Chapter Text
Max always enjoyed a nice, easy morning, but truthfully, nothing was easy around here. Frost crunched under his large hooves as the bull made his way down the pasture, a heavy pale of grain in hand. The hum of groaning tractors, and the crowing of roosters filled the frigid morning air- indicators of the waking ranch.
Max stopped before a fence restricting a herd of cattle. He tossed the pale of grain into the trough, and paused as he watched his cattle eat with satisfaction. Heavy boots crunched the frozen grass as footsteps approached behind him, accompanied by a heavy hand clapping down on his shoulder. Max didn’t flinch. He wasn’t a calf anymore.
“Max” His name was spat with a hint of distaste. He wasn’t surprised.
“Ja, Vader?”
A scowling face with thinning hair greeted him.
“I expect you to be civil today.”
Max simply snorted.
“Why? Aren’t I always civil, Vader?”
The older Dutchman’s face was hot with fury.
“Don’t test me, boy! New employee’s arrive today, and I expect you to treat them appropriately.” With that, the wrinkling man stormed off.
Max found himself rolling his eyes. New employees his ass. Did his father really think Max needed some courtesy wake-up-call? The bull wasn’t feral, simply… standoffish.
That chilly morning? Well it was well replaced by the relentless sun beating down on the ranch. Max was well known by the workers on his father’s farm. Known as the freakish bull-hybrid that must be avoided at all costs. He wasn’t complaining. He enjoyed his personal peace- and his personal garden.
Max was crouched tending to tender soil and flourishing plants. He glanced up at the sound of gravel crunching under heavy mud tyres, and was greeted by the sight of a large white ute arriving at the barn. He thought nothing of it until a tall, lithe man stepped out from the cab in a red shirt. Red. Max instantly froze- icy blue eyes locking onto the brunette man with predatory precision. His long, whip-like tail gave an interested flick before he tore his eyes away from the brunette man by the barn.
As the day dragged on- Max couldn’t help but stare- it felt impossible to tear his eyes away. He watched the newcomer waltz around confidently despite everyone’s nervous and concerned looks.
What an ignorant man.
Morning. Overcast. Chilling. Frozen.
Max idly went about his morning chores- like feeding the-
He faltered in his step.
There was that stupid brunette man again- and this time- he was doing Max’s chore.
The bull simply watched as the pale brunette buried his fist in his pale of grain, and sent a handful across the small pen for the chickens who went mad for it. Then another handful. Then another.
“Enough!” He snapped, “You’re going to overfeed them!”
Max’s anger was instantly vanished when the stranger turned to face him.
There he stood, with this lost, clueless look on his face. Parted pouting lips and wide eyes, long lashes framing sparkling green eyes. His brown curls painted his forehead, neatly tousled. He had somewhat broad shoulders and a slender waist. Who was this stranger? And why did he look so…
“Max Emillian Verstappen!!”
Max still didn’t flinch. He wasn’t a calf anymore. He didn’t do flinching. This brunette stranger before him did, though.
Max whipped around and found himself nose to nose with his father. He snorted angrily.
Cold wrinkled fingers grasped onto the bull ring that pierced his nose and yanked the Dutchman closer as a heavy metal chain was secured to the cold sterling of his bull ring.
“Wha-“
“This, is Charles,” Jos interrupted, “And he will be monitoring you,”
Max watched incredulously as his father handed the chain to Charles, who rested the weight of it in his palm.
“Play nice, Max,” off stalked the Dutchman, Max simply gawked after him.
What the hell. Did his father really just hand him over to this stupidly not handsome man like he was some wild animal to tame?
Charles smiled awkwardly.
“Hey… Max is it?”
Max watched unimpressed.
“Well…” he continued, “not much of a talker?”
Max snapped.
“No, and quite honestly, I don’t know who you think you are, but mark my words you will not—“ Max was cut off by a tug on the chain, sending him stumbling forward a few steps. Max snorted hot air all over Charles’s stupid, smirking face.
Charles took the hint. Dropped the chain and ran, and well, his red shirt didn’t exactly help his case.
The Monégasque yelped as Max’s heavy, calloused hands slammed him chest first against the tin wall of the chicken coop.
“Who exactly do you think you are?” Growled the bull.
Charles made a pathetic whimpering sound. “Please let go!” He pleaded, writhing beneath Max’s hands that were planted on his shoulder blades.
“Why should I?” Snarked the Dutchman. He felt the man sag beneath his hands.
“Well, I didn’t want to make you upset,” pouted Charles, twisting to give Max a pitiful look.
“Not funny” he grumbled, reluctantly backing off.
Charles slowly turned around to face the taller Dutchman. “Shall we try again?” He held out an enthusiastic hand.
Max just stared. Fuck no.
As the day pressed on, Max did everything in his power to ignore the stupid sexy cowboy who kept wandering into his line of sight in that god damn red shirt.
The worst part? Charles seemed to actually believe that they were friends. Friends! No way.
That following morning, the Dutch bull stood watching his cattle eat after tossing grain in their trough. Calm. Not a sound, save for his cattle happily munching on the grain.
“Mornin’ big guy!” Echoed across the field.
As Max turned to face the noise, he was met with the view of a cheerful Charles animatedly waving at him.
Max snorted. Turned back around.
A few moments later, Charles had arrived where Max stood.
“Morning, Max.”
“Morning.” Replied Max.
Undeterred by Max’s curt response, Charles picked up the chain and clipped it onto Max’s bull ring like a leash.
“Your father has plans for you today,” he explained, securing the chain.
“What plans?”
“You’ll see,” chirped the brunette.
A short while later, Max found himself being led towards the breaking pen. Max snorted.
“Is this really necessary?”
“Oui! Your father insists,”
“Fuck him, and fuck you too. You’re crazy if you think you’ll break me by chasing me in circles.” Snapped the bull.
“Feisty,” commented the Monégasque.
Max’s lip curled. “Don’t you feel intimidated? Why have you no fear of me?” He demanded.
The Monégasque shrugged. “Why should I?”
Max trudged behind the man as he was walked right past the breaking pen.
“Where are we going?”
He should’ve known he wouldn’t get a reply- because he didn’t.
Max snorted in response. His chain clattering. Cocky bastard.
Max watched half curiously, half irritatedly, as Charles secured Max with a head bail gate.
“What’re you doing?” He demanded.
“Well, your father thinks it’s about time you get tagged…” Charles explained.
“Tagged!?” He asked incredulously “You’re kidding?”
Charles shook his head, “Nope, and… please hold still for me?” He asked hopefully, preparing the tagging applicator.
Max scrunched his nose as he watched. Tail flicking irritatedly.
Charles brought the tagging applicator up to Max’s left ear and thumbed the fur apart before piercing his bull ear.
“Sorry..” he muttered.
Max hissed but let him do it. A sharp pang of pain leapt through his body as the tag was secured. He watched Charles thumb over the newly secured tag apologetically. Charles was surprisingly gentle with Max- greatly surprising him.
“Great,” mused Max, “Now I’m just another number on the farm,”
“Yep! Number 333,” smiled Charles.
Max found it deeply infuriating how cheerful, confident and carefree his new cowboy-babysitter was. Maybe how hot he was too…
Max definitely was not staring…
Charles waved his hand in front of Max’s face, “Helloooo? Earth to Max!”
Max snapped out of it. Fuck, he was just staring at Charles. He really needed to stop- maybe get away from Charles altogether.
But that felt nearly impossible when Max was hooked to a chain that sat right in the palm of Charles’s hand.
After being tagged- Max decided he was done. No more cowboys. No more staring.
Truthfully, he’s embarrassed. Charles was so gentle and patient with him yesterday… instead of barking orders or treating him like the dangerous animal he was, the cowboy talked him through it, apologised for it, and even rubbed behind his ear absentmindedly afterwards.
The brief kindness sticks in his head.
Max changed his chore schedule. It was definitely overkill, yes, but Max didn’t want to run into Charles at all. He returned to the barn early to eat lunch before anyone else. He would walk the long way around the farm to get where he needed- just to avoid the hot cowboy. Whenever he’d see that damned red shirt, he’d walk in the opposite direction.
Charles noticed immediately.
Charles jogged to catch up to Max- grasping onto his shoulder and turning him around.
“Max. Am I contagious or something? Why’re you avoiding me?”
Max stared at him for a solid 10 seconds before turning on his heel and walking away, growling.
Rather than respecting the distance Max was working so hard to create- he found that Charles decided it was rather entertaining instead.
Charles persistently showed up wherever Max was "accidentally" yeah, right.
Max was in one of the smaller barns where the sheep stayed. He was clearing out the barn, raking the dirty hay out and shovelling the manure into a pile. The last thing he needed was a sexy cowboy knocking on his door. In waltzed Charles with a fresh bale of hay.
“Hey, Big guy! I brought some hay for you”
Stunned, Max watched as Charles set down the bale and patted Max’s chest affectionately.
Charles began to evenly spread the hay around the barn- and Max? He left.
Charles became more persistent. Constantly offering Max coffee, or food, or favours.
Max refused every time.
Charles flashed his charming smile. Max watched grumpily.
“Do you ever smile?”
“No,”
“Didn’t think so,” smiled the Monégasque.
Max held still while his father secured the chain to Max’s nose. His ears flicked irritatedly, but he said nothing.
“Max,” he addressed.
Max looked up.
“You’re mending the north fence today,” he paused, “and Charles will help you,”
“You’re joking,” deadpanned Max.
“I’m not,” gritted out his father. Max knew better than to complain.
That’s how he found himself hitting in new fence posts at the northern fence while Charles dug the post holes.
It was all fine until Charles began talking.
“What’s your favourite colour?”
“Blue”
Max continued to knock in the posts.
“What was your first job?” He asked thoughtfully.
Max snorted- amused. “What do you think?”
“Oh, right,”
Max picked up a plank of wood and began to nail it to the post.
Charles persisted, much to Max’s annoyance.
“What’s your favourite food?”
“Beef,”
“Bit awkward, right?”
“Fuck off!” He snapped.
Max can’t believe he almost smiled.
Almost.
Max found himself having quite a peaceful afternoon. It was calm, quiet, and no Charles. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious as to why the cowboy suddenly backed off. But he wasn’t complaining.
As the day progressed, Max noticed that Charles hadn’t followed him at all. That Charles hadn’t spoken to him at all. That Charles hadn’t invaded Max’s personal space once. What was going on?
Ironically… Max finds himself searching the pasture for sight of that red shirt. The bull realises that, despite the constant noise of the wind in the trees, groaning machinery, or the calling of cattle, the ranch feels… quiet.
What was going on? Had he hurt Charles’s feelings? No- why would he feel bad about that? Everything was fine.
Totally fine.
For the first time in forever, Max dreaded tomorrow— not because of work, but because he knew he wouldn’t see Charles.