“…He seems very upset.” he observed.
“Yes.” Bono said flatly. “That tends to happen when people think their grid mother has retired.”
George nodded thoughtfully.
“Which, again, is a misunderstanding.”
Bono laughed.
It was short.
And entirely devoid of humor.
“We’ve lost him.” he muttered.
The medic glanced back over.
“Sorry?”
“Nothing.” Bono said quickly. “Absolutely nothing.”
George shifted again, sitting a little straighter now, ice pack still in place, expression composed.
“I’ll see him in Melbourne.” he said.
The room went quiet.
Bono looked at him.
The medic looked at him.
Someone passing by the open door slowed slightly, then kept walking.
No one argued.
No one corrected him.
They just… looked.
George met their gazes with calm confidence.
“…What?” he asked.
Bono rubbed his face again.
“…Nothing, George.” he said tiredly.
From somewhere further down the hallway, Kimi’s voice rose once more, muffled but still impressively loud:
“THIS IS A CONSPIRACY!”
George tilted his head slightly.
“…Against him?”
Bono didn’t answer.
The medic cleared her throat lightly.
“Are you feeling dizzy at all?” she asked George.
“No.” George replied.
A beat.
“…Only because of Kimi.” he added.
The medical room eventually released them back into the wild.
Just a quiet understanding that there was, unfortunately, nothing more to be done for a man who had been attacked by a teenager and was now coping with it by confidently denying reality.
George adjusted the ice pack against his nose as he stepped out into the hallway, posture once again composed, expression carefully neutral despite the very obvious tissue situation.
Bono followed a step behind, arms loosely folded, already bracing himself for whatever came next.
The corridor had… calmed.
Relatively speaking.
There were still clusters of staff standing in small groups, speaking in low voices, phones out, the occasional glance thrown toward George like he might spontaneously combust or get tackled again.
George noticed.
Of course he noticed.
He noticed everything.
But, very deliberately, he chose to interpret none of it as unusual.
“Well…” he said lightly, as they started walking, “that was a bit dramatic.”
Bono made a small noise that could have been agreement or disbelief.
George adjusted the ice pack again, wincing slightly but refusing to acknowledge it.
“…Where is Kimi now?” he asked after a moment, tone returning to something more practical, as though inquiring about a colleague who had merely stepped out for coffee rather than attempted bodily harm.
Bono exhaled slowly.
“I heard from one of the staff…” he said, “that Toto essentially… picked him up and removed him from the premises.”
George blinked.
“…Picked him up.”
“Yes.”
“As in physically.”
“Yes.”
George considered that.
“…Right.”
“He’s been taken back to his apartment.” Bono continued, sounding faintly impressed despite himself. “I believe the exact phrasing was ‘Toto muscled the kid into the car before he could start round two.’”
George let out a small huff of amusement.
“…Efficient.”
“Very.” Bono agreed.
They walked in silence for a few steps.
Somewhere in the distance, a door shut.
A phone rang.
The building was still buzzing, still unsettled. An aftermath of something that hadn’t quite finished happening yet.
Bono glanced sideways at George.
“…You know…” he said, tone shifting slightly, “we might need to consider additional security for you in Australia.”
George raised an eyebrow.
“Security.”
“Yes.”
“That seems excessive.”
Bono shrugged lightly.
“I’m just saying…” he went on, “that was only one duckling.”
George let out a quiet laugh at that.
“One.” Bono repeated. “And that one already tried to rearrange your face.”
George smiled faintly, adjusting the ice pack again.
“I think ‘rearrange’ is a bit strong.”
“He tackled you to the ground and went for your ear.” Bono said.
George paused.
“…Yes, well, the ear situation was unexpected.”
Bono continued as if he hadn’t spoken.
“Now imagine if the entire flock is present.”
George glanced at him, amused.
“The flock.”
“Yes, the flock.” Bono said, counting lightly on his fingers as they walked. “You’ve got Ollie, Gabi, Franco, Liam, Isack…”
Each name seemed to add a layer of concern to his tone.
“That’s not a flock.” George said mildly. “That’s a small army.”
“Exactly my point.” Bono replied. “If one of them reacts like that, what happens when they’re all in the same place at the same time?”
George huffed a small laugh, shaking his head.
“I think you’re overestimating the likelihood of that.”
“Am I?” Bono said.
“Yes.” George replied easily. “There’s no need for security.”
Bono looked at him.
“…No?”
“No.” George said, completely assured. “Because Max will be there.”
Bono blinked.
“…What?”
George gestured vaguely with his free hand, like this was the most obvious conclusion in the world.
“In Australia.” he clarified. “He’ll be there. I’m sure of it.”
Bono stared at him for a long second.
Then another.
“…Right.” he said slowly.
George nodded, satisfied.
“So this entire scenario you’re imagining… is very unlikely.”
Bono looked ahead again, then back at George, then ahead once more and let out a quiet breath through his nose.
Shook his head slightly.
“…Yeah.” he muttered. “Alright.”
They walked on.
Bono glanced at him one last time.
“…Whatever lets you sleep at night.”