Just some Silly F1 stuff

Max is sitting alone in his driver's room, staring down at the Red Bull cap held loosely in his hands, when he hears the knocks. They're short and rapid, too aggressive and too fast. Instantly, Max scowls.

Still nursing a headache, he had chosen not to keep out his cat ears out to not have as much stimulation, but he didn't even need the enhanced hearing to know who is at his door.

"Fucking --" he hisses when the knocking doesn't stop, nose scrunching until he finally stands up in frustration. "I'm coming!" he snaps, wincing as the knocking only continues, increasing in speed, as if impatient.

He hadn't been sure if his headache was from the crash or his team principal, but now he definitely knew what caused it. Tossing his cap to the ground, he stalks over to the door, making sure Mekies can hear him stomping. It's immature and petty, but it's better than the alternative, which is sinking his claws into Mekies's stupid mongoose ears or even the RB22.

The knocking continues, still just as grating as the first time he heard it, and it only makes Max's tail whip angrily behind him. He yanks the door open with a hiss, claws digging into the door. "Laurent, I said I wanted to be alone--"

His eyes go wide, words cutting off abruptly. In front of him stood his kits, most of them still dressed in their team kits and with bags slung over their shoulders. Kimi leads the group, smiling tentatively at Max, hand still poised to knock. His wings twitch nervously behind him.

"Surprise?" Jack says hesitantly, popping his head up from the back, ears twitching. Max's heart drops to his stomach as his eyes flick frantically between all of his kits. Fuck, he had barely paid attention to the results after the race, too busy getting his knee checked out in medical and then dodging every conversation Laurent tried to have with him, and even dodging GP--

"Is everyone ok after the race?" Max asks quickly, eyes searching for dried tears or slumped shoulders. His room is a mess, and the lights are too dim since Max can't handle bright light when his head hurts, but he knows where the blankets are for his kits and he's sure he still has some of their snacks squirrelled away-- His knees flares up, and subtlely Max leans more of his body weight against the door, keeping his expression calm.

Kimi nods vigorously, suddenly perking up. "Yeah! We're fine, promise." Ollie coughs, sharp, and Max narrows his eyes suspiciously. He could have sworn he remembered Kimi's car suddenly dropping back, but he thought GP had reported Mercedes fixing it with a pit stop. Kimi doesn't react, instead still smiling tightly at Max. It only makes Max frown even more. If no one was upset after the race, then why were they here? "Actually, we're here because we wanted to see--"

Max panics. "Did someone get their top-place finish?" He asks frantically, eyes darting between his kits. He knows Isack and Liam have been killing it recently, and Gabi and Ollie have both been outperforming their teammates, so maybe... He sniffs the air, trying to catch a hint of champagne. There's the sticky residue of Red Bull wafting off of Liam and Arvid, the newest addition to Max's kits, and he stares at them suspiciously.

If they're celebrating, Max is definitely going to have to break out the emergency snacks, and he needs to find the phone numbers for everyone's favorite restaurant, and-- Max's head throbs trying to remember all the resturants, and he tries to keep the wince from showing on his face.

The vcarb drivers shake their heads, and Max twitches as their expressions turn oddly gentle, so unlike their usual matching mischievous grins. "We're not here for us," Arvid says, and when Liam nods his head, Max furrows his brow. He doesn't understand. He has a group of kits standing in front of his driver's room, and the sunlight is making his headache worse, and his knee aches from standing for so long, and all he wants to do is curl up in a corner of the room and not think about Red Bull or racing or anything ever again, and he doesn't know how to help his kits.

"Then what of course, do you need?" he asks, trying to keep the exhaustion from his voice even as his shoulders slump. Suddenly, the door is his lifeline. If the kits want to just hang out, that's fine. Max will try to work up the energy for it. "I am not the best company, but naturally I will try--"

"Max, we're here for you!" Isack suddenly exclaims, and Max blinks, pausing.

"What?"

Hands land on his shoulder as Kimi's smile turns softer. Gently, Kimi begins to push him back into own driver's room. Max, too stunned to react, lets him.

"We all saw the crash and we know how hard this season has been," Kimi continues as the rest of the group follows them in, Jack closing the door behind them. Max, still walking backwards, winces, preparing for the main lights to be turned on and for his headache to worsen, the harsh lights too much. Instead, Jack doesn't even head towards the light switch, peeling off to quietly rustle through Max's drawers.

Max doesn't even realize he's back on his couch until he's suddenly looking up at his kits. Ollie smiles down at him, and suddenly Max is remembering when their roles were reversed, Ollie curled up on Max's floor while Max peered down at him with just as soft of an expression. It makes Max's tail curl by his side as he sniffs. "We want to be there for you like you've been there for us."

Jack reappears with all the blankets Max keeps for his drivers in his arms, dropping them into a pile and immediately placing some around Max on the couch before plopping down, a sudden warmth at his side. "Yeah!" He nods his head, smiling as he lays a blanket across Max's lap. "Everyone needs a breather sometime."

Weakly, Max shakes his head. He doesn't even realize he had grabbed the blanket until his claws get caught in the fabric, hands moving restlessly. "Naturally, I am of course, okay. Medical has cleared me and this is not the first time it has happened. Always it is not fun but the team and I will get through--"

"Fuck the team!" Isack interrupts, and Max's mouth closes with a clack as he looks at the other Red Bull driver in surprise. It's even worse when Liam and Arvid nod their heads, settling down on the ground next to Isack against the couch. "The team is messing up and hurting you. That's not right, and we will try to fix it, but right now we're here for you." Isack stares up at him fiercely, and suddenly Max is back in Suzuka, over a year ago and Isack has just gotten P8. "We're not going to ignore you."

Max's eyes burn, and quickly he turns his head, coughing into his shoulder to try and dislodge the lump in his throat. "Always, you are all so kind, but of course I will be fine. I am not the best company right now, so really it would be better if you all left--"

"Here." Gabi holds out a can, expression serious as he sat down next to Jack. "We want to be here."

Max grabs it, just to busy himself with doing something other than having an embarrassing breakdown. He takes a sip, expecting some weird new sponsor drink for Audi, when the familiar Red Bull flavor hit his tongue. He blinks, reexamining the can.

It is just a regular metal can, same size as a Red Bull, but as Max peers at it, he notices the paper messily taped over the sides, covering the Red Bull brand. Max suddenly remembers giving Gabi a Red Bull, and as Gabi smiles at him, armadillo armor covering his cheeks, Max knows this is Gabi's own way of protecting him. Quickly, he takes another sip, ignoring how his hand shakes.

He doesn't think he can handle all of them being so kind and caring, especially when his headache is lessening and sitting on the couch is allowing his body to remind him of all the aches and exhaustion he's feeling, and all he wants to do is just curl up as a cat and lick his wounds, and so instead he tries to think back to the race.

Liam hums, resting his back against the couch as he quickly texts something on his phone. "Charles should be stopping by soon to bring some kebabs," he says, and Max sighs, preparing for the grumbling to pop up from Kimi or even Gabi. They've come a long way with Charles, but that doesn't mean they like him all the time.

Kimi ruffles his feather, sitting down next to Max, but says nothing. Gabi only hums, knocking his foot gently against Liam. "Good. Remind him to make sure he's showered. I don't want to smell any champagne."

Max's brow furrows. Champagne? He closes his eyes, trying to remember the race and before he crashed. P3 in a car that doesn't deserve it, who was in front? If he crashed, then did Charles--?

"Did Charles podium?" Max asks, panicked, eyes growing wide as he tries to get up from the couch. Jack, who had been leaning against him, grumbles at Max tries to carefully dislodge himself. The kangaroo shifter, without warning, grabs Max back and pulls him back down. Max collapses with an oof, too stunned to react. "We're not focusing on what Charles did, or the race, we're focusing on you," Jack emphasizes and Max shakes his head, looking for his phone.

"I of course need to at least congratulate him--"

"Max." Kimi grabs his reaching hands, fingers gently wrapping around his wrist. Max stills, eyes flicking to him nervously. Kimi only smiles encouragingly. "You can congratulate him later, we promise. Charles will not be upset. He's getting you kebabs because he wants to take care of you." Kimi squeezes Max's wrists reassuringly. "We want to take care of you like you've taken care of us."

Max swallows. His eyes really burn. Surrounded by his kits, he suddenly doesn't feel like the responsible adult. He wants to break down and cry, and he's not even sure if it's from everything at Red Bull or because of the way his kits are looking at him, with so much love that Max would have to be blind not to notice it. All he knows is that he really doesn't want to cry right now, and that there is fur creeping along his arms.

"I do not think I want to be a human right now," he whispers, and Kimi only smiles.

"We will take care of you," he promises again, and suddenly Max is remembering when he held a gosling for the first time, that same promise tumbling from his heart. The other kits all make various noises of agreement, and Max lets out a shuddering breath before closing his eyes and shifting.

His body aches and protests, head twinging in pain as his ears settle, but even as all the noise of the motorhome comes rushing in, a piece of Max settles as he curls up as a cat on the blankets. He hasn't shifted in the paddock the entire season, too annoyed with the team and too busy trying to save a car that doesn't want to be saved, and it feels like something settling into place. A hand gently cards through the fur on his head, and Max peeks an eye open to see Liam leaning against the couch, hand out and smiling softly. His eyes crinkle when he notices Max staring back.

Max, surrounded by his kits, closes his eyes and lets out a small purr.

---

"How is he doing?"

"He fell asleep a while ago, but he kept wincing when we first got here and the lights were off. I think his head was hurting him." Max's ear twitches at the whispered conversation, slowly peeling his eyes open at the familar voices. Familiar callouses rub his ears softly, and Max barely resists the urge to purr. Charles leans over him, absently petting him as he talks with Kimi.

Max has no idea how long he's been asleep for, but he can no longer see Isack and the vcarb drivers, so probably long enough for most drivers to be called for meetings. Judging by the lack of warmth on his other side, Jack and Gabi were also gone. More than likely Ollie is also gone if Jack is gone. Even with sleep still tugging at him, alarm bells begin to ring. Kimi and Charles really shouldn't be interacting with each other without a mediator. Carefully, and without alerting the two, Max tries to peer up at them.

He expects to see maybe a scowl or at least resigned exhaustion. Instead, Charles smiles at Kimi gratefully. "Thank you, Kimi. You all were incredible."

Next to Max, Kimi makes a disatisified sound, wings rustling against the couch. "But he didn't seem to fully relax, and he didn't even talk about the race before shifitng into a cat." His voice sounds sad, almost defeated, and it makes Max tense as he squeezes his eyes shut guility. He didn't mean to make his kits feel bad. He feels raw and squeezed out, like a lemon. "We just wanted to help him like he helps us."

A firm hand soothes over Max's spine, thumb rubbing gently against his ribcage. Softly, Charles taps a beat against his side, the same one he always taps against Max in the morning when he knows he's awake. Max stills, slowly opening his eyes to slits.

Charles doesn't acknowledge him, still smiling softly at Kimi. His other hand is resting on Kimi's knee, rubbing soothing circles. "You took care of Max in the way he needed and the way you could," he says kindly, "I know Max appreciated it. Max will be okay."

When Kimi didn't say anything, Charles sighed, patting Kimi gently. "I think you might need to head back to Mercedes now, little colt. Alex can only keep George busy for so long."

Kimi let out a quiet groan, but slowly he stood up, head turning back to Max. Instantly Max squeezes his eyes shut again, pretending to still be asleep. He knows he should say bye to his kit, to thank him and assure him that this won't ever happen again and that Max will check in with him about Kimi's own race. But he doesn't, and he just feels so raw and exposed that he doesn't know what to do.

Kimi pets him once, then twice, and Max makes sure his ears don't react before finally he hears Kimi's steps receding. There's a pause by the door, and then Max hears Charles's voice.

"Kimi," Charles calls quietly. "I'm sorry about your race. Do you want to talk about it sometime?"

Max expects Kimi to scoff or even honk like he usually did when Charles ever talked to him about his race. Instead, Kimi is quiet, before softly responding, "I'm ok, thanks. I think I'm just going to go hangout with Jack and play FIFA."

Charles lets out a fond huff, and then the door opens and closes. Silence fills the room. Through it all, Charles keeps a soothing hand down Max's spine.

"I know you're awake, cheri," Charles whispers, not accusing, simply knowing, and yet Max does not move. His eyes stay closed. All of the conversations play again and again in his head, mixing with the the crash and everything that has happened this season. He feels raw and exposed and loved and so fucking tired.

Eventually, Charles settles onto the couch next to him with a soft sigh, Max's body leaning against the thigh pressed next to him. "You do not have to say anything, but I am sorry for what happened, cheri. It is fucked what happened." Through it all, Charles does not stop petting Max.

"Just know we are all here for you. We love you, Max."

That is what it takes. In a blink Max shifts, fur receding and limbs straightening as he turns into Charles, burrowing his nose into his neck and throwing his arms over his shoulders. Instantly, Charles wraps his arms around his back, practically dragging him into his lap with how tightly he holds on.

There was no doubt it was going to be an intense weekend. The moment Max snatched a home sprint win from Lewis, a target was painted on his back. Not that it wasn’t already there. But it felt bigger. Bolder. Somehow more malicious. Max setting the pole lap was the final nail in the coffin of the ego of the great Lewis Hamilton. 

And the fight was on. For forty-nine long, intense, seconds, it was some of the most beautifully intense racing he’d ever seen.

Then, it was over. 

The moment contact is made, GP’s initial response is anger. It was clearly Max's corner and he would make sure the stewards knew it. Jonathan was already ranting into his microphone,  Christian’s own frustration only adding fuel to the fire. But GP knows his job and he’s good at it. His job is to remain calm so that Max stays calm. To take all the anger that both he and Max are feeling and mask it well enough to curb any unnecessary fines or penalty points. They can rant and rave and curse the very name of Lewis Hamilton later, when the radio was off. 

But there’s no raging anger on the other line of his headset. There’s no cursing. There’s… there’s nothing. 

And that’s when it clicks just what he had witnessed. The onboard camera remains off, a light blinking at them indicating damage, the screens filled with data points and information that GP was sure he was supposed to recognize. The radio remains silent. Then it’s as if he’s in a movie scene, moments replay across his mind in slow motion. The outside view of the track. The contact. The plume of smoke. Then… nothing. 

There’s damage to the car. Dozens of warnings and sensors are lighting up across his board and he normally knows what to make of it, but at the moment the only thing he knows is that there is silence. 

There’s no “Mad Max” in his ear. There’s no anger or heat or defense. No talk of penalties or championships or points lost. There’s just… nothing. 

An additional ten seconds have passed. (Now fifty-nine into the race.) The monitors swim in his view as he presses the button that connects him to Max. 

“Max, are you okay?” His hand presses against the side of his headset like that will make a difference. Like maybe there is a disconnect somewhere or Max’s volume is turned too far down and he will hear him if he just listens close enough. 

Only silence greets him. All radio chatter on the pit wall abruptly ends.

Hannah seems to hold her breath. Five seconds pass. 

Jonathan has stopped speaking to the FIA, eyes traveling around the rest of the pit wall. Ten seconds. 

Christian has abandoned his post, now standing behind GP’s shoulder, gripping his forearm as if a response can be squeezed out of the muscles. Fifteen seconds. 

Drivers know. They know that no matter how big or how small, you get on the radio immediately. With Max it was more often an angry expletive or technical explanation, rather than confirmation of his condition. But it had always worked for them. This wasn’t that. This was silence. And this silence screamed. 

He glances again at the monitors to make sure Max hasn’t simply stumbled out of the car without answering. But there’s nothing. Just a wide shot of mangled bodywork. 

Everything was still. Too still. 

All thoughts of the championship are gone. They’re nearing twenty seconds of silence. (Forty if you start the count at the moment of impact.) Someone has pulled up Max’s biometrics on their tablet, but GP can’t seem to make out the screen. He wonders if he’s being shielded from it. If there is information out there being kept from him. Because if Max isn't answering, something is wrong. Very wrong. 

He's unconscious. Or winded. Or paralyzed. Or- 

Or dead. 

His thumb hovers over the button. Should he say something again? They’ve hit the twenty seconds mark since he last tried. Maybe-

The telltale click of a radio has GP sucking in a breath. The air seems to sharpen to the same stillness of the settled dust at Copse. Slamming a hand over his headsets, pressing them close to his ears, waiting for more. Waiting for something more than the static of an open radio channel. 

Then finally, finally, a groan. Deep. Guttural. Like there’s not enough air in the car for Max to exhale words. And then there, over the sound of his own pounding heart, another gasp. He’s alive. He’s alive. 

But he’s not- he’s not okay. 

A single drawn out curse. It’s a word, at least he thinks it is. (He’s not past wondering if it’s just hope that a third groan took cognitive form.) And swearing is to be expected. This was Max. He should be cursing Lewis Hamilton up and down. But that's not what that was. That was disoriented. That was reactionary. That was pain.

The only sound that follows is another groan. Or gasp. (Or the strangled sound of a lung collapsing.) Then… silence. 

A squeeze on his arm is what reminds him of Christian’s presence. “He's hurt.” GP chokes out, feeling just as winded as if he was the one to slam into the barriers at two hundred kilometers per hour. 

Christian reaches over him, flipping an emergency switch that cuts the radio off from the live broadcast. GP should have done that already. That should have been the first thing he’d done. But it was frowned upon by the FIA and only to be used during medical emergencies and oh God-

The silence is still ringing in his ears as he watches the screens. Orange outlines rush towards the car. 

Closing his eyes, GP takes a deep breath, then flicks on the radio. “It's going to be alright, Max.” Somehow his voice doesn’t tremble. “The marshals are on their way and the medical car is right behind you. The engine appears stable. Just wait for them.”

Dead air greets him. 

The screen is showing such a wide shot it’s impossible to tell what’s going on. There's an eerie silence at the pit wall. GP prided himself in knowing what was going on at all times. He didn’t like the unknown. But maybe it wasn’t so much GP knowing as Max telling him. Because right now? GP knows nothing. 

He wishes he was out there. Wishes he could check on Max himself. Make sure he was conscious. Touch his skin and see his eyes and know. 

Unable to see through the swarm of orange, it’s Jonathan who announces. “He’s out of the car.” (Eighty-three seconds since contact.)

And there, he can kind of see. He can see Max slip off of the halo with the help of the marshals and medics. See him stumble. Can see him bend from the waist. And then the camera zooms in, invasive and inappropriate, and GP’s lifeline.  And now he can clearly see how unsteady he is. Can see the way he stumbles, only upright due to the medics supporting him by both arms. But he had to focus on the positives. Max had gotten himself out of the car. He was conscious. He was standing. 

“Red flag. Red flag.” The announcement comes over the headset, issuing orders like they affected GP at all. Like he had anyone to relay the information too. (It took them one-hundred and forty-two seconds for them to call a red flag.)

It's probably just to clear the wreckage. Probably. Almost certainly. It can’t be because of a possible serious injury because Max is already in-

Max isn’t in the medical car. In fact, when the cameras cut to him, he’s sitting against the fence, the track doctor kneeling beside him. Why? What did that mean?

“They're waiting for an ambulance.” Jonathan’s comment informs GP that he is being watched from the other side of the pit wall. 

GP nods, jaw tightening. He will not panic. He will not assume the worst. That's his job, stay calm, stay unaffected. That's usually for Max's sake, but Max isn’t here to be strong for right now. But the team is. His team is. So he’ll hold it together for them. 

He watches what he can from the screen. They’re not showing much now, interspersing more pitlane shots. This is good because it respects Max’s privacy. This is bad because it means GP has no idea what’s going on. The FIA is not being very forthcoming with information. 

It’s been seven-hundred and eighty-three seconds when Max is finally taken to the medical center. They show a clip of Max waving, walking into the ambulance. He’s no longer being held up, but bodies press close to them, hands hovering like they expect him to fall any minute. GP wants to be there. He wants to be the hands that catch him if he falls. 

“Can we disable the car from here?” 

If the words weren’t spoken directly into his earpiece, he would have missed them. Thought they were spoken to someone else. Why would anyone be thinking of the car right now? 

“GP?” Jonathan’s voice repeats. 

Despite what it often felt like, Max was not the only part of his job. He still had responsibilities. Even if they all felt trivial at the moment. “Sorry, what was that?” 

“The car is still live, the marshals need it shut off before it can be touched. Is there a way to do it from here?” 

He has to close his eyes, massaging at his temple, trying to remember what the protocol was for this. He’s sure they had one, but usually Max just made sure everything was the way it needed to be before getting out. But there was a protocol in place. Could it be activated from the pit wall?

“I already tried.” God bless Adrian. “We’ve tried everything we can from the pit wall. It looks like something is wrong with the battery.”

GP clears his throat, “We’ll have to-” Christian, who had returned to his own seat at… some point stands and begins a half sprint towards the medical center. Well. A lot of things were that way. There’s no way to know exactly where he was going. “Uh, yes, we’ll have to send a team with the diagnostic equipment. It may be a bit of trial and error with… with the extent of the damage.” Because the car looked shredded. Who knew what kind of damage there was to the car. (Who cared about the car? Why were they talking about the car?)

Jonathan must understand because he asks no more questions. In fact, it seems he’d returned to shouting at the FIA. Good. 

Hannah is looking at diagnostic information and GP is wondering why,(the race is over, the race ended at forty-nine seconds) before remembering that they have a second driver. Perhaps that’s cruel. Checo doesn’t deserve to be ignored it’s just-

GP keeps one eye on the screens and one on his phone. Maybe something will appear. Some bit of information he’s missed about Max’s wellbeing. About his current condition. 

The tap, tap, tap of his fingers would normally garner a glare from Hannah, but today it's only a sympathetic glance. Small blessings. 

It’s been two-thousand four-hundred and three seconds, when GP’s phone screen lights up. It's in his hand before he can make a conscious choice to pick it up. 

Christian Horner (RB)

They're sending him to hospital. 

The impact of the words is almost physical. He bites back the bile climbing up his throat and lets  a forceful breath out of his nose. The screens continue their red flag coverage, but that’s not what GP sees. He sees white hospital walls, beeping machines casting a forever glow in the coma ward, doctors scribbling about internal bleeding and blunt force trauma, forbidden whispers of maybe it would be better if-’s, and trackside memorials.    

Hannah looks at him expectantly. Pushing away the unbidden images, he turns his attention back to the one thing he does know for certain. “They're transferring him to the hospital.” 

The same flash of panic is reflected in Hannah’s eyes. He’s not sure if it’s a reassurance or a damnation. “You should go.” She finally says, a gentle hand covers his own trembling fingers. “He'll need you.” 

It may sound cliche and it may be underserved, but GP knows she's right. If for no reason other than to keep Jos and Christian from making everything worse. 

But it's more than that. They can say it’s for Max all they would like, but GP needs him. GP needs to see that he’s okay.

He expects to be questioned at the door. He remembers the horror stories of that day in Japan. When trainers and personnel alike were barred from entrance. But there are no problems. The door is unlocked. The security guard gives him a quick glance but doesn't interfere. 

While he doesn’t know the exact location, it’s not hard to find. He follows the sound of raised voices. 

Christian is there. So is Jos. But neither are providing comfort to the pale boy on too white sheets, or even talking to the doctor in order to figure out what exactly the next steps are. No, the two grown men are standing just inside the doorway, arguing at full volume. 

“What's going on?” GP asks, mostly to just break up the clamour. 

Jos turns to him, eyes dark. “He does not need hospital.” 

“Clearly he does!” Christian snaps back. 

“Why does he need hospital?”

“I have already said-!”

GP’s patience is already wearing thin. “I’m not asking your opinion, I’m asking what the doctor’s said.” He tries to keep his voice even, but few people can test his patience like Jos Verstappen. 

“He failed the concussion test.” Christian finally supplies.

Okay. This was- This was fine. There were worse things. Failing it meant that he was conscious. And they weren’t rushing to close up bleeding organs. So there was no reason to panic. Not yet. At least not while he was apparently the only responsible adult in the room.  

He forges ahead. “How is- he sounded winded on the radio.” He sounded worse than winded. He sounded hurt. It was an interaction that was going to haunt him the rest of his life. The silence. The gasping breaths. The bitten off curse like he couldn’t even get enough air in his lungs to really say it. 

“I don’t know, they haven’t said much other than that.” Christian seems tired. Annoyed, yes, fuming, of course, but mostly tired. 

“He does not. Need. Hospital.” Jos was back to insisting. 

“Can you at least keep your voice down?” GP tries for pleasant but doubts it comes through, especially as he shoulders past the two men.

Jos scowls but GP ignores him, making his way over to the exam table. Max’s legs dangle over the edge, his eyes pinched and staring at nothing. 

“Max,” He says softly, drawing the attention of the boy. 

Unfocused eyes pull away from the blank spot at the wall. “GP?” 

“I’d think you’d know my voice better than anyone.” He jokes lightly, even if he doesn’t feel jovial himself. 

Max hums, blinking at him several times before seeming to give up and close his eyes entirely, breath falling from his mouth with a huff. 

“I am sorry.” Max finally says. 

“For what, Max?” 

“I am sorry I did not answer you.”

So ridiculous. So Max. “Don’t worry about that. I’m just glad you’re okay.” Well, okay enough. 

Another hum is the answer.  

“How are you feeling?” GP asks gently, placing his hand on Max’s knee. 

“I am okay.” The words are forced out, like they’ve been waiting to be said for hours. “On the radio. That is what I was going to say. I am okay.” 

Then it would have been a lie. Because it was clear then and it's clear now. The crash was big, the biggest of his career. And this time Max wasn't making it out unscathed. 

“And your head?’ 

Max frowns and doesn’t answer immediately. “It is- it will be okay.” He says hesitantly. 

Not a vote of confidence. “Is it the dizziness?” 

“Yeah, it’s just-” He blinks several times, squinting at the wall. “I am a bit dizzy that is all.” 

GP watches him, not feeling particularly confident that it was the truth. “They said you had a concussion.”

Max hums again. 

“Did they say anything else?” 

“Said they needed some scans. Didn’t say of what. Probably ribs.” 

“Do they hurt?” 

Max shrugs, but there’s a wince woven into it. So, yes. 

“Anything else.” 

“Dunno.” Max’s eyes fall shut. 

He looks awful. 

He’s pale, though the color of the walls and bedsheets certainly don’t help. They were probably dealing with at least some extent of shock. His eyes, in the few moments they had been fully open, were glassy and unfocused. They’d already said he had a concussion, but it was possible to still clear him if it was minor enough. This clearly was not minor. They wanted to take him to the hospital. Wanted to get scans, and not just for his head. For his ribs too. He wondered if there was more. His knees maybe? They always bothered him after a crash. And how were his hands? He’d never been the type to let go of the wheel and brace properly. 

At this point he didn’t think Max was lying to him. It really seemed as though Max didn’t know what was going on. Which was its own brand of terrifying. Just how much damage had Max’s brain taken? 

“We will not be taking him to the hospital.” The momentary reprieve had subsided, Jos once again shouting as if he wanted the Lewis Hamilton grandstands to hear. “We will not tell the media he has a concussion. We will take him home and move on!” 

Christian easily matches the pitch. “You’re not thinking this through. We play it up. They’re already planning to send him to the hospital, we could make this work in our favor. Get Hamilton disqualified from the race.” 

“And risk the next race? No.The media cannot know.” 

“Look at him,” Christian makes a sweeping gesture in Max’s direction. “The race is already at risk. If we can get Hamilton a penalty we have a chance of keeping the gap manageable.”

“He will be fine. There is a week off. He will be fine by then. He does not need hospital.” GP wasn’t sure if Jos was oblivious or just didn’t care. Because it was clear that Max was not in fact okay and it would be a miracle if he raced in Hungary. 

“We don't get a say in that, they’re sending him to the hospital, it's out of our hands-”

Max flinches, whether it is at the words or something else, GP doesn’t know.

“Max?” He places his hand back on the driver’s knee and feels a flash of guilt at yet another flinch. 

When Max looks at him it’s accompanied by rapid blinking and squinting and- and GP starts to wonder. He’s wondering if Max is really seeing him at all.

“Max? You still with us?” He keeps his voice as neutral as he can, offering a squeeze of encouragement. 

“Mhm.” The hum sounds entirely unconvincing and not at all like he’s trying to keep from throwing up. 

Max’s hair has fallen down over his forehead. GP gently reaches up, smoothing it away as if it will allow him to see whatever damage is hiding underneath the skin. He knows that's not how it works. That the helmet protected him from any noticeable damage. But it would be easier if he could just see it. If it was just- if it was like putting a bandaid on a scraped knee. 

Pressure falls into his hand, Max's head resting in his palm. He leaves his hand there, gladly taking just a fracture of his weight. 

“It’s my job to make sure that what’s best for my team is done!” GP glances back at the raised voice, pressing his lips together. Christian is trying to help. Probably. 

“And he is my son! You do not get to decide what is best for him!” 

This time, Max’s flinch is accompanied by a pitiful sounding whine. GP’s heart aches, wanting nothing more than to wrap him in his arms and take all the pain away. 

Shifting his hand so he's more firmly holding Max's cold cheek. “Max,” at his name, the boy opens his eyes. His pupils are cloudy, unsteady and unable to hold focus. “Don't worry about them. We'll cross those bridges when we get to them.”

“No, no he's right.” The words seem to come at the end of a sob. “I cannot afford to miss a race.” A hitched breath, voice cracking, “They cannot see me as weak.”

And for a moment GP genuinely considers walking over to Jos Verstappen and putting a fist in his face. Instead he needs to take care of his broken boy, heaven knew no one else was going to. “Let's see what the CT says and we can work from there, alright?” 

Surprisingly, Max doesn't  argue with him, offering only a light hum as his eyes flutter close. He doesn't pull away from GP’s hand. He wishes there was something better for Max to lie against. 

“Who's winning?” Max mutters, barely audible. 

GP sighs internally, knowing he can't let his displeasure show or Max will take it the wrong way. “Don't worry about that right now.”

“But-” 

“Max.” He removes his hand, forcing Max to keep his own weight up and causing his eyes to slip open.  

Instead of arguing or forcing GP to further his reasoning, Max just lets his head fall forward onto GP’s shoulder. 

GP adjusts closer to him so it's less of a stretch and more comfortable. Happy to let the argument end, GP lets a hand run gently through Max's hair, trying to offer any comfort he can. It’s not enough. Nothing would be enough. The pain, the still raised voices, the thoughts Max was no doubt warring with. 

Max seems to be nearly asleep again when he speaks, voice sounding incredibly small. “What happens if Hamilton wins?” 

His heart breaks at the words. It's not something Max should be worried about at all. Not right now. Not when he's in so much pain he can barely hold his head up. And besides that Max's voice should never, never sound that small and broken. “Max-” 

“I'd still lead, right?” Like he's afraid GP will scold him for asking, but more afraid of not knowing the answer.

That, more than anything, is what leads him to respond, even if he can't bite back the sigh. “Yes, you'd still lead.’ 

“But not if I miss next week.” He's not sure if it's the head injury or if Max is just asking for reassurance. Some form of hope that everything will somehow be okay. 

GP will do many things for Max. Almost anything. But one thing he will not do is lie to him. But Max isn't strong enough, may not even be aware enough, to deal with such negativity right now. “Max, I need you to listen to me and try to understand what I'm saying.” 

He hums, temple still pressed against GP’s shoulder. 

“It doesn't matter.” He can't remember the last time he felt so strongly of something.  “The championship doesn't matter. Let's see what the hospital says and then we can worry about damage control. It's more important for you to get better.” It's the only important thing. Not racing. Not the car. Not optics. Nothing matters more than that hazy look disappearing from Max's eyes. 

That groan on the radio, the breathlessness, the lack of true confirmation of his condition- Even now, seeing Max alive (though seemingly far from well) doesn't quite quench that fear that it's all an illusion. That he's still at the pit wall, silence in his ear as he asks if Max is okay and receives nothing. That he didn't crawl out of the cockpit himself. That it took more than a few helping hands for him to slide off the halo and onto solid ground. 

Maybe Max's head injury is contagious. 

“You are sabotaging my son!” It's something that should be whispered. It was not. Jos Verstappen did not know how to speak a decibel below shouting it seemed. 

“I am trying to save his championship.” That was more of a hiss than a shout. It was still grating and inappropriate considering the setting. Christian could be just as childish as Jos sometimes. “Max is walking away this weekend with no points. We can’t change that. What we can change is what Lewis walks away with. If you weren’t so-”

Footsteps pull his attention away. He can’t move without disturbing Max but he catches the concerned, pinched frown from Brad. He hadn’t even considered the absence of the physio. He must have been the only one capable of handling the doctors without shouting obscenities. Their eyes meet for a moment. GP knows there’s a line somewhere. A line between professional concern and personal concern. Looking in Brad’s all too knowing eyes, he’s not sure which side he prefers. 

Brad clears his throat. “Max,” GP uses the moment where Max’s head lifts to readjust in case he’s needed again. “How ya doin’ champ?”

“Fine.” His voice cracks on the single word. GP grabs the glass of water off of the side table. Max seems hesitant to take it which is telling in itself, but eventually manages a sip. 

Brad observes the trembling glass, but still keeps his voice light when he says, “Mhm, sure. How’s he really doing, GP?”

Not well. He wants to say. I’m worried. Something’s not right. But he can’t say all that right now. So instead he takes the glass back and asks, “When are they moving him to the hospital?” 

Brad nods once, assessment received and confirmed. “Right now, actually.” The smallest amount of weight lifts off of GP’s shoulders. The faster they can get him to the hospital the better. “They wanted to know how we’re moving him. Stretcher is their go to, but if he’s up to it, we can use a normal wheelchair-”

GP knows Max’s answer before he even opens his mouth. “No. I can walk.” 

But GP has been here and he knows that Max can barely sit up by himself. He can barely lift a glass of water to his lips. “Max I’m not sure that’s the best-”

“I can walk.” He insists, straightening his shoulders as if to prove a point. Like his eyes haven't yet to focus on a single location since GGP had arrived. 

“Alright, alright, fine. Let’s see how you feel once you’re standing.” Brad concedes. 

GP bites back his disagreement. Brad is his physio. He knows what he’s doing. He has to believe that.

That doesn’t mean he’s going to let Max try to stand on his own. Max doesn’t discourage the helping hand. It’s a concession in its own way. And it does nothing to settle the fear churning in his gut. 

“What’s going on?” Christian joins them just as they have each taken an arm. 

“The helicopter is ready.” Brad answers, not even looking up at him. “Alright, Max, slowly.” 

Max doesn’t respond, gritting his teeth. Whether his breath catches or he’s holding it, Max isn’t breathing as they slowly pull him to his feet. His knees start to buckle, but he catches himself. 

“I told you no hospitals!” Jos snaps. 

Max flinches, it’s light, but enough for GP to reposition himself between father and son. 

“Jos, listen to me.” Brad makes sure that Max and GP are stable before stepping up to meet him. His voice is firm, but not unkind. “Do you want him to race?”

“This is a stupid question-”

“Okay. I want him to race too. But due to the current test results, the medical center legally cannot clear him. The hospital can. If you want him to have a chance to race at all this season, you will let him go. If you keep fighting it here you could get him banned for the rest of the season, is that what you want?”  

“GP-” Max breathes. GP only squeezes his arm. A silent command to let Brad handle this. 

“Fine.”

Brad needs to switch careers. He could be a politician. Or maybe work in hostage negotiations. 

They don’t let GP onto the helicopter. He’s not surprised. Not really. He’s not family. He’s not a physio. He’s not even the team principal (though they don’t let Christian on either). He’s just a racing engineer. He has no special privileges. It’s really a miracle they’ve allowed him this much access. 

He grips Max’s arm a bit tighter before passing him off to Brad. 

“I need you for the race.” Christian mutters in his ear the moment Max is no longer in his grasp. “You can go as soon as it’s over.” 

GP nods, bile rising in throat, eyes fixed only on the wavering form before him. 

“Max,” Christian smiles at him, that too bright smile usually reserved for the Netflix cameras. “Jonathan and I are going to do what we can on our end, but to do that, I have to stay here.” 

It's a tight lipped nod in response. It looks like Max wants to say something, his lips parting slightly before they close, swallowing like it’s painful. GP wishes he’d brought the water with him. Max seems to be out of breath, his skin a shade paler than it even was in the medical center. He shouldn't have walked. They shouldn't have let him. 

“I've got to get back on the pit wall.” The words feel like he’s spewing acid. “As soon as it's over I'll be there, alright?” 

Max nods again, eyes half closed, leaning heavily on Brad. GP gives Brad a glance, silently begging him to take care of their boy. 

Brad receives it with a grim nod. Jos doesn't even look at him, already settled in the helicopter, arms crossed and muttering under his breath. 

The medics are circling them now, helping Max into the helicopter. Brad, follows them in, whispering something to the far too compliant Max.

The door closes, Christian lightly pulling GP away so the helicopter can safely take off. Can safely take Max to the hospital where he’ll get the scans he needs to get better. 

Five-thousand two-hundred and eighteen seconds ago, Max Verstappen went into the barriers. And all GP can do is count the seconds.

Notes:

Laurent, Raymond, and his father are talking to each other below the stairs leading to the Red Bull motorhome when Max makes his way over. They likely are waiting there to catch him-to spew out empty apologies, spit out condescending condolences. Max clenches his fist. A hot wave of anger buried by exhaustion rises again. He doesn’t want to listen to all the stupid useless apologies he’s heard hundreds of times today, the ones he has heard thousands of times throughout the season. 

Max sprints up the stairs. Runs through the floor and all the way to his driver room and locks the door. A can of Red Bull stares insultingly at him from up top his desk. It is flying into the wall before he even registers it is in his hand. His eyes sting. He just stares blankly as the can of Red Bull-smashed and broken-slides to the floor, yellow liquid oozing out.

Max hears a soft knock.

“Max” The distinctly French accented voice of Laurent calls out from behind the door. 

Max’s mouth opens to spit out a sarcastic remark. Because how much fucking times does he have to explain that he doesn’t want to talk now- that he doesn’t want to hear it? Want go hear them repeating Max, Max, Max with every added problem like a broken record. Max slams his mouth shut. And yet, despite all their stupid apologies, they change nothing. They still do not listen. It is almost like he is twelve again and begging his dad to listen to him and not give up on him after a race he fucked up badly, a broken record saying the same things over and over and over again, shouting into the wind from a clifftop as he pleads that one day he will be listened too even though he has always known deep down that he will not be. 

In the end, Red Bull was truly like his second home in the same way.

The can crunches under his feet, ruined further as he hears Laurent’s fading footsteps. The lump in his throat doesn’t even disappear as he shouts in frustration, destroying the can further and further. The remaining liquid from the Red Bull can sprays out onto the floor with a splat, staining the hardwood like a bloodstain. Now the can is an unrecognizable carcass, an empty husk of what it once was. 

“Max.”He hears GP’s voice ring out behind the locked door. “Can we talk?” 

Max keeps his mouth shut. He hears rustling and a soft plunk reverberate behind the door but no fading footsteps. GP sighs.

His refusal to speak must anger GP. “Mate, we really need to-“

“Go Away” 

“Well I don’t plan on leaving, so that’s too bad.” 

Silence again before GP lets out another sigh. “Look Max-I’m not going to sit here and apologize again because I know you are tired of it. Today-no, this season is quite shit. There are problems and there us miscommunication”

A bitter, mocking laugh escapes Max. “That was certainly one way to phrase it.”

“Max-“

“Don’t.”

“I want to work things out with you, Max. I really do.” GP’s voice is soft but lined with desperation.

“The team always wants to work things out.” Max spits out venomously. “And yet, every single time after, I say something and the team goes straight back to ignoring me! Because it is one thing if the car tries to kill me, and it’s another if no one even listens to me about me pointing it out-In Canada you don’t listen to my setup feedback, in Austria you don’t again and the rear wing tries to kill me, and now in the UK tries to kill me again! And that’s only the tip of the iceberg- What will it take for you to listen?!” Max tugs at his hair in frustration. “Will it take having the car be crushed and crumpled beyond recognition? Will it take having my guts spilled out across the car when my luck finally runs out?”

Silence again then- “Max.” GP’s voice is steady and filled with something almost like regret. “I can try, but I can’t promise they will listen. They are not listening to me as well.”

Part of Max wants to shout back- demand that GP makes them listen but deep down he knows that would be unfair. His limbs feel like lead and he is an empty vessel, drained of all remaining power and hope.

“Okay.” He Just replies, the fight having already left him.

Max hears more shuffling as GP rises from his seat on the floor. “And Max?” GP says before leaving. “You may not believe it at the moment, but I will always be here for you, okay?” 

Max can’t help but let out a choked laugh. “I know.” The fact that it was the truth makes it even more insulting somehow.

Max curls up on the floor as he finally hears the sound of GP’s fading footsteps. His eyes sting. Because deep down, he really wants to believe it. Wants to believe that everything will change, that this is all just a fever dream that he will eventually wake up from. Believe that one day this home will embrace him again like it did for the long years prior. But it feels like the end rather than the beginning of something better. He believed and believed and believed through the years, but the shiny red, blue and yellow was just a glossy finish that covered a razor-thin shell of cheap aluminum, and the illusion of a rebirth for the team he called his home is shattered, crumbling around him. And now he finally has to admit that his beliefs may have been nothing more than a child’s delusion. Of a five year old him who believed that his mother and father and sister would always stay together with him. And now he is eleven again, watching his mother from the rear window of his van as they drove away, finally coming to terms that his family will never be what it once was.

It's like he has finally been completely turned into the canary in a coal mine. He screams and pleads and begs them to listen to him, to see that what they're doing is wrong. The regulations are a soul-eating monstrosity of a thing, sucking the spirit from the sport and leaving it out to hang dry. Getting into the car is becoming more and more dangerous instead of safer, a tragedy waiting to happen.

The team isn't listening either, binding his wings and throwing him back into his cage every time he tries to escape. They ruffle his feathers until they stand in all directions and he hurts all over from the last crash. The slogan is “Red Bull gives you wings”. And for years that's what they did for him. Now he has the wings, beautiful and navy blue, loyalty bound to them alone, but after years of them leaving him to be free they are refusing him. They've started to hate the freedom he has, so they lock him in a cage, golden bars hindering any way of escape.

They took him and his cage down into the mines to warn them before something goes wrong and he's trying, he's trying so hard. But no matter how loud he screams and calls for them, throwing out warnings left and right, as loud as he possibly can, they ignore him, too entranced by the gold they think this will bring them.

They're frantically shutting up the garage, but Fernando used to drive for Alpine. He's been around the paddock for a long time. He knows how these things work.

Despite it all he slips in relatively unnoticed. Or maybe he's just too far gone to notice them noticing. It's instinctive in a way, but he knows exactly where Christian is hiding.

He's on the phone. Frantic. The words he's saying are lost to the echoes of blood rushing in his ears. They don't matter. No words can save him.

Christian's eyes widen as he catches a glance at Fernando. He steps backwards, hands out stretched. It's only a minor obstacle.

Before Christian can even utter a cry for help, Fernando's fist is connecting with his nose. Then again. And again. And again.

Christian is on the floor.

Fernando follows him there. Letting his fist fall until his knuckles are bloody and he can't tell where his begins and Horner's ends.

Someone is pulling him off. Dragging him to his feet.

His fist thirsts for more blood, but the hands won't let him. Someone is saying something is his ear but he can't understand them. The arms hold him tighter and the words repeat.

"Get out of here before the police arrive. Go."

He wrenches free from the hands, seeing Horner still on the ground. No one is helping him.

Fernando spits on him, taking satisfaction in the way he recoils, in the way his face is stained with blood and bruises.

If he had had a weapon, he thinks Horner would be dead at his feet. But he does not. So he will have to settle for the blood.

He's showed out a back door.

When he arrives at the Aston Martin garage, no one asks him any questions. He is simply nodded towards the bathroom to clean up.