Chapter Text
GEORGE
George had been rigorously trained by his father to withstand the alpha voice. It's illegal to use, but no one in their right mind trusts each and every alpha out there. There are too many cases where just one command can be fatal.
It was worth it. He loves seeing the alpha's face whenever he doesn't react to the voice, giving his ego the rightful blow it needs. There's only one caveat: his tolerance weakens near his heat. All his hormones are busy supporting the incoming cycle, causing everything else to fail.
It just wouldn't be George's luck if he didn't happen upon a knothead during this time.
“Tsk. What a waste to have a womb go unused.”
This man is faceless, smelling of bourbon and cigars. George tries to press himself further into the wall and away from the man, but it only serves to trap him. His tongue licks a stripe down George's scent gland, leaving a trail of seawater and damp wood—wrong, wrong, wrong.
“Breeding bitch.”
George shoves him away and stumbles away from the alpha who simply laughs and calls him a ‘hard-to-get slut’. He tries to call for help, but the music from the bar hides them away perfectly.
“KNEEL.”
His knees hit the asphalt with a sickening crunch. He's going to be raped in an alley behind a bar, just a few feet away from his coworkers. Sweat drips down his back as he actively tries to fight the command, but he can’t even wiggle his toes. It feels like his body is stiff and restricted, almost as if his bones are made of unyielding steel bolted at the hinges.
He prays Lando needs a smoke break or for Alex to suddenly decide to look for him, but as he watches the door, his hope dwindles bit by bit.
“STRIP. PRESENT.”
George tries to stop himself from crying; he knows this alpha will only get off on it. His hands tremble as he starts to unbutton his shirt. He's actively trying to fight the command, but he's much too weak. He’s never felt more betrayed by his body.
Just as he's about to pull his shirt over his head, the door opens.
Max exits, looking annoyed and inconvenienced, but stops short when he sees George. George can't imagine what it must look like from his point of view—a sleazy alpha with an ugly smattering of facial hair leering over him, George, who's nearly half-naked. Yet, apparently, it takes only a second for Max to understand what's happening.
The alpha doesn't even have time to react. He's immediately on the ground, unconscious, and the command is broken.
George gasps for air, his body finally his own again. He hurriedly pulls his shirt back on, fumbling with the buttons until they're hopelessly mismatched. He doesn't care. He just wants to be covered again.
He can still feel the dregs of the commands clinging to him, and it makes his skin crawl.
"Fuck. Fuck. Shit."
He freezes when something settles around his shoulders, relaxing only when he realizes it's Max's jacket. “Are you okay, George?”
“Yeah, yeah, I just—fuck these fucking buttons!”
George feels his eyes sting, but he can't cry. He just can't cry in front of Max Verstappen. He waits for the laugh, for the snide remark, but they never come. Instead, Max kneels in front of him, looking as though he's handling something precious. “Let me.”
With deft fingers, Max fixes the mismatched buttons, never once brushing against George's skin. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
“I’m not a monster, George. I don’t like seeing you get hurt.”
And what can George say to that?
“Done.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you have anyone we can….”
It's only then that George realizes Max is speaking to him in an oddly muted, static sort of voice. He also notices the strange vignette creeping into his vision, darkening at the edges until patches of the world begin to disappear.
Max's expression shifts from concern to panic.
But he can’t bring himself to panic because, despite everything, he recognizes Max as one of the most capable alphas that he knows. He’ll be able to take care of him. He finds that he trusts him with that.
Then everything goes black.
MAX
The door opens just as George collapses into him.
Max looks up to find Charles staring at them, bewilderment written all over his face.
Right. They were supposed to sneak away from the party for coffee.
"It's really not what it looks like."
"Mate, I don't even know what it looks like."
Max carefully shifts George into his arms. He can't help but wonder how the FIA hasn't flagged him for being so light. George lets out a quiet whine at being jostled, and Max instinctively hushes him with a low rumble.
"He got attacked. I stepped in."
Charles nods slowly, though something conflicted flickers across his face as he watches the omega curled against Max's chest.
"So you're taking him home?"
"Yeah."
His alpha wouldn't leave a distressed omega behind, especially not after witnessing the attack himself. The instinct settles deep in his bones, demanding he protect, provide, keep safe.
He's never seen George like this—small and helpless. The omega has always been the picture of discipline and perfection, never a hair out of place. Even with his flair for the dramatic, George somehow always manages to stay level-headed when it matters most.
"This is George we're talking about."
It's not as though Max hated him. They were rivals, and most of their interactions consisted of bickering and petty remarks. But where there was frustration, there was also amusement. Where there was competition, there was respect.
George challenged him in ways no one else ever had.
Maybe that was why seeing him reduced to this left such a bitter taste in Max's mouth.
"Are you saying I should leave him here?"
It's unlike Charles to hesitate. Any alpha worth his scent could smell the fear clinging to George.
"No. Of course not. Why don't we find Alex?"
Logically, it makes more sense.
The moment another alpha is suggested, however, a growl tears itself from Max's chest before he can stop it.
He immediately clamps his mouth shut.
"Sorry. I just... can't. It has to be me."
Charles frowns, but eventually relents.
"Alright. I'll let the others know."
Driving back to the hotel with an unconscious omega slipping into stress heat is far more difficult than Max imagined.
Every few minutes, George lets out a quiet whine, searching for his alpha—which, for the moment, is him.
Max's own alpha is no better. It paces restlessly beneath his skin, all bared teeth and protective instinct. His shoulders remain rigid for the entire drive, resisting every urge to reach over and soothe the omega, resisting the weak hands that blindly search for him whenever George stirs.
Only when George is finally laid safely in bed, surrounded by Max's scent, does he allow himself to breathe.
He prepares for what he knows is coming.
Food first. He orders enough for two, making sure the hotel sends either a beta or an omega to deliver it.
Water next. Every bottle in the room ends up on the bedside table within easy reach.
Finally, he gathers every spare pillow, blanket, and soft thing he can find, building a nest almost by instinct.
The last task is the hardest.
Changing George.
Max runs a towel beneath cold water before carrying it back to the bed. Taking a steadying breath, he carefully peels off George's clothes until the omega is left in only his underwear. He works slowly, wiping the heat from flushed skin.
George whimpers, panic creeping into the sound as unfamiliar hands move across his body.
"Shh. It's okay. It's just me. Just Max."
George's eyelids flutter open by the barest fraction before exhaustion pulls him under again.
Max pays special attention to George's scent gland, wiping away every lingering trace of the other alpha. With each pass of the towel, the stale scent of bourbon, seawater, and damp wood fades. Freshly baked pastries and honeysuckle bloom beneath it instead, gradually mixing with Max's own thunderstorm and crisp air.
Once he's clean, Max dresses him in a spare set of pajamas. They're far too wide through the shoulders and sleeves, a little too short at the ankles, yet somehow they only make George look smaller.
"Do you need anything, George?"
Opening his eyes seems like a battle.
"Safe... alpha?" There's nothing an omega in stress heat craves more than the feeling of safety. Unlike a regular heat, it doesn't call for mating; it demands comfort, reassurance, and above all else, the certainty that they're safe.
"Yes."
The tension leaves George's face almost immediately.
"Will you eat?"
Max thinks back to the party. He remembers catching glimpses of George across the room, picking absentmindedly at the bar food. Was that enough? Probably not. Then again, after everything that happened...
George gives a weak shake of his head.
Max gathers the untouched food, intending to move it to the fridge.
"Wait.” His voice comes out small. "I'll eat. Please, alpha. I'll eat... just don't leave me. I'm sorry."
"No, George. It's fine. I was only—"
"Don't leave. Eat here. Please don't leave."
There isn't any point trying to reason with him.
Not like this.
Balancing his plate of pasta in one hand, Max awkwardly knee-walks back onto the bed before settling beside the omega, gently encouraging him closer to the wall. George immediately presses against him, radiating heat, wrapping himself around Max as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Max rumbles without thinking. His alpha is pleased to be of service to his damsel.
With his free hand, he switches on the television.
Friends.
Thank God.
It's familiar enough that neither of them has to pay attention, comfortable enough to fill the silence without demanding anything from it.
The whole time, he's acutely aware of George—his sweet scent, the comforting weight of his head against Max's shoulder, the soft puffs of breath ghosting across his neck, silky hair brushing against his skin, and the occasional quiet whine or contented purr.
Max has never had an omega partner before. He doesn't really know what he's supposed to do. His mother had insisted he take omega studies, determined not to raise another Jos Verstappen. It's the only reason he knows as much as he does, yet every movement still feels clumsy, careful, almost juvenile.
But George seems content.
Happy, even.
Safe.
And in that, Max finds a quiet sort of pride.
They're halfway through the episode and a quarter of the way through dinner when Max feels George nosing uncertainly at his shoulder like a lost pup.
"You're ridiculous."
He feeds George small bites between his own. The omega who'd insisted he wasn't hungry accepts every forkful without complaint, cheeks growing softer with each mouthful.
Max huffs a quiet laugh.
"Good?"
George nods, eyes still only half-open. “You smell nice.”
“You too, princess.”
“Does alpha want me to present?”
Max almost chokes on the final bite of their food. He knew stress heats were still technically heats, but he didn’t think George would actually proposition him. “None of that, George.”
George whines pathetically. “Is alpha not pleased with me?”
“I–”
“Am I really ugly like they say?”
Max sets the empty bowl down on the side table before gathering the omega in his arms. He looks at George, really looks at him. The omega is beautiful, something he’s known for a while but never quite let himself focus on. Brown hair that curls a bit, blue eyes, and wide eyes. “You’re beautiful, schat. You just can’t consent like this, you know that.”
George glares at him weakly before hiding his face in Max’s chest. “The other alpha would’ve fucked me harder.”
Max inhales sharply. Bite. Breed. Possess. He reins his inner alpha in with profound difficulty. He can feel red leeching into his vision. But he wouldn’t be himself if a simple comment like that could make him lose control. “Even in heat, you’re still a brat. I should’ve known.”
“Mhmm.”
“Go to sleep, George, I’ll be here when you wake up.”
It takes Max a while to come down from his little episode of alpha rage, every muscle still wound tight from the effort of keeping himself from jumping the omega. Eventually, though, he manages it by thinking very hard about race strategies, car setups, and every Formula One component he can name.
If Max wakes sometime in the middle of the night to George unconsciously rubbing himself against his leg, well, that's for Max to take to his grave and for George to never, ever find out.
But those aren't the moments that stay with him.
It's waking to George curled against his side, nosing sleepily at his neck. It's the soft little sounds he makes whenever Max shifts away, only settling once Max is close again.
Those are the moments Max remembers.
And, for the first time in longer than he can remember, he falls asleep smiling.