#lestapstri

“Oh! Um—alright. 016, sir.”

“No, no,” Leclerc waves off, “There is no need for sir, mademoiselle…?”

“016,” Oscar says crispy. “Please stop flirting with my interns. You’re dismissed.”

The intern makes a wobbly, mortified noise, and flees the scene.

“Q,” Leclerc drags out. Oscar doesn’t need to look over to know he’s pouting. “Always, you are spoiling my fun. I cannot flirt with you, I cannot flirt with the interns—who is left to flirt with then?”

This code—it’s stuff Oscar was doing before he could walk. But it’s actively fighting him every step of the way, things shuffling around when he’s not looking, more red exclamation marks popping up—breeding like fucking rabbits. Oscar has no idea what he’s looking at anymore.

“Jenson’s been looking sad lately,” he says, distracted. Jenson is Oscar’s weirdly emotional Roomba who developed some bizarre hatred for Oscar and an undying  love for Oscar’s second in command, R. He has indeed been moping around Q-branch lately. “I’m sure he’d appreciate your… affections, 016. I’m trying to work here.”

“All the time I am here, you’re working,” Leclerc sighs. Out of the corner of Oscar’s eye, he catches Leclerc stretching, the pale column of his throat ever so delicate beneath Oscar's fluorescent lights. “And I know what you will say, Q. That I will have to wait until you’re finished, and I am finished, and we are both finished with—” Leclerc wrinkles his nose, “—work, but that is so long! And never you are finished with work. I try to take you to dinner and you’re doing work even then.”

Oscar’s fingers falter over the keyboard.

Recently, he helped Leclerc out of a—situation. R usually handles coms for agents 10-19, Oscar taking 1-9, but the situation had spiralled beyond what R was trained to handle. So Oscar stepped in.

016 has always been fond of pestering Oscar. For new upgrades, mission reports—though Oscar isn’t his handler—tech ideas. Sometimes, Oscar will freely admit, his insight has been invaluable. The other 95% of the time, the only thing Leclerc has accomplished in Q-branch is tanking work effectiveness rates by 231%.

That mission, however—he was lucky to have survived it. Lucky that Oscar didn’t decide to work from home that day. In the heat of it, bleeding out from a close-range shot to the ribs, Leclerc coughed out a dinner invitation, and Oscar was stupid (optimistic) enough to presume 016 wouldn’t make it, and therefore agreed, for the sake of comforting a dying man.

Then, nine o’clock on the dot on Monday morning, Leclerc came whistling through the doors of Q-branch, looking like the cat who got the cream, telling anyone who would listen that he had snagged the elusive Quartermaster. By the time Oscar heard of it, it was too late. The rumour had spread.

Since then, he’s clung to Oscar like fungus. Unkillable, stubborn, vaguely charming fungus.

“Well,” Oscar says, “If you want your head blown off by your own earpiece when you’re cleared for active duty, we can go for dinner if you want.”

Leclerc slumps over Oscar’s workbench. “You are no fun,” he mutters, throwing his arm dramatically over his face.

Which is when the door opens again.

“Q, the latest handgun is shit. The AI was asking me for my fucking—voice activation in the middle of a—You.”

Leclerc also makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. “Ugh. You.”

“What is he doing here?” Verstappen asks, indignant. “Q, how am I supposed to give you the debrief if he is snooping? Surely this is a breach of protocol?”

Oscar digs his fingers into his temple, where a headache is raining down on him, vicious. He accepted this job because of the unlimited freedom no other opportunity came close to providing. He may have declined if he knew a good chunk of the job would be babysitting.

“001,” he says, admirably even. “If you’re going to tell me you chucked your gun in the Atlantic again, save it for another day.”

Verstappen grumbles, ducking his head. He fishes a small armoury out of his pockets and dumps it on Oscar’s desk. Broken and waterlogged, but—well. It’s sort of better than nothing.

“I of course brought them back for you,” 001 mutters. His ears are pink. “I am not Charles.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Leclerc pipes up. “I bring my equipment back! Do I not, Q?”

Oscar isn’t solving this mess today. He gives the wall of code a scathing once over, then minimizes the tab. He has a minimum of seven hours before R hauls him out the building. That’s enough to smash a few deadlines.

“You are like a child running to his mother, Charles,” Verstappen is saying, pitching his voice high and mocking, “Q, do you like my hair? Oh, I’m so stupid, Q. Please tell me to pick a lock! Teach me how to defuse a bomb, Q, I’m so clumsy and delicate! Help me wipe my arse, Q—”

Oscar digs a knuckle into his eye, sighing. “Out.”

Both Leclerc and Verstappen stop in their tracks.

“What?” Leclerc says, “But, chéri—”

“Chéri?” Verstappen repeats loudly, face scrunching up. “Q, you should have told me this—this harlot was harassing you. I would of course have dealt with him—”

Leclerc pushes himself upright in one fluid motion, eyes narrowed. “You are the one calling me a harlot after what you did in Shanghai?”

“That was three years ago,” Verstappen hisses. “Spielberg, however—”

“Oh, yes, Spielberg,” Leclerc speaks over him, “Where you got shot and cried like a baby in my arms—”

“I did not—!”

“—and Carlos had to come get us because you exploded the car from trying to act like we were in one of your little video games—”

“The tyres were shot out, you fucking idiot—”

“And Vienna!” Leclerc near shouts, “Let’s talk about Vienna, shall we?”

“I have told you this so many times! Vienna was not—!”

“You are so fucking stupid,” Leclerc is gritting out, fisting Verstappen’s tie. “You are a fucking—”

Dead-eyed, Oscar glances up just in time to see Verstappen lunge forward and crush their mouths together.

“Again?” Oscar says, exhausted. “Really?”

The way Leclerc is clawing at him, the iron grip Verstappen has on his waist, you’d think they were trying to maul each other. Oscar has no idea why they’ve both decided his office is the perfect place for hate-groping. Lando’s—R’s—is literally right next door. God, what Oscar would pay to see R’s face when 001 and 016 start going at it in front of him.

Luckily, this time Verstappen comes to his senses. He shoves Leclerc back, wiping at his mouth. His gaze flits to Oscar, who stares flatly back at him.

“Er,” he starts, hesitantly.

His boyfriend mentioned that his bicycle was getting harder to use—rusty chains, a worn out seat, an old bike frame—and Max had decided to surprise him with an entirely new bicycle, one that Max personally worked on until it was not just brand new, but with added features (a headlight, a little basket in the front, painted Charles’s favorite shade of red, his boyfriend’s initials on the handlebars and seat). He’d also gotten Charles a delicate gold Cartier chain with a sun and moon pendant, to symbolize that Charles was his everything—his sun and moon and all the galaxies.

But Max wonders if that’s enough. If it even comes close to being enough, not with other drivers gifting their partners sports cars and luxury holidays.

Max…Max needs to work harder. The young Alpha makes a silent vow—he’ll work harder, get bigger bonuses, negotiate his salary, and soon, he’ll also be able to spoil Charles the way he deserves to be loved and spoiled.

And just—

Imagine Charles finding out this is the reason his boyfriend’s been so gloomy lately, why his scent has been so stressed out and sad 😭 Charles immediately demanding cuddles and asks if he can scent Max (the Alpha immediately says yes). And while they’re intertwined together the Omega tells Max that everything with him is so special because Max knows him—he doesn’t want some cold, impersonal gift that just looks fancy. He wants something from the heart, from Max, because Charles loves Max. Not his money or his fame, he just wants to live in their cozy little apartment, two cats, two bikes, and kissing one another in Charles’s nest 🥺

And when Max hears this? Oh god, he didn’t think he could fall any harder but he does—every single day, Max’s love for Charles grows until it’s as bright and beautiful as the cosmos ✨

Oh and the next time Charles rolls up to the paddock? He’s wearing his Cartier necklace, hand in hand with Max, and smile so beautiful that it actually causes some people to trip over their own two feet. Charles also makes sure to loudly proclaim how Max customized a bike for Charles with his own two hands, how they spent every day together, how Max introduced him to his family and Sophie made all of Charles’s favorite meals 🥺 everyone is so smitten by this adorable holiday tale that some of the other WAGs get jealous because why didn’t their boyfriends put in that much effort? They didn’t get to have long, romantic conversations during winter break—they were surrounded by people in the club, too busy getting drunk. And hey—why haven’t you introduced me to your family yet? This pup gets to meet his boyfriend’s family after a few months but you aren’t willing to take me over to your mom’s?!

Charles stays close, letting his body brush Oscar’s as they move through the crowd, speaking directly into his ear as they walk. He’s not saying anything important, and nothing in need of response. So Oscar, still on his back foot, takes the chance to catch up. By the time they make it to the bar, Oscar’s settled back into himself.

As Charles leans forward, asks what he wants, Oscar leans forward too, feels his breath against Charles’ ear as he answers, “gin and tonic.” He only realizes what he’s said when he leans back far enough to catch the amusement in Charles’ eyes.

Oscar looks out as Charles orders, watching the dance floor for a moment. By the time he turns back, Charles is watching him, and Oscar feels steady in his gaze. Then Charles’ eyes slip past him and Oscar reminds himself where he is.

He’s caught too long thinking and Charles’ grips his arm, tilts his head in and says something about needing to go. Oscar nods, looks Charles in the eyes, and doesn’t let his disappointment show. He lets his head turn to follow as Charles’ sweeps past before pulling his attention away, swallowing his drink.

He looks up and Max slips into Charles’ open space, so seamless Oscar almost wonders if they planned it. Max smiles, eyes crinkling, and Oscar understands Charles intrinsically.

Max asks what he’s drinking, and Oscar lifts his drink up without thinking. Opens his mouth to answer, but Max is already leaning in, lips wrapping around the straw. It’s too loud to hear Max’s hum, but Oscar sees his eyes light up.

“Gin and tonic,” he nods, appreciative, “my favorite. Maybe we can share.” He laughs, exaggerated in the way he does to be clear he’s joking.

Unfortunately, Oscar, misses the joke. Says, “Sure, I don’t mind,” instead. Stands there like an idiot who can only hope Max loses his memory in the next 3 seconds. Unfortunately, he doesn’t.

Max laughs, surprised. He doesn’t even turn in the bartenders direction. As they talk, Oscar makes sure to hand him the drink rather than presuming he would drink out of his hand and save himself from further embarrassment. As the drink dwindles, Oscar starts wondering if he should order them another or re-attempt his escape.

Before he can decide Max’s eyes slide behind him, “Looks like Charles is ready to go.” Oscar is reminded again that this was temporary, swallows his disappointment with the rest of his drink.

“Sure, of course” he nods, eyes slipping to his now empty glass.

“Take us home?” Oscar jolts, sure he misunderstood. He looks up, struck speechless by Max’s gaze. He looks back, spots Charles waiting by the door, watching them.

“Um,” Oscar’s thoughts are running too fast and too slow, sliding past each other and colliding and being altogether useless.

“No pressure, of course.” Max is still watching him, and Oscar feels a bit like his heart is crawling it’s way into his throat.