Chapter Text
“So it’s a yellow in turn nine, big crash by Verstappen.”
There’s never an ideal way for the team to tell him Max has crashed. Mostly because Max hardly ever crashes, so when it does happen, Charles is primed to believe it's the worst case scenario. That’s not the only reason he’s primed to think that, of course, but he tries not to let those sorts of thoughts eat him alive because they could swallow up his whole world if he’s not careful.
The words ‘big crash’ reverberate around his head, tripping all the alarm bells in its destructive path and sending his heart up into his throat where it lodges itself and swells with worry.
“Is he okay?” he manages, navigating the short track on auto-pilot.
“It’ll be a double yellow in turn nine, be careful when you get there.”
Fuck. He reassesses his own composure, grips the wheel with a fresh, painful pressure. “All good for Max?” he asks again, trying to be firmer, cursing Bryan in his head because his race engineer knows what Charles needs to hear and this means that he can’t tell him what he needs to hear because Max is not—
“Not sure yet, I’ll come back to you.”
They’ve done this song and dance before. It’s not even the first time this season. Australia was a horror movie playing out in slow motion and Charles is seeing the replay of it on the inside of his visor, he’s hearing the crunch of crumpling carbon fiber, he’s—fuck, he can see the dissipating dust up ahead.
He tries to lift up out of his seat as he’s driving by just to catch a glimpse, a flicker of movement, anything.
Nothing.
Max went in sideways, virtually the worst way to crash, the least protected.
Futilely, he watches in his mirror until he can’t anymore.
They are very specific with what information they tell him after that point—nothing gets passed on to him unless they have double confirmation of its validity—these are instructions Max has laid in stone which, yes, he did agree to and they’re for his safety more than anything so that he never has to live through misinformation or lies about Max’s status. Not again. It’s a necessary step, but he doesn’t have to like it when it goes against every instinct.
He tries to self-regulate, to take deep breaths through the heat and the low-level panic crawling around his stomach that’s making his muscles cramp. All of it is a partial treatment to the symptoms at best.
The radio crackles in his ear.
“Charles, he’s out of the car and walking. Andrea will find you in parc fermé with the run down.”
He forgets that there’s a camera on him even in the car and takes a hand off the wheel, presses it over his face through the helmet briefly. He’s out of the car. Walking. There is more than enough time to dredge himself back together and direct the car back to the pit lane, so he takes the seconds when they come and puts focus into letting the relief washing through his veins get pumped out to all the far corners, down through his legs and into his toes, to his shaking hands and numb digits. His visor fogs from how wet his exhales are and he fumbles at the front until he can crack it open enough for overheated air to pass through.
Bryan gives the usual instructions after that and Charles follows them as he continues to get his head on straight. He couldn’t give less of a shit that George took pole. When they hand him a microphone, he’ll say all the right things, he’ll do his job, but anyone that thinks he isn’t focused on what truly matters is out of their heads.
Andrea must have run to meet him because he looks out of breath and his brow has some beads of sweat glistening in the bright, burning sunlight. With his arms full, his trainer weaves between people to get to him while he’s switching off the car and tugging at his belts.
They time how fast he can get out of the car for emergencies, but they’ve never done it when there’s a Max related emergency and he’s pretty sure he sets a new quick time.
Clambering out of the car, Andrea catches his elbow, leans close to give him the update, the real one. “They didn’t need to take him to medical, he was on the radio pretty immediately and said he knocked his knees on impact, but he’s okay. He’s already making his way here.”
Charles grips onto the other man’s forearm and squeezes through his gloves in gratitude. He hasn’t even taken the helmet off and with the cameras encroaching on their space, he wouldn’t mind staying in his private world a few moments longer. He nods so Andrea can see that he heard him.
“I’ve got his towel for you in the meantime,” Andrea continues.
The towel is nondescript and white and they keep it in a sealed bag for moments like this, but it’s not sealed anymore, it rests at the crook of Andrea’s elbow. That’s what really gets him moving, gets him pulling his gloves off so he can work at his helmet. He has to weigh in first and Andrea shadows him the whole way over.
He’s not sure it’s ever taken so long for him to stand on a scale and wait. The second it’s done, Andrea takes his gear from him and hands over the towel, his bag of jewelry that he’ll need for the post-quali interviews.
A camera might be pointed his way, but that doesn’t stop him from stuffing his face into the towel immediately, into the smell of the sea and home and a little bit of his own vanilla that he’s permanently twined into Max. He can’t imagine any omega judging him for this. No mated omega, at least.
A sigh seeps out of him and he goes so far as to rub the towel over his face, replacing sweat with brushes of his alpha’s calming, steadying scent. It might be on the inappropriate side of things, but he drags the fibers down across the edge of jaw to his neck, working open his race suit in the process before rubbing over where the patch is, where they would mix together. Taking it a step further, he swipes the towel to the back of his neck too, over Max’s mark, grasping the area in a poor imitation of how his alpha’s grip feels, but it does the trick. It buys him time and clears his thoughts, tips him into dizzying relief that mixes with the adrenaline. A faint smile graces his lips, that’s how swift the change is.
“When will I see him?” he asks in a breathless exhale, ignoring for the moment the FIA broadcast director that is waving him toward where Lewis and George are getting herded up ahead.
“Right after you’re done, he may still be doing his own interviews, but we can grab him for a moment.” His trainer holds out the ice vest for him too.
Charles nods as he shoulders into the cooling and thanks Andrea before heading toward the cameras, clutching the towel in his fist the entire way.
His teammate ducks near to him. “Hey man, you good? Max is okay?”
He nods and glances over Lewis’ shoulder, wondering if maybe he could see Max from here if he just looked hard enough. “Yes, yes they said he is alright. He did not need medical at all.”
The alpha at his side offers a comforting smile. “That’s good news. Glad to hear it.”
Charles hums his agreement, but his eyes flicker off to the side again, still looking, scanning in vain hope. When it’s his turn for questions, they have to call his name to get his attention.
As soon as he’s no longer needed, he hurries away. Andrea and Mia are close by and he walks with them to the media pen. He’ll need to make the press conference, but this can be his stop along the way.
While he’s meant to wait until they can flag Max down, that all goes out the window the second he catches sight of the back of a familiar blue shirt just a few yards away.
“Charles, ah—” Mia hisses before cutting herself off with a sigh when he walks right into the pen, hurrying his steps. He’s waited long enough. More than.
The cameras don’t matter, the microphones don’t matter, no one else matters when he puts his hand out to grab Max’s hip from behind, tugging at his RB shirt.
His alpha cuts himself off mid-sentence and turns to look, blue eyes softening at the sight of him. “Hey, schat,” he murmurs, opening up his body and Charles steps into him, tucking his face against his neck even if he can’t get all that he wants. He could be nicer with the strength of his grip too, but instead he lets himself cling to Max the way his instincts are begging. This alpha is his to care for, his to defend and protect and watch over.
“You’re okay?”
“Yeah, I’m alright,” Max promises, rubbing at his back and then sliding his hand to give a reassuring swipe over his nape.
He melts that few degrees more into the other driver's frame. “Your knees?” he asks, keeping quiet in case this is something Max doesn’t want others to hear.
“Had a solid bang together, but I’ll live,” the other driver replies and Charles hears the smile in his voice, suspects that he’s giving everyone at the other side of the pen a reassuring expression as he takes time out of his work to comfort him.
The clench of his hands turns reluctant. He doesn’t want to leave, but can sense Mia hovering, sense the crowd of people waiting on him to get a move on. Charles takes another deep breath before easing back. With a humble glance toward the media, he apologizes for interrupting. “I will go now.”
Max curls his arm around him an inch tighter and leans to speak next to his ear. “Andrea gave you the towel; do you need more?”
He hesitates a moment before shaking his head. He should be fine. Probably.
His alpha seems to make his own assessment before nodding, “alright, if you’re sure. Then I’ll be waiting for you after the presser, yeah?”
“Mmhm.”
Max guides him into a brief, comforting kiss on the lips that tastes like salt and fruity electrolytes before releasing the hold on his waist.
He tries to leave. Honest, he does. It’s his legs that don’t seem to want to obey.
The Dutch driver pauses where he’s half turned back to his interview when he notices him not moving. “Charlie?”
Warmth pools in his cheeks. “Ahuh?” he responds.
Mia steps up to his elbow then and takes an attempt at guiding him away, but he won’t budge. “Charles, we really have to get you to the press conference,” she coaxes quietly.
Charles sinks his teeth into his lower lip. He knows he needs to go, but it seems like…he just can’t. What if I go and he needs me? What if I go and something changes? Sometimes a crash doesn’t hit until later, until after the adrenaline has completely dissolved. Maybe Max can’t even feel exactly how much he hurts yet.
In a gesture that’s supposed to be gentle, Mia tugs at his elbow just an inch, but a growl rumbles up through his diaphragm and she drops her hand away in an instant. “Sorry.” She’s got her hands out, palms facing up as she backs up a step.
Orange racing boots fill the space she surrenders as Max reasserts himself into his direct air. “Let’s get a bit of quiet, schatje,” his alpha murmurs.
That sounds like a great idea to him and he can’t scrounge up the energy to feel overly guilt ridden for disrupting Max’s media time. The alpha gives a few brief instructions to the Red Bull press officer at his side and then takes his hand and leads him out of the pen, around a few corners until they’re somewhere in the labyrinth behind Red Bull’s trailers. It is quieter. He expects Max to be direct like he always is, to pause them and ask what will help in this situation, but instead his alpha sets him against the nearest trailer wall and wraps him in a tight, encompassing hug.
It takes a delayed moment, but then he’s clutching Max back, hands spreading over his shoulders, one going up into his hair.
“What happened with the car?” he whispers.
“Lost the rear,” Max replies against his hair. “There was nothing I could do, schatje. I would have caught it if I had a half a chance, but I didn’t. GP is quite sure it is a failure in the wing.”
Of course it is another technical issue.
He’s been quiet about his criticism of Max’s car, but it’s mostly because his complaints are obvious and there’s only so much they can do. New regulations, new challenges, everyone is coping as well as they can. He knows the team is bending over backwards to try and give Max something workable, but the car is not just unreliable, it’s dangerous. When the machinery fails with Max driving the way he does…it’s nothing less than terrifying. And there’s nothing he can do about it. “Mm.” It weighs on him again, this increasing thought of Max stepping out of the sport, moving on. It might be better. Safer, even. God, he’s so tired of Max making comments about himself dying by falling in the shower or walking down stairs or, or, or. Max thinks it’s funny. This is an element of Dutch culture that Charles will never understand and has no desire to. It’s got to be sacrilegious to talk in such a way, no?
“Charlie, I’m okay.”
“Are you sure? You’re probably bruised all over and will hurt the whole weekend,” he frets. “What if you just can’t tell how bad it is yet? You should see a doctor,” he mumbles.
Max huffs in surprise, leans back enough to see him. “Well now I know it’s bad if you want to bring the doctor into things,” he jokes, scanning his face and petting over his sweaty and drying hair. The other driver’s eyes tighten. “This is not the worst I’ve had. You know that.”
He whines in distress over the reminder. “Max.”
“Alright, yeah, not helpful,” he murmurs in apology.
“I have to take care of you,” Charles says, the anxiousness filling him up once more. He looks over Max worriedly and then glances down. “Should you even be standing? Is sitting better?”
Max shifts on his feet and he can see it in his eyes, he doesn’t quite know what to do with him because this is relatively new.
There’s movement at the edge of his vision and he glances to the side to find Andrea waiting for them just around the corner, giving space, but no doubt this is because he’s not supposed to be here right now. Neither of them are.
“I know this is ridiculous,” he mutters, ignoring when Max tries to reassure him it isn’t. “It is, Max, but still it is important to me.” Charles takes another look toward Andrea, sees the beta checking his watch. “Will you come with me to the press conference?”
Max’s expression twitches with surprise, brows raising.
He’s an absurd omega. He knows this. And Max is always accommodating, always beyond generous, giving everything in his power and capability when he wants something. For years now Charles has wondered if Max has a limit, if there’s anything he could ask for that he would deny. This might not be the biggest thing he has ever asked for, but certainly one of the oddest.
“I…” Max takes a look toward Andrea too before seemingly coming to a decision. “Yes, of course.”
You could almost set your clock to it, Max’s predictability when it comes to him. He should feel worse for taking advantage of it, but he’s a selfish, hungry creature. Even for a mated pair, he’s not sure he’s normal about how much of Max he craves. Requires? He’s heard online that some fans call him high maintenance and it’s true, he absolutely is.
“You will sit where I can see you,” he instructs.
“And here I thought you’d want me on the couches,” Max jokes.
“Don’t tempt me.” He pulls Max with him. “Make sure that I can see him during the questions,” he tells Andrea, who is more familiar in some instances than even Max with how over the top he can get. “And he needs ice for his knees.”
“Charlie,” Max tries to cut in, but he waves him off. He hears a muted ‘ok’ and he’d be lying if that didn’t satisfy some part of his temperament to have his alpha bend for his wishes so readily.
He’s late to the presser. So late that they started without him.
“Ah, here he is! Charles, glad you could join us.”
Max slips in the back of the room and takes a seat at the end of a row, trying to be nondescript. It might’ve worked if it weren’t for Lewis who, a couple minutes later, puts a hand to his forehead and squints past some of the lights before pointing with a quiet laugh.
The second Lewis does anything he has the room's attention, so him pointing obviously draws eyes. Reporters twist in their seats to get a glimpse.
George notices and pauses in the middle of answering a question, scans around until he figures out what everyone is reacting to and gives a nervous, more highly pitched laugh. “Oh, Max is here too. You a journalist now, mate?” he says into the mic.
Max’s lower, dry chuckle is a comforting sound. “Something like that,” he calls from the back.
“Is he allowed back there?” George asks, lowering the microphone and directing the question toward Lewis.
The other Brit shrugs and laughs. “No idea, but he’s there anyway so.”
“Yeah, but don’t slow down on my account!” Max replies, waving a hand dismissively. “Pretend I’m not here.”
Around the room, laughs at varying degrees of entertained and nervous fill the space.
George pales.
He bites down on a grin and swipes his hand over his race suit, brushes off a speck of invisible lint. He loves Max’s humor sometimes. Adores that he doesn’t give a fuck what others think. He’s never managed to copy that attitude, but he’s had little instances, flashes where he’s emulated something close to it.
They settle enough for the questions to continue.
When the inquiries are directed his way, he pokes at the FIA’s nonaction on Max’s crash because he can likely get away with the criticism and no consequences. Plus, it’s bullshit. They’ve had less serious crashes that were immediate double yellows and Max went off in an area where cars don’t typically go off. It should never have been a question, but they teetered on the decision. The double standards the FIA still place on Max and occasionally him by extension are grating.
For the first time since getting out of the car, his sights fall more properly on the driver that pipped him for pole, the one who is dancing around the yellow flag questions and sending wary looks in his direction like he might turn vicious. Fair. He should be worried.
Maybe some of his actions have to do with the fact that Max is watching, that he knows it would cheer him up if he messed with George a little. He can’t fix the problems with his alpha’s car, but he can give him some entertainment.
Only the sight of Mia holds him back the barest bit with his comments. It is maybe not so fair to the team if he stirs up drama, so he toys with almost statements and watches George avidly when he tries downplaying the choices he made. Just because he followed the rules doesn’t mean it was right.
“I mean, yeah, I think this needs to be looked at closer. They should not be changing the flags,” he says. “Kimi did lift, of course, he saw what was obviously a danger and acted accordingly.” He slides his gaze back to the driver seated between him and Lewis and gives a pleasant smile.
Before he sat down, Andrea handed over his phone and he catches the screen lighting up where it rests next to him on the cushion.
-you’re very attractive, schat-
Well, that’s his attention shot.
-this is quite the show-
He’s managed to get George from nervy and pale to agitated and borderline—the obvious conclusion to that thought almost has him laughing out loud which would be highly inappropriate when Lewis is talking about the brakes on the car.
Instead, he takes his burst of inspiration and taps at his phone, sends it to Max.
That does get a surprised, pleased laugh out of the back of the room and he grins. They are disrupting the conference, but he doesn’t care.
-and I thought I was good at getting under his skin-
-is he sweating??-
-only a little- He sends back. This is also caretaking in their own special way. Earning Max’s laughs, brightening his moods.
The questions run out and they’re free to go. When George passes by he shakes his head in disbelief and mutters an exhausted ‘fuck you guys’ and he responds with a cheery smile.
“Congrats on pole, mate,” he chirps.
He weaves around those in his way and makes it to Max, pleased to see him actually using the ice Andrea got for him.
Max is eyeing him with a smug, proud smile. “Hey there, so you’re kind of wonderful.”
“I know,” he murmurs. “How are your knees?”
“Haven’t really thought about them,” Max lies. “Too busy thinking about when you get off.”
He snorts. Can’t help it. “That’s what you were thinking about this whole time.”
“Well, I wasn’t thinking about George, that’s for sure.”
“If they want you to finish your interviews,” Charles begins, thinking ahead, “then I will be with you for those. I’ll wait to change if I have to, but I need to stay with you today, okay?”
This time around, Max is not surprised at all. “Yeah, I think we can make that work.” He leans forward to catch his hand, rubbing a thumb over one shiny black ring, “don’t think I didn’t notice that you did all that,” Max’s eyes flick toward the couches, “for my benefit. You’re very sweet, schatje. It should be you on pole.”
“There will be other poles,” he shrugs. “Now I would just like to get you back to the hotel. Did they give you pain relievers?”
Max shakes his head. “It’s really not—”
“Stop that. You always downplay how much pain you are in. You’re worse than me. Where has Rupert gone to? If not him, then Andrea will get you some pain relievers.”
“Alright, alright,” Max relents. “Alright,” he adds one last time, giving his hand a squeeze.
“Do you need help up?”
Max shoots him a flat glare and he grins in the face of it. “I thought you liked my jokes,” he teases.
The grumbling that follows is adorable and without bite.
Later, when all the media is through with them and they’re back in their hotel, he convinces Max into the overlarge bathtub. The Dutch driver complains about him not joining, but he’s finally gotten a look at Max’s legs and there’s no way he’s bumping up against all that bruising.
“This will help with the soreness,” he reminds and pours in more epsom salt.
With his hair wet, Max becomes even more devastating and Charles sits next to the tub and stares. He dips his hand in the hot water and spends time touching over his shoulders and up to his neck where he traces the edge of the patch and then starts to peel it off. Max always smells even better in the water too, the sea salt strengthening.
Every passing touch helps settle him more and reminds him that Max is safe and in one piece. A little bruised and tender, but still here.
“I don’t like the car,” he mumbles, swiping water across one bicep. “I don’t like that it fails that way. That it can fail like that.”
Max sighs out his nose and tips his head against the lip of the tub. “Me either.”
His lips press in a thin line. “I hate that I can’t do anything about it.”
The other driver considers that a moment and trails his hand through the water in a slow arch. “I…like that you’d want to do something about it, if you could. That you care.”
“Of course I care.”
Max shrugs, “I wouldn’t hold it against you if you didn’t about this. Work is different.”
He reaches up and hooks a digit under Max’s chin, tipping his head for more direct attention. “Sometimes, work is different. When it is racing, that is different. This isn’t racing, this is your safety. You’re mine too, remember?” For emphasis, he drags his finger under his bite on Max’s neck. Ever since they made the mutual marks, they’ve had more experiences with their instincts merging, bleeding over to each other. At times, he feels more of an alpha’s edge to his possession, something with larger teeth. It’s strange every time and they’re still mapping the differences, finding their own path.
“Yeah, you’re right,” his alpha agrees softly, throat bobbing with his swallow. “Sorry,” he murmurs.
“You’re just going to have to put up with me being worried. I can’t turn that part off. I can set it aside for a time when we’re on track, but I will do no more than that.”
Max turns enough to kiss his palm. “Right back at you,” vibrates over his skin.
Charles rolls his eyes goodnaturedly. “You keep your composure much better than me.”
“I don’t have the same scars, is all. The same triggers. You impress me all the time with how you navigate these things, how fearless you are.”
He doesn’t feel particularly fearless most of the time, to be honest.
“Maybe courage in the face of fear,” Max amends. “To me, it is much the same and you have it in spades.”
“Well, now I know you have hit your head,” Charles mumbles, cheeks pinkening, but he smiles at Max and rubs at the short hairs growing in around his jaw.
“Better keep an eye on me then,” Max says with an exaggerated groan as he stretches into the hot water and relaxes.
“Mm,” he hums, nearly purring and he’s entirely charmed. Charles shifts his wrist over Max’s scent gland and marks him, rubbing vanilla in. “Okay.”