I love dark dwtd so much it’s so sick but seems rlly well thought out and also much more heartbreaking
I always see Fernando and max as really close, Fernando almost like a father figure to him and whatnot, could we maybe get some dark dwtd Fernando reaction ?
Remember in the main timeline when Fernando asked Max if he wanted him to kill Christian for him? lol.
tw blood
377 words
When the screen goes dark, the crowd gets louder. Fernando doesn't hear it. He doesn't hear anything except the rushing of blood in his ears. He doesn't see much either. Everything is tinged red, his sight narrowing to a pinprick. He feels like a hound hunting for fresh blood. One thought. One goal.
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.
As the red blood washes down the sink, his only thought is that it's not enough.
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I reread the fic about Kimi and Max, and now I'm wondering what about Gabi? I mean, how does Max view his relationship with Nico and their age gap(not necessarily in a romantic way, but they flirt so damn much)
Gabi
800 words
Gabi is not naive. He may be a rookie, but he feels older than the others. He is to a few, but he still fits within their age bracket. He just… feels older sometimes.
It's probably because of his brother. It's definitely because of his brother. But… Gabi is not naive.
“You and Nico,” Max starts one day, attempting to keep his voice neutral but already a hint of something that makes Gabriel bristle. “what is going on there?”
“What do you mean?” He thinks he knows. But Max of all people has no right to pass judgment on his less than traditional relationship with an older teammate.
Max shrugs, “You seem close, that is all.”
“Is this a bad thing?”
“No… I was just wondering.”
Max seems unsure of himself. This is odd. Max is always sure of himself. Especially when speaking with Gabi. There's a long stretch of silence before, “I have always liked Nico. He always has been kind.” Gabi let's the silence sit. Max will get to his point when he is ready. “But I know that kind people are not always good in their heart.” That was… an odd thing to say.
“Nico is not a bad person.”
Max looks at him. Look is a soft word. Max stares at him, squinting like he's trying to figure something out. “I believe you.” He finally says, relaxing slightly.
“Max?”
“You are different form the other rookies.”
It's an odd thing to say. A nervous laugh slips out, “Yes? In what way?”
“I do not have to worry for you as much. I know this.” Gabi nods slowly, an agreement but still unsure of what he means. “But-” and there it was. Whatever the actual point is. “I do not want you to think that because of this you cannot come to me. I am still here for you as I am the others.”
Gabi frowns, “I know.”
“Good.”
Silence settles, but it's not the normal, comfortable silence that rests between them. It feels heavy. Tense. “Max…”
“Hm?”
“Is something wrong?”
Max smiles but it doesn't reach his eyes. “No, why do you ask?”
But something is wrong. Something happened. “I know Nico is older than me and it may be odd for us to be so close but it is nothing bad. I do not mind that he is older.”
Max is studying him again. Blue eyes piercing and discerning and looking so… old. He must find whatever he was looking for, because he nods again. “That is good. It is not wrong to want that. I just want to make sure you do. That is all.”
Gabi has questions he knows better than to ask. It's on the tip of his tongue. Did something happen with Daniel? Is it just that things ended bad or is it something more? And many others. But the most glaring question that Gabi knows he could never ever ask, Who hurt you? Who made you this way? Because he had been friends with Max for a long time now. And he sees the cracks. He sees the isolation and the true belief that his presence is barely tolerated, never wanted. And he can guess where this comes from. From his father. From the old guard of drivers. From a lot of people.
But this? He's been hurt. Gabi can tell.
He's heard similar things from Enzo. Warnings about the kind of people in motorsports. Things his brother had seen and heard and experienced that he would do anything to keep Gabi from experiencing. He knew to be careful in any power imbalance. That things could spiral out of control very quickly and be used against you. So he was careful. He knew he had to be.
Maybe it is just like that. Things Max has seen. Gabi can see how from the outside his and Nico’s relationship could be grounds for concern, but there really is no reason for it. Gabi is not an idiot. So maybe Max has just seen things in the past and wants to make sure everything is okay. Maybe Max had been approached by someone when he and Daniel had gotten so close and he was simply returning the favor.
Or maybe… maybe Max was speaking from personal experience.
But even if that were true, what could Gabi do about it?
Maybe he would check with Enzo. See if Max had ever said anything to him.
“I appreciate it.” Gabi finally says instead of all of the thoughts running through his head. “But I am okay. I would tell you if I was not.”
“That is, of course, all I ask.” Then as of snapping on a mask and becoming an entirely different version of himself, he claps his hands together. “Now tonight, did you want to play FIFA or COD?”
“Do not talk to me.” Max keeps walking, leaving GP to trail behind.
“Max, mate you have to-”
“I said do not talk to me I do not want to hear it.”
The attempt to shut the driver's room door in his face is thwarted by a quick hand. Max ignores him slinging his bag over his shoulder and turning to leave again.
This time it’s GP who softly shuts the door, standing in front of it. “Max. We have to talk.”
Max only glares at him, refusing to speak.
If anything is going to happen GP is going to have to start it. “I'm sorry. I know-”
“Stop.”
“If you want to have this out let's do it now. No reason to drag it out.”
GP waits, watching the anger simmer to the edge and finally spill over. “You lied to me.”
“It wasn't a lie. I promise you, Max. I was working with the information I was given.”
“Well the information was wrong.”
“I know. And I'm sorry. Belive me if I knew that the wing was still broken I never would have sent you out here.”
“I could have died. This is the third time. The third time GP. This is no longer an accident this is going to get me killed.”
“I wouldn’t let that happen.”
“Well you almost did! Okay? What if it happens again in Spa where there is no run off?”
“It won’t.”
“It has happened the last two weekends! And there is nothing nothing that I can do to stop it.” His voice breaks at the end, running a hand through his sweat soaked hair. “This car is going to kill me and no one even cares.”
“Don’t say that.” GP can't help but snap, his chest constricting at the thought. “That's not true.”
“Why did we not just fix the car like I asked? We could have won. If you fixed my engine and the rear wing and everything else I said we could have won and I would no be walking away with more pain in my back and another no points weekend. Why didn’t you listen to me?”
“I would have Max, I swear to you I would have. They’re not letting me make those kind of decisions right now.”
“So you don’t know what's wrong with my car and you can’t fix it for me and you give me nothing useful on the radio why are you even here?”
“I’m trying, Max.” He drops his voice instead of letting the hurt shine through, hoping that he can calm him through tone alone. “But they're not telling me things. I can't tell you things I don't know.”
“And who's fault is that?” Max's voice snaps, venom leaking in every word.
“What?”
“Who's fault is it that you are not being told anything?”
GP tightens his jaw, before relaxing and answering in only a slightly more controlled tone. “You're going to have to ask someone else that, mate. Wache maybe. Or Mekies.”
“Or maybe it is simply what you get for jumping ship the second things aren't easy.”
“Or maybe I am deserved some respect for ten years of loyalty.”
“And maybe you'd get it if you weren't going to McLaren. Off all teams you had to go to McLaren like they didn't screw us over last year! Like Zak Brown hasn't insulted me every chance he gets. That's the team you left us for. And yet you want to talk about loyalty?”
GP looks at him, really looks at him. He can’t remember the last time he saw such a fire of rage behind Max’s eyes. And he doesn’t know if it has ever been directed at him. No in this intensity. But he also know- thinks- hopes it's not directed at him. Not really.
“Max, I asked you. You could have told me no. I would have stayed.”
“I would not keep you where you do not want to be. If you do not want to be with me I will not force you.”
“It’s not- I am not trying to get away from you but it was a great opportunity and-”
“I do not want to hear it! I do not care!”
“Max-”
“No forget it you don’t want to be here fine, I don’t want you here either.”
“Max.”
“I am done with this conversation.”
Max is angry and he’s lashing out because GP is the closest safe outlet. He knows this. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. “I’ll talk to the boys. We’ll fix the wing. It won’t happen again.”
Max doesn't blink, eyes showing none of the warmth that GP had always associated with him. “Okay.”
“Max-”
“I’m leaving. Move.”
“Max-”
“Move.”
GP sighs, stepping away to let Max have access to the door. “Things will be better in Spa.”
“If I decide to show up.”
“Max-”
“Maybe I’ll let you spew useless lies at Yuki for a weekend."
“Max-” GP tries again, reaching for Max while moving to follow him out the door. He stops short at the sight of Jos.
Max shoulders past him down the hallway muttering,
“Laten we gaan. Ik ben klaar met deze plek.” Jos shoots GP a sympathetic glance and that more than anything lets him know how bad things really are.
Jos whispers something in Max's ear, seeming to try to get him to stop. Max doesn't even turn around.
“Big crash for Verstappen.” And suddenly all thoughts of pole slip away.
“Is he okay?” That's what's important. Not pole or p2 or anything. Just that everyone was okay. Just that Max was okay.
Bryan had said a big crash but it wasn't like it was an immediate red flag. It was probably fine. It would be fine.
“Double yellow in turn nine.”
That wasn't an answer. Now his heart rate was speeding up a bit more. No news after a crash was never good news. And his team new better. They knew to tell him quickly. They knew how he could spiral.
“All good for Max?” He tries again. Maybe Bryan had not heard him. Maybe the yellow flag information was new and he needed to say it before he forgot. It could mean nothing.
There's a brief pause before- “Not sure yet. I'll come back to you.”
That was not a good answer. That was a really really bad answer. That was an awful answer actually.
Not sure.
What did not sure mean?
It meant almost certainly he wasn't out of the car. But why? Were they waiting on an extraction team? Was Max winded and slowed down? Was he trapped in the car?
Not sure yet.
Not sure yet if he was okay?
Or not sure yet if Charles can handle the answer?
Jules flashes to his mind unbidden. Charles grits his teeth as Anthoine’s face haunts him next. He shakes the thought away. This was not the same. It was not.
He was not hearing loud demanding sirens. They had not announced a red flag.
Then again, the session was over. They may just not have seen a reason to red flag it this late when the drivers were already heading off of the track.
“We are p2 for now.”
He barely even hears the disappointing update. It's irrelevant. It's not about Max. Later he will wonder how George Russell set a pole lap under a yellow flag. Right now he is only wondering what condition Max is in that would warrant. “Not sure yet.”
He's pulling into the pits and they have not gotten back to him. He's pulling his steering wheel out and trying to stop the shakes, still unsure of anything important.
Climbing out of the cockpit he accepts the pat on the back by LH, offering a small smile in response. It's all he can muster.
George defends his pole position with the microphone. It sits wrong with Charles. Not because he lost pole, though he assumes if he spoke his displeasure that would be the assumption. He doesn't even care about that right now. But if George had slipped, if there was something on the track that had caused Max to spin and George repeated, things could be much worse. (He thinks again if Jules, killed not by the car itself but the fact that the crash was in a repeated place.)
Not that he knows how things are. He has still heard nothing. He doesn't even know if Max is out of the car. If he wasn't surely they would say something?
Then again even with Jules they tried to carry on the interviews like normal. He doesn't know. That's what it comes down to.
“Not sure yet. I'll get back to you.”
Nightmare. It's a nightmare phrase.
Surely if something was wrong George wouldn't sound so gleeful?
And yet it is not unprecedented. Not from Mercedes.
He feels the light tremors of worry and it is a work not to let it consume him.
When Lewis starts to walk away Charles grabs his arm, “Have you heard anything about Max?”
“No, I assume he's fine. No one has said anything.”
That was exactly the problem. No one has said anything. “Okay.”He finally answers.
Why does it feel like he is the only one who cares? Why does it seem like no one else is worried?
Surely that is a good thing. Surely it means he is overreacting.
As soon as he walks into the garage, his crew is patting him on the back.
It's not until he reaches Bryan he asks, “Max?
“He's out of the car.”
“On his own?”
“He got out of the car and walked away. He's fine, Charles.”
Charles nods, releasing the first breath it seems since he heard the yellow flag warning.
They'd been saved yet again a tragedy. The residual fear would linger.
The Dark DwtD AU: we had Max and Seb. How their experience differed from the ao3 universe.
Do you think in that darker universe Christian would have "moved on" to a younger driver once Max had success? Like Yuki or Liam (eyeing the start of '25 season and seat switch, there's definitely something to go with). Because he can't abuse Max, but groom the next star for RedBull.
Liam would even fit into a "type" blond and blue-eyed.
Dark DWTD universe
1.4k Words
Normally Max would do whatever it took to keep from one-on-one meetings with... Well anyone, but especially Christian. He tries to ignore the way his hand shakes when he knocks on the door.
At the announced, "Come in." Max stares at the chipping paint on the door, lets out a breath, and opens it.
“Max, what a pleasant surprise.” Christian places a folder down on the desk, waving him in. “Shut the door and have a seat.”
Turning stiffly to shut the door, his hand hovers over the lock out of habit. He clinches his hand into a fist, letting it fall to his side. Max doesn’t sit. He stands behind the chair, trying not to flinch under Christian’s questioning stare.
“I don’t like Liam.”
Christian blinks. “Pardon?”
“Liam. He’s not right for Red Bull.” He begs his voice not to shake. “I think you should move him to VCARB.”
Clasping his hands together Christian offers a tight smile. “And who should I replace him with?”
“I think Yuki would do well.” Yuki was a talented racer. He’d done well at VCARB. And most importantly, Christian had never shown a molecule of interest in him.
He was giving him that smile again. That one that said he knew exactly what Max was doing. That he wasn’t fooled. “I see. I’m sure it has nothing to do with you being… jealous of the attention I’ve been showing him.”
Max’s breath stutters in his chest. “No, no it’s not- I just think he needs more time.”
“Don’t play with me, Max. You know better than that.”
“I-I am not playing, I just-”
“Say it Max. If you want me to move Liam I need to hear you say it.”
Max bites back the sick trying to work its way up his throat. “Leave him alone, Christian. Just- please just leave him alone.”
“Why.”
“He’s a kid.”
“He’s twenty-three.”
“He’s a kid.”
Christian lets out a long suffering sigh. “Sit down, Max.”
“I don’t want to sit.”
A surprised scoff from Christian nearly forces Max to look away. “Really, now. That’s the attitude you’re going to take with me?”
It may not be the best way to get Christian to give him what he wants. But if he follows one order it will lead to another and Max isn’t interested in seeing where that might lead right now. He places his hands on the back of the chair. “This isn’t about me. It’s about the team. He didn’t even make it to the points.”
“He’s a rookie. It’s to be expected. Now sit down.”
“You’ve gotten rid of people for less. Just move him to VCARB. Yuki outplaced him. It makes sense.” Despite his appeal to logic he can hear the desperation in his voice.
“Max. Sit. Down.”
His fingers dig into the fabric of the chair. Christian’s glare bores into him and he can feel the frustration bring heat into his face. But he does it. He sits. He wants to throw the chair across the room. He wants to yell and scream. But he doesn’t. He quietly sits. Then tries not to throw up at the smug look on Christian’s face.
“Good. Now we can discuss this like civilized adults.” He leans back in his chair, fingers pressed together as he considers Max. “Despite what you seem to think, I’m very reasonable. I’m willing to hear you out.”
“I just think it would be better for the team if Liam was at VCARB.”
“And by the team, you mean you.”
“What do Liam’s points mean to me? I have my own race. Liam is hurting us in the constructors. I am thinking of you.”
“No, you’re thinking about Liam. You’re afraid for him, why?”
“I just-” He should have thought this through more. He thought he had. But seeing Christian with his casual touches that are far more than that, hearing him ask Liam to stay behind at the last meeting, it was too much. He had to do something. “I know there is a lot of pressure at Red Bull and a young driver like Liam needs time to grow without the noise.”
“He needs time to learn with the noise. There was a time that you would have agreed with me.”
“What do you want me to say?” The whisper comes out without fully meaning to. But he’s already tired. Tired of this game Christian is playing with him. It’s never going to end. They’ll just keep going around in circles until Max is too frustrated and humiliated to make any difference at all.
“I want you to be honest with me. This has nothing to do with the constructors or poor Liam’s stress levels. You said you want me to leave him alone. Elaborate.”
“I do not know what you think of me but I am not stupid.” He concedes, knowing Christian once again has the advantage. “I see the way you look at him.”
“You are many things Max, but I’ve never accused you of being stupid. Go on.”
“I know what you want from him and it’s- it’s not right.”
Another set of raised eyebrows. “Not right. Since when are you so morally superior?”
“I am not- that is not what I mean- I am simply- I want you to leave him alone.”
“So you want me to send him back to VCARB before I ruin him like I ruined you?”
The bluntness of the statement catches Max off guard. His mouth moves but he can’t seem to find the words to answer it.
“Well,” Christian says, long and drawn out. Playing with him like a cat playing with its food. “What’s to say I haven’t already?”
“What?” He grips the side of the chair, feeling a bit like the room is spinning. No. He can’t be too late. He can’t. “What did you do to him?”
“Nothing. We’ve only had a few chats. Nothing like what you’re thinking.” The not yet hangs in the suffocating office air. “But you’ve still given me no reason to stop.”
“I am asking you Christian, please, leave him alone. He does not- he is a kid. Just let him race.”
Christian shakes his head, letting a hand massage his temples. “Why do you insist on making everything so complicated, Max. You know we wouldn’t even be in this situation if you weren’t so difficult.”
“I know.” Max breathes. He does know. Of course he knows. That’s why it’s his job to make it right. To not let it go any further.
“I have needs, Max. You know this. I’ve been denied too long.”
His heart is pounding in his ears, his grip on the chair tightening. “I’m sorry.”
Christian stands and Max feels his spine straighten as it presses into the back of the chair without realizing he’d moved at all. “I’d be willing to leave him alone. To consider it at least.” He lays a single finger under Max’s jaw, pressing it up until Max is forced to look him in the eyes. “But only if things go back to the way they were before, hm? You may not be as… young as you once were, but at least I wouldn’t have to break you in.”
He’s not breathing. He doesn’t think he’s breathing.
The one finger becomes a hand as it tightens around his jaw. “Well, Maxy, what do you think? A fair trade?”
Max finally manages to swallow but it’s not enough to stop the dry croak in his voice. “You’d send Liam back to VCARB?”
“Maybe. I’d consider it. Depends on you.”
He should say yes. It’s the obvious answer. “Can I think about it?” Is what comes out of his mouth instead. He’s a coward. If anything happens to Liam it’s completely his fault. But he can’t- he can’t just- go back.
Somehow the lack of grip feels more violent than the hold, his head dropping a few centimeters at the sudden release.
“Decide quickly, Max. I don’t like to be kept waiting.”
“I will.”
Christian stares at him until Max’s eyes flit away, unable to hold the glare. “Go,” He waves away, moving to settle back behind his desk. “Let me know when you’ve made your decision.”
Decision. What decision? It doesn’t feel like there’s really even a decision. Not before. Not now. An illusion of choice, isn’t that what it’s called?
There’s got to be another way around this. Another option hidden somewhere. But no matter what he does there will be consequences. Always there will be consequences.
And whatever is decided, this time those consequences will lay solely on Max’s shoulders.
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Loving all the dark dwtd snippets lately, thank you! Excited to see how our slightly unexpected trio (George, Toto, Rupert) face down the outside world to keep Max safe.
In addition to your writing being very heartfelt and captivating it’s also a lovely escape from the horrors of the current F1 season 😂. May we all hope and pray that George’s garage gets their shit together, Max’s car works, and Charles stays away from the walls in Austria 😂.
Dark dwtd part 6
[Part 1] [Part 5]
This is a long one coming in at just over 1k words. Includes references made to Younger Me (which is still canon in dark dwtd).
Let’s try laying down for a minute, okay?” Rupert cuts back in. “See if we can stabilize your heart rate a bit.” He says this while gently pressing a hand into Max’s chest, helping him to adjust into position.
In the end Max's head rests on Rupert's lap, his leg spread out over the couch. Rupert runs a hand through Max's hair, his left hand tapping a steaddy rhythm in the center of Max's chest. It's clearly a well-practiced procedure. One that Max expects and Rupert carries out without second thought.
George wonders how much is still on Rupert's mind. If he is considering what he saw on the screen. Assuming he even did see it. He had to have, right? Everyone had to have. If de did see it he's not changing their rhythm.
There's a knock at the door Max flinches and tries to sit up Rupert presses him back down murmuring something George can't quite hear. Max settles back down but his eyes keep flicking towards the door. Toto frowns, opening the door only a crack. Saying a few harsh words. Then stepping outside into the hallway. George feels like he's intruding. He should have been gone a long time ago. He has no place in this moment between Max and Rupert. He's not really sure how he got here to begin with. It was only instincts that caused him to lead Max away and back to his own garage.
It seems only a moment later that Toto is entering again, this time with two police officers. George glances between them and Max who has lost the little color he was beginning to regain. Rupert straightens, clearly not pleased with the turn off events.
“Does this have to happen now?”
The officers to their credit look uncomfortable, “Just a couple of things.”
Max sits up more quickly than he should and Rupert steadies him, giving a disapproving glare to the police.
One of the officers grabs a chair and places it in front of Max, sitting. The other remains with his back to the wall. George feels like he most certainly is not allowed during this private moment but leaving would cause more problems then just sucking it up and accepting it.
“Max, I'm Officer Matthew Trunken, I just need you to answer a couple of questions for me so we can try to sort this out as quickly as possible.”
Max glances over at Rupert who still looks incredibly displeased.
“Okay,” he looks down at his small note pad. “Did you have any knowledge before today that the video would be shown?”
“Come now really-?” Rupert starts before Trunken cuts him off.
“The questions might seem redundant but I need confirmation for the report. That's all. Max?”
Max shakes his head.
Trunken nods, “Did you know the footage existed?”
This time Max hesitates before finally shrugging.
“Does that mean you were aware of the footage existing?”
Another shrug.
“Is there anything at all you can elaborate?”
Max glances at Rupert, pressing his lips to her before finally, “Didn't know what.”
A slow nod from Trunken “You knew sexually explicit material containing your image existed, you just didn't know what exactly it was.”
Max nods slowly, seeming at least slightly relieved to not have to explain more.
“And can you confirm the footage depicts a real event?” What did that even mean? Of course?
Rupert must be thinking the same thing. “You think it was what? Play acting?”
“It is not uncommon in this age for believable AI generated videos to be used for exploitation. If Max confirms it is a real event, then we can bypass the time it would take to analyze the video. We can just move forward with the assumption it is real.”
“Yes.” Max cuts in immediately.
Trunken turns back to him, “Yes, it's real?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me when it happened?”
He is met with another hesitant shrug.
“You don't remember? Or you don't want to tell me?”
Max's face twists and George wants to throw the officer and his invasive questions out of the room. Out of the paddock. Send them to find Christian instead of harassing max.
“Twenty…. Nineteen? Maybe?” which would have made Max… twenty one? Maybe twenty two depending on when.
A kid.
A bloody kid.
Trunken taps his pencil for a moment. “Was this the only time?”
The air feels like it's sucked out of the room.
Max doesn't answer. He doesn't say anything.
“Max, did this happen other times?” he tries again.
Max still isn't answering, looking like he's debating exactly what to say, but George can't stand the silence.
“It started when he was seventeen.” All eyes snap to him and George shifts his gaze to Trunken instead of the betrayed look on Max's face.
“George?” It's Toto who is squinting at him like he doesn't know what to think.
“Or well he didn't say he was seventeen but he said he wasn't eighteen.”
Rupert's eyes are flaming “You knew? You knew about this?”
“He said- he didn't - he said it was consensual.” George had known deep down that it was not, but he didn't know to what extent. He game known it was that bad. “He was worried about Kimi.” He glances at Toto hoping he doesn't take offence, but buried too deep at this point to stop. “Wanted to make sure he was safe and not… not being taken advantage of. I-I didn't know how bad things were.”
It's the other officer who asks “And you never thought to report it?”
“I-”
“I begged him not to.” And it's the longest sentence Max has been able to string together. “Made him promise. Not his fault.”
All eyes are still on George, he can feel the embarrassment creeping up on his face.
Trunken finally breaks the silence. “Alright, alright Max, thank you.”
“Are you done?” Rupert snaps.
Trunken nods, rising to his feet. “I'm sure there will be more inquiry at a later time but we're done for now. We'll be in touch.”
The second officer is still sending distrusting glares towards George when Toto leads them out of the room.
ahhhh i miss dwtd and dark dwtd so much ❤️ might u be willing to give us a hint or snippet at what’s coming next? 👀
Dark dwtd part 7
Masterlist [Part 6]
The back of Max’s head hits the wall with a thud. George feels even more like he’s intruding. Rupert does not seem pleased with him being there either. Especially now.
Rupert lets a harsh breath out of his nose before turning back to Max. “Alright, how are you feeling?”
“Fine.” He croaks, sounding far from fine. But he at least seems present now. Mostly.
Rupert shakes his head, “You and me have a very different definition of “fine”.”
“I’m okay.” He says, as if saying different words that mean the same thing changes his believability. “Where’s GP?”
“My guess would be the Red Bull garage.”
“Is he okay?”
And what kind of questions was that? Was GP okay?He hadn’t been the one publicly exploited. Rupert seems to be thinking the same thing, shaking his head in disbelief. “I’m sure he’s fine, Max. You shouldn’t be worrying about him.”
“And Laurent? What of him?”
“What about him?”
“Is he with Christian?”
That… seemed like an odd question.
“I doubt it. But you don’t need to worry about it. About any of them.”
There’s a beat of silence before, “Do you think Christian will think it is my fault? That I did this on purpose?” His voice has again taken on that high pitched panic. It would be concerning even if they hadn’t already covered this. Twice.
George can’t help but roll his eyes this time. “Max, I promise you Christian has more important things to worry about than wondering where the video came from. And there’s no way he thinks it was you.”
Max’s head whips to the side like he had forgotten George was there. Maybe he had.
“You do not know Christian like I know him.”
“No, but I think he’ll be lucky to make it out of the paddock alive. Honestly getting arrested would probably be the safer alternative right now.” George certainly knows things would not end well if he ended up within ten feet of the man.
For some reason, that sentiment seems to distress Max more. “No, no I do not want him hurt-"
“Max,” Rupert has moved to sit in front of Max again, running a hand up and down his arm. “You need to calm down. You don’t need to worry about Christian.”
“He is not all bad I promise, I promise sometimes he is good they simply played a bad moment so people would hate him. Christian told me this would happen if people found out- that people wold hate him. And hate me. That they would not understand-”
“Max.” Rupert grabs his chin, forcing eyecontact. “I do not want to hear you say his name again. We are done talking about him for now. Understood?”
George feels as though he is going to break a tooth he is clenching his jaw so tight. This was getting out of hand. Max’s little trauma bond, stockholm syndrome, whatever this was, wasn’t cute and wasn’t funny. It was deeply deeply distressing.
Max grabs Rupet’s hand, pulling it away from his face, his eyes have taken that wild look again, his breathing slightly erratic. “No, you don’t understand. What if Christian finds Laurent?”
“That won't happen. And besides, Laurent can take care of himself.”
“Where’s GP?”
Maybe they should get a freaking medic in here because clearly Max was in some sort of shock induced stupor.
“Back at the garage. He’s okay.”
“Do you think he knows? I don’t think he knows.”
George raises his eyebrows at that. He’s pretty sure everyone in North America knew. Europe too. Maybe the world.
“You need to stop worrying about him. I’m going to find something that will knock you out for a bit okay? Just sleep it off.” He starts to dig through him back. George isn't sure what he plans to give him but hopefully it will help and not make things worse.
"I need to talk to GP.”
Rupert’s lips thin. “I don’t know that that’s a good idea right now.”
“I need to see if he knows.”
“Max-”
“Does he know about the videos?”
“I’m sure he does,, Max, but you don’t need to worry about it.” Rupert’s answer is fine. But George is hung up on the actual word. Videos. Not video. Plural. More than one. Max isn’t talking about what was on the screen.
“No, no, not that, all the videos.”
"All of them?” Now it’s Rupert’s voice that’s taking on a different edge. “You said you knew they existed but not of what, you think there are more?”
“Red Bull has them. But GP doesn’t know. What if Christian or the police find out I don’t want GP to-”
“Red Bull has the videos?” George steps towards him, heart pounding as the pieces fall into place. “That video? You think it’s from Red Bull?”
“I don’t know what I did wrong.” His voice cracks, fingers digging into the sides of his legs.
“You- you didn’t do anything wrong, Max.” Rupert's voice is pinched, but he’s trying to bring things back under control. “You didn’t do anything.”
“But I must have or he would not have shown it like that.”
“Who Max?” George snaps. He felt bad at the slight flinch but desperation was crawling at his throat.
“Laurent of course, he said no one would see them so long as I did as I was told but I do not know what I did wrong. And now Christian is here and he is going to kill me and also maybe Laurent and- please I need to speak with GP.”
Rupert’s face has shifted into something terrifying. George doesn’t move- doesn’t breathe when the door opens. Toto seems to sense the energy, freezing. Rupert's voice is low and terrifying when he turns his attention to the Mercedes Team Principal. “I need to speak to you. Outside.”
Toto looks between Max and Rupert and nods, opening the door again.
“But-” Max starts to move, but a pointed finger holds him in place.
“Sit.” Then to George. “Do not let him out of your sight. If he hurts himself I will hold you personally responsible.” The door slams shut, leaving behind only silence.
The much awaited Silverstone 2021 GP POV, aka "🚩 WIP". Thank you so much to all of you who sent asks that helped me finish it! If you've been following along this will show just how much things can change from my wip posting to the final draft lol.
I hope it lives up to the expectation <3
There are approximately forty-nine seconds between the start of Max’s race and the end. A short race no doubt. Not the quickest ever. He’s sure that there is another time where their race was shorter. Maybe Singapore 2017 or 2019 in Spa. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t remember. Those seconds didn’t really matter. They passed, then blurred and bent into the next minute then hours then race weekends.
But this weekend, GP is painfully aware of every one of those forty-nine seconds.
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:
While I know that I am not 100% accurate on everything, I have done much research and think it is pretty close. And yes, if you noticed this fic is exactly 5,218 words. Yes that was intentional lol. (That's about 86 minutes in case you were wondering.)
Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed please consider leaving a comment on Ao3 <3
