Chapter Text
The sun was still rising over Monaco’s coastline, staining the harbour a beautiful array of colours, as Charles Leclerc made his way back towards his apartment in Fontvieille, grocery bags in hand. Usually, he would have chosen to drive, but more and more fans had been recognizing his custom Ferrari 488 Pista Spider lately, and he hadn’t really been in the mood to entertain over-enthusiastic Tifosi before the sun was even fully up.
This all could have been avoided if he’d just remembered to place his usual food order before returning from Australia, but he’d been tired and more than a little jetlagged, and he’d simply forgotten.
He’d debated just ordering in breakfast and foregoing the much-needed kitchen restock, but Arthur was coming over at some point today, and Charles did not want to listen to yet another lecture from their mum about his honestly abysmal level of self-care when Arthur inevitably tattled on him, so groceries it was.
He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t appreciating the solitude and fresh air, though.
At least, until he heard the familiar sound of his name being called. Even before he turned, he knew that he did not recognize the voice – knew that he would be turning to greet fans. So, he plastered a smile that he knew didn’t reach his eyes on his face as he moved to greet whatever Tifosi were currently trailing him.
“Bonjour,” Charles greeted in his native language, silently hoping that the trio of men approaching him spoke French. He wasn’t entirely sure his brain was awake enough yet to manage a prolonged conversation in Italian or English.
“Would you mind taking a photo with us?” the man in the middle of the group asked in an accented English Charles couldn’t quite place, but the Monegasque thought that he sounded a bit like Carlos.
“Of course,” Charles obliged. Hopefully the trio would be satisfied with a couple of quick pictures, and then he could continue on his way. He still wasn’t entirely sure when his younger brother was planning on invading his space, and he’d prefer to get the groceries put away and tidy a bit before Arthur saw just how much of a disarray his place was in.
He hadn’t even unpacked his suitcases yet.
The trio moved to flank him, the man who had spoken pulling out his phone as they moved, clearly intending to take a selfie of the group. Again, Charles smiled, gaze fixed on the camera.
He should have been paying more attention to the men around him.
The thing was, he knew better. After having his watch stolen last year, he’d been more careful. Mostly, he’d avoided getting too close to groups of fans when he was out by himself, but he’d followed plenty of other advice his friends, the police, and fellow drivers had given him. He’d kept his guard up.
But today, in the early morning sun, in the city he’d called home his entire life, Charles Leclerc had let his guard down.
He barely processed what was happening as he was roughly grabbed and dragged into an adjoining alleyway. By the time his brain caught up with his reality, he was being roughly shoved against the wall, his skull painfully connecting with the stones as the largest of the three men pinned him in place. His groceries tumbled to the ground as he scrambled against the hold – and attempt that earned him another forceful shove into the wall. This time, his temple connected with the rough surface, scraping painfully.
“¡Deja de moverte!” one of the men barked, and Charles went still – compliant.
“Qu'est-ce que vous voulez?” Charles choked out around the hold on his throat, voice rough and wheezing. “J'ai de l'argent, ou –”
“English, il predestinato,” one of the men sneered, punctuating his demand with a hit to Charles face as his voice curled sarcastically against the nickname.
Right, right – English.
He could do that, he knew English.
“What do you want?” Charles tried again. “I have money, or –”
Charles never finished his offer – his plea – instead doubling over as a hit connected painfully with his ribs.
“Please, just –”
More hits, and Charles crumpled to the ground, curling protectively around his abdomen. He wasn’t even sure when the man holding him against the wall had released him, but fleeing seemed impossible now as the punches turned to kicks. His ribs were screaming in pain, his head pounding, and he was quite certain his face was bleeding.
“Arrêtez, s'il vous plaît, arrêtez,” Charles pleaded desperately, his voice choking past tears as he desperately begged his attackers to stop. He didn’t understand why they were doing this, what he had done, what they wanted from him –
“Hey! What are you doing!” a new voice cut through the haze, raised and angry – and familiar. “Stop!”
Where they hadn’t listened to Charles, his attackers listened to this new voice, leaving Charles curled up and prone on the hard ground as they fled. Charles, for his part, couldn’t find it within himself to move much beyond curling up further, letting out a groan of pain at even the smallest of movements.
“Hey, it’s okay, you’re okay now,” that same voice – calmer now, soothing – said. The words were accompanied by the sound of approaching footsteps, which came to a stop somewhere near Charles head, then –
“Shit, Charles?” the voice – the accent so familiar, the tone unmistakable (if Charles was thinking clearly) – exclaimed. “Fuck! Okay, okay, can you look at me? Charles?”
Somehow, Charles found it within himself to turn his head slightly, open his eyes, and look up into Max Verstappen’s unmistakable blue eyes. He tried to smile, but he wasn’t entirely sure that he managed more than a pained grimace.
“Hey, Max,” Charles croaked.
“Fucking Christ, Leclerc,” Max sounded exasperated, and more than a little worried. “Can you get up by yourself?”
Given how much just shifting slightly earlier had hurt, Charles very much doubted it, so he shook his head instead, earning a tight smile from Max.
“Okay, that’s okay, it’s probably not a good idea to move anyways, right? I mean, I don’t think you’re supposed to move when you’re injured, so we’ll just call 112 –”
Alarm shot through Charles, and he shot into an upright seated position. He bit back the groan he wanted to let out as his hand shot out to grab Max’s wrist.
“Non – no – just, help me get up,” Charles demanded.
Instead of immediately complying, Max worried at his lip, gaze darting between Charles’ face and the grip he still had on Max’s wrist – on the hand holding his cellphone.
“Charles, I really do think you should go to the hospital,” Max tried, but Charles was already shaking his head.
“Pas d'hôpital,” Charles insisted, unintentionally switching between English and French as he babbled. “I don’t need – I just want to go home. S'il te plaît, ramène-moi à la maison.”
“Okay, of course Charles, I will help you home,” Max soothed. “Is there anyone I can call while we’re walking back?”
“No - je veux rentrer chez moi,” Charles repeated, his voice slipping into something closer to a plea. “Please.”
Max nodded, expression resigned, before shifting to help Charles to his feet. The other driver politely ignored Charles pained whimpers and groans, wordlessly moving them until Charles was more of less propped up by Max’s shoulder, barely supporting any of his own weight.
In any other scenario, Charles might have been impressed by Max’s strength.
Now, he was just tired.
“Good?”
“Good.”
Charles barely remembered most of the walk back to his apartment, the trip a blur of pain and quiet reassurances from Max as they hobbled along. He couldn’t have recalled what Max was saying if he’d been asked, and he certainly didn’t notice Max using his spare hand to send a series of text messages.
Mere minutes or entire hours could have passed by the time Charles found himself in front of his own door, Max still tucked firmly under his arm, looking into his face expectantly.
Oh, he was talking.
“Where are your keys, Charles?” Max repeated.
“My – in my pocket,” Charles rasped, reaching to pat at his thigh. After several uncoordinated, failed attempts, Max sighed and reached across their bodies with his spare hand to dig into Charles pocket, unearthing the keys. He didn’t even offer them to Charles, just fitted them into the lock himself before turning the handle and pushing open the door.
They shuffled into the apartment awkwardly, Max still supporting a mostly incoherent Charles. The prior was entirely focused on the Monegasque in his arms, while the Monegasque in question was mostly unaware of his surroundings, relief quickly burning through the adrenaline that had kept him on his feet long enough to get home.
Which was how neither of them noticed –
“Charles?”
Max’s head snapped to the sound – just as Charles went entirely limp in his arms, leaving the Dutch driver to scramble to catch his limp form before he crashed to the ground. Which left both drivers entirely unable to respond to the younger Leclerc, who was gaping at them from across the room.
“What did you do to my brother?”