The Hands of Men

by BeltsAndBiceps

Summary:

Jos Verstappen didn't love his son, he created a champion.

George fears that history will repeat itself.

Chapter 1: Avoidance

George was fine when he only had himself to worry about. When rough sex with a man that was called mad by the media was just an easy way to release some steam. George himself had called Max vicious, on camera for all to see, and he had meant it.

Sex with Max was an easy arrangement. It was intense, sometimes brutal, always passionate. But not like… a love kind of passion. The kind of fucking that left skin bruised, lips swollen and voices rough, whether that was due to Max fucking his throat or pressing his thumb and fingers against the pulse points in his neck. George didn't hold back either, taking what he needed from Max with biting teeth and nails that left red lines over Max's arms and back.

Hate fucking was still fucking and when you're somewhere between jetlag and not knowing what day it was… well, you'd take any kind of sex. It wasn't even an uncommon occurrence, George knew of a few drivers with such arrangements, ones without partners or others that had an understanding. 

It was never more than that, never more than a couple of hours every Tuesday after a race week. They would meet at a hotel, arrive separately and leave an hour apart. Feelings didn’t get a chance to play into it, they were just… two guys who worked together. Thoughts of Max didn't keep George awake at night, his heart didn't skip a beat when he saw him across the paddock, they didn't sneak kisses away from the cameras. 

George always knew there was a risk, Max knew it too; George had been open with him about his ability to carry and they had been so careful, always used condoms.

Of course one of Max’s super swimmers defied the odds and snuck through the barriers.

By the time he realised why his jeans were slightly too tight it was too late to do anything about it; abortions were illegal in males after 10 weeks and George was fast approaching his second trimester.

He spent a full weekend spiraling, fretting over his career, his future, how the public would view him. He wondered how he had missed the signs but he hadn’t had any morning sickness and put down any hormonal outbursts to the stress of the job. It wasn’t like male carriers had a cycle they could easily track and a birth control pill had yet to be developed that wouldn’t interfere with the complexities of a male’s other hormones.

George’s biggest concern, the thing his brain constantly circled back to, was the father.

And if he would echo the parenting of Jos Verstappen. 

Everyone knew how Jos had raised his son, how he still treated him. He had seen the way Max would laugh when Jos talked openly about his unique and cruel blend of verbal demoralisation and physical abuse. Max seemed to have no problem with the way he was raised, the way his father forced him to drive until his fingers were achingly numb from pain, nor the way Jos had, on more than one occasion, caused him visible bruising.

He was creating a champion, not loving a child.  

George feared that history would repeat itself.

Besides all that, it wasn't like he and Max were an item, there was a good chance Max would want nothing to do with the tiny thing George's body was creating inside him, cell by cell. There was a good chance George would be doing this on his own, raising his child on his own. 

He didn't even want a kid yet. He wasn't ready, he wasn't done living his own life. 

His only saving grace was that, despite the fact that he had to have fallen pregnant after Las Vegas and had unknowingly driven two races after the fact, the scans showed a healthy child. A small mercy, who knew what seven Gs of pure force and pressure could do to a foetus. The thought was surprising, when it occurred to George, feeling oddly protective of something he had no current desire for. 

George lay on the sofa, running a hand over his barely-swollen stomach as his brain worked overtime. Scan pictures lay discarded on his coffee table as he stared at his phone. He had to tell someone, he just didn't know where to start.

He didn’t want to tell Max, he didn't even want to accidently bump into him in the small principality of Monaco. Part of him dreaded the reaction he would get, the potential for rejection was too great. 

Things that he hadn't noticed before now made him pause in the street. He would see someone with a similar build to Max or a pair of skinny jeans coming towards him and he would dip his head until he realised there was a ponytail sticking out the back of a Red Bull cap or the wrong accent leaving someone's lips. He couldn't help the way his hand would subconsciously go to his stomach, protective and cautious.

Time was ticking, and he was running short on it. He had known for ten days, and been pregnant for just shy of twelve weeks.

George groaned to himself and mentally told himself to grow a set of balls. It was his own fault he was in this mess, he would have to fix it himself. He sent two messages in quick succession;

George, to Toto Wolff: Hello Toto, I hope you had a nice Christmas. When you’re back home I would like to request a meeting with a lawyer present, please.

George, to Alex A: Hey mate, you free for a catch up tomorrow? My place?

He tucked his phone under his thigh and picked up the grainy pictures, index finger tracing the face of his child. He wondered what kind of person they would be, if they would look like him or would they have many of Max’s features? Would they be at all interested in cars? 

All he knew for certain was that they, whoever they would be, would never be bullied into a future they didn't want, not by him.

Not by anyone.

Notes:

Thank you to everyone in the Naughty Bin that helped me with wee bits here and there 💚

Chapter 2: Conversations

“I’m sorry to put you in this position, Toto, it’s not something I planned.” George fisted the kangaroo pouch of his hoodie, fingers fidgeting inside the soft enclosure. It was the first thing he had found in his wardrobe that was both cosy and concealing. He brushed his thumb in small circles over his tummy, a small comforting movement he had developed.

Toto had agreed to meet George in private, bringing only their contract lawyer. When George had nervously told Toto of his current predicament he had watched his face morph into several expressions in quick succession; confusion, slight disappointment, thoughtful, then… something that might resemble happiness. He had asked who the father was, but George had politely declined to tell him, for now.

“We will, of course, honour the terms of your contract. When you are ready we will make a team announcement, with your involvement. You can still do sim testing and participate in media appearances until such time when you take your parental leave.”

The thought of people seeing him in the media made George feel a little uneasy.

Toto clamped a reassuring hand on George’s shoulder, “Your seat is secure until you return, and when you do, you can be world champion. Parenthood is a wonderful thing, George, you should try to enjoy it.” A teasing smile crossed the team principal’s face, “Perhaps we can finally develop a maternity line for our merchandise.”

George rolled his eyes. As if he would be seen dead promoting pregnancy wear. He was a model . “I don’t want to parade around as a spectacle, known only for being the first male carrier in the sport.”

“I understand, and Mercedes will not treat you as such. However, you must be prepared for the fan reactions. Most will be excited, some will be spiteful, you know how this business is. Everyone will be desperate for any bit of information they can have.” Toto paused, considering his words, “Male carriers are rare, George, this is a unique opportunity but it is up to you what you do with it.”

They agreed to give George a week before a media announcement, giving him time to get his affairs in order, tell everyone who needed to know.

Alex had been unavailable when George had messaged him, still vacationing in the Maldives with Lily. Part of George was a little jealous of that, the fact that Alex was sunning himself on a beach while he himself was idly drawing circles on his tummy as he planned a mental list of others he had to tell.

The list wasn’t very long. He felt sort of numb, like he existed outside of his body, watching someone else’s life crumble. Sure, he could tell some friends, but the thought of their questions, the answers he could barely give. It made him exhausted just to think about it. ‘Ignore it and it will go away’ was not an option for him, but he could bury his head in the sand, let them all find out when Mercedes broke the news. It seemed easier. Perhaps he was just a coward.

George still didn’t know what to do about Max. His thoughts were constantly conflicted and his brain fluctuated between do and do not. For once he wished he were a nobody that had fucked someone of no significance, that he could disappear into the void, have his child and not have to involve the father. That was not the hand fate had dealt him, and there was no avoiding Max Verstappen. George resolved he needed to tell Max, he owed him that much. He thumbed out a quick message and sent it before he could change his mind.

George: Usual place, 6pm?

He wasn’t kept waiting long, Max replied within five minutes.

Max: ?? it’s not Tuesday.
Max: The season hasn’t started.

George rolled his eyes, perhaps he had been just a touch too vague.

George: Yes, I am aware, however this is important. Will you please meet me?

Max: Are you that hard up, Russell?

God he wanted to punch him, this was a terrible idea.

George: A yes or no will suffice, Verstappen.

Max: Fine, under Maxwell again?

Maxwell was the not-so-clever alias they used to book hotel rooms, thought up in a moment of desperation.

George: Yes. I’ll go there at 5.30pm.

Max sent back an infuriating thumbs up. Sometimes George hated him.

—

George arrived at the hotel an hour early, scan pictures tucked safely in his little travel bag. He hadn’t packed much, but he liked to at least pretend he planned to stay longer than a couple of hours, if for only the benefit of the desk clerk that raised his eyebrow at George’s unexpected return, not on a Tuesday. That was the only sign the clerk gave of acknowledging that he knew exactly who George was, and what he was doing. The room key was handed over with a “we hope you enjoy your stay, Mr Maxwell” and a polite smile.

George flopped down on the hotel bed, shoes abandoned at the door.

He used the time to suck in a brave breath before hitting the call button under his mother’s name. It rang twice before her pleasant voice answered.

“This is a surprise, Georgie, how are you?” She sounded so genuinely happy to hear from him that for a second George nearly backed out, nearly told her everything was fine and dandy.

Everything was not fine and dandy.

“Hey mum, is dad there too?” George twisted the string of his hoodie between his fingers nervously, stomach clenching and fluttering. He had weighed up how his dad might react, and decided he didn’t need to see the disappointment in his eyes in person.

Steve Russell had been hard on George, and although he had long forgiven him for some of his crueler parenting techniques such as telling George his lap times were much slower than they were and constantly belittling even his best performances, George couldn’t help but fear his father’s reaction.

When George was just fourteen, some routine blood tests showed irregular hormone levels and a doctor diagnosed him as a carrier. Nothing serious, nothing life threatening, but with all the angst of a teenager he thought his life was over. Steve had sat him down, and told him it changed nothing, he wasn’t defined by his status. George was back karting the next weekend, still being told he was too slow.

It wasn’t until George was older that he realised how much Steve had put into his career, how many sacrifices he had made.

Being a carrier meant nothing until he was carrying a child.

“Yes, he’s here, I’ll put you on loud speaker.” His mum’s voice sounded concerned as she called her husband closer, “We can hear you now darling, what’s wrong?”

Unexpected tears formed in his eyes as he sucked in a wavering breath, “I’m… I’m pregnant.”

Silence loomed on the other end as George tried his best to hold back the sobs that threatened to choke him, throat tight.

Eventually, his mum spoke, “That’s wonderful news darling, isn’t it, Steve?”

His dad was quiet just a beat longer, and George imagined he was about to be chewed out, disowned, be told he was a disappointment.

“Are you happy, son?” Steve’s tone was measured, calculated, but he wasn’t cussing George out and that was something.

“It’s still sinking in.” Tears did fall then as a tremor wracked its way up his throat. “I’m sorry, I never meant for it to happen.” The apology fell from trembling lips, thick and truly mournful.

Alison’s voice came soothing and soft, “You sound very upset sweetheart, do you want to come home for a while?”

George shook his head despite how much he would love to be sitting at their kitchen table while his mum ladled up her homemade lentil and ham soup, something to warm his bones after a race in the rain.

“Maybe in a couple of weeks, mum. Mercedes are making the announcement tomorrow. They’re holding my seat, dad, it was in my contract if I… if this ever happened.” George was desperate not to be a disappointment to his father. He sniffled as he spoke, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

“Nevermind that now son, we can talk about it all when we see you.”

George could barely answer, save for another gasping breath of relief and upset that rang through the line. “I have to go, I’m telling the… the father soon.” The word ‘father’ was almost a whisper, like he didn’t want to say it outloud.

“Okay sweetheart, will you call us tomorrow perhaps?” Alison asked, her gentle tone never wavering.

“Yeah mum, I will.”

Seemingly satisfied with this, he could almost picture her nodding as she said, “Okay son, we love you, take care of yourself for us.”

“I will mum, I love you both too.”

George hung up with trembling fingers, relief washing over him at how easy it had been.

One father down, one to go.

George cleaned his face in the hotel bathroom, the redness still clinging to his slightly puffy eyes.

A knock came at the door, three minutes before Max was due to arrive. George sucked in a breath before unlocking the door and opening it. His heart hammered in his chest as he took in the sight of Max, still looking devastatingly handsome, in his standard white t-shirt and jeans combo. George stood there frozen until Max prompted him out of his daze.

“Are you not going to let me in? Or am I just to stand here while you stare at me?” Max asked, tone level.

George stepped back, closing the door behind them. Max looked George up and down, before locking eyes with him. His brows furrowed together, lips setting firm. “Have you been crying?”

The question took George by surprise. “What? No.” He sounded defensive, he knew it. Of course he had been crying, it was obvious.

Max shrugged off his jacket and lay it across the back of the standard single chair that every hotel room seemed to have. “You look like you have been crying,” Max pushed, not convinced by the weak lie. He pulled his t-shirt off, revealing abs that George had committed to memory by touch.

George bit his lower lip as he stared.

Max paused with his hands on his belt. “Why are you not getting undressed?”

Fuck. For a moment George had almost forgotten he was there for something more than staring at Max’s admittedly stunning body.

“I didn’t ask you here for sex.” Okay George, good start, he thought mentally to himself.

“Then why did you ask me to meet you at all?”

George was going to answer, he was, he was going to tell him.

Max’s phone rang. Max fished it out of his pocket, cursing as he looked at the screen.

“Fuck, it’s my dad.”

George didn’t get a chance to say anything before Max was walking across the room, as if the small distance would give him privacy.

“Hallo? Wat? Nee, ik heb nog niet op mijn telefoon gekeken.”

George picked the skin around his nail, unable to understand a word apart from maybe ‘telephone’.

George’s heart stopped as Max suddenly turned, wide eyed and staring at George, his tone changed into what could have been disbelief. “Zwanger? Weet je dat zeker?”

Silence as George could only make out a laugh on the other line. Max cut Jos off abruptly mid sentence. “Pap, ik moet gaan, ik bel je later.”

Max stared at his phone as he hung up before looking back at George, eyes huge, mouth slightly agape. “You’re pregnant?”

Fuck.

Notes:

Thank you to everyone for the amazing response so far to my wee fic, it means the world 💚

Chapter 3: Revelations

“You’re pregnant ?”

The words hung heavy in the air as George’s brain tried to catch up. All his overthinking, all his fretting, all the ways he had planned to tell Max out the window.

Max looked confused and stunned, which George supposed was a justified reaction.

“How did he find out?” George asked quietly, confirming the question without answering. He didn’t know what to do with his body, standing awkwardly and feeling like he might cry again.

“So it is true?” If stares could truly burn holes into people, George was sure he'd be like Swiss cheese; Max hadn’t looked away once.

George sat down heavily on the corner of the bed, running a hand through his hair for something to do, anything that didn’t involve watching Max have a crisis in front of his eyes. “I was going to tell you, that’s why I asked you here.”

Max seemed to finally put two and two together and his mouth opened almost comically before shutting again. “Is it mine?” Ah, of course, there it was, the penny had dropped.

George rolled his eyes at the question. He had expected it, but it still stung a little. “No, I asked you to meet me so I could tell you I’m having Lance Stroll’s baby,” he said sarcastically because he could stop himself. He took a breath, letting his anger dissipate a little, before calmly continuing, “Yes, it’s your’s, I’ve not been with anyone else.”

Max walked numbly to the little chair he’d abandoned his jacket and shirt on and sat down. He looked a little pale, which George couldn’t exactly criticise him for.

Jos knowing still loomed heavy in his mind. George fixed Max with pleading eyes, “Can you call your dad back and ask how he found out? No one is meant to know yet.” When Max made no move to pick his phone up again, George’s voice almost turned to begging, “Max, please call him.” 

Max cleared his throat and nodded, “Okay.” He unlocked his phone and hesitated for just a moment before hitting call. It rang for a beat before Jos answered. “Hé pap, hoe ben je erachter gekomen van George?”

George had never wished he knew Dutch more than right then, Jos’ smug and scathing tone the only thing he could make out as Max mostly made non-committal noises while Jos, hopefully, explained. Max looked angry though, his jaw set as he drew glances at George. Jos laughed on the other end and Max’s eyes filled with anger. He appeared to cut Jos off mid-laugh, “Goed, bedankt,” uttered sharply before hanging up. Max stayed silent until George couldn’t take it anymore.

“Well?” He urged, needing desperately to know how much damage had been done.

“The team principles were briefed so they could prepare a statement to,” Max waved his hands in the air as he struggled to find a word, “to match the announcement Mercedes is making. Mekies made the mistake of telling my dad. That’s as far as it has gone though.”

George couldn’t keep his emotions in anymore, a sob bubbling through his chest as he pressed his fingertips to his lips. Max didn’t move, except to reach out, placing a hand on George’s knee with a small squeeze. George grabbed it, keeping it there as all the stress, the loneliness, the anxiety threatened to choke him. He had barely touched another human since the season ended unless it was a hug from a family member, and the hand under his own grounded him, staying there until his cries turned to sniffles.

He mourned the loss as Max slid his hand away to reach for a tissue from the box beside the bed. “Here, use this.” Max held it out and George took it gratefully, wiping his eyes and blowing his nose. The hand didn’t return to his knee.

Once George had cleaned himself up a bit, he bent to grab his abandoned bag from the floor, pulling the scan pictures from it. “I brought the scan, I don’t know if you want to see it, you don’t have to if you don’t want to…” His eyes studied the now-familiar face of his child, still a little blob-ish, not fully defined, but his nonetheless.

“I would like to see, please.” Max still sounded soft, like he wasn’t sure if he were asleep and waiting to wake up from the nightmare George had pulled him into. George handed the picture over and tried to ignore the way his fingers trembled.

Max was quiet for a long time, studying the black and white picture as if it may reveal secrets and whisper answers to questions he had yet to ask. Eventually he spoke, looking up with an unreadable expression, soft and wondrous, George thought, semi-hopeful in the knowledge that Max had yet to storm out. “How far along are you?”

“I’ll be fourteen weeks on Tuesday, that’s what the sonographer reckoned by the size, but it’s harder to track in male carriers,” George explained, taking the picture back when Max held it out to him. Before he lost his nerve, he continued, “I don’t expect anything from you, I just needed you to know before Mercedes make the announcement tomorrow. No one knows you’re the father, no one has to know either.” The air felt fragile, the moment breakable. He didn’t want to trap Max into something he didn’t want, and he needed to say it, even if the thought of doing the whole parent thing alone terrified him.

Max sat still for a moment, eyes still on the bit of paper held in George’s hand. “Can I have time to process this? It is a lot to take in.”

George nodded, heart falling from a place he didn’t know it had floated up to. In quiet moments he imagined Max might want to be involved. He had imagined a different life, a faceless man that picked him up and spun him round when George told him about their little bun in the oven, how they might bicker over baby names and what colour to paint the nursery. Max was never in his daydreams, not until recently, when he thought about whether the baby’s room might have navy or green tints to it. A foolish dream, he had decided, spurred on by hormones and too much time alone in his own head.

“Take as much time as you need, whatever you decide, I’ll be okay with it.” He would be, he could do this.

Diaper changes, 2am feedings, rocking a baby that had been crying for hours… he could do it alone.

He just wished he didn’t have to.

Max stood, pulling on his forgotten clothes. “I’ll text you?”

“Yeah, sounds good.”

Max paused at the door, as if he were going to say something before changing his mind, leaving George alone in the hotel room. George curled himself into a miserable ball of self-pity on the bed, hand pressed to his tummy as fresh tears fell.

He wasn’t so sure he could do this.

Chapter 4: Paths

Notes:

Jos Verstappen will always be his own warning but please note the tag changes.

Max would love to say he turned around, that he walked back into the hotel room and comforted George, told him everything would be okay and that he’d be there for him.

Max did not.

Instead he walked and kept walking, his father’s words still burning his ears and rattling in his brain.

“Can you believe the bitch was so stupid as to spread his legs and get knocked up? He’s such a slut, why does Mercedes keep attracting homos and morons? At least you never turned out to be one of those. His dad must be ashamed that his son is a bitch.”

Max had been subjected to Jos’ misogynistic and homophobic remarks all his life, his dad couldn’t see a gay man on the television without commenting about how disgusting it was. The first time they passed a male carrier in the street his dad had sneered and not-so-quietly remarked on how only the most repulsive bitches get themselves into that kind of mess. 

Max had learned early in his youth to hide many of his desires, traits that his father would find abhorrent and not fitting of the Verstappen name.

The worst thing that the son of Jos could ever be was a gay man capable of getting pregnant. Perhaps Jos should be thankful that Max was only bisexual. Of course, Max never told his dad that. No, he brought girls home while he kissed boys behind the kart garage and had painfully chapped lips through winter so his dad didn’t accuse him of being a girl when he applied lip balm.

The world had matured with Max, being gay was no longer an insult, it was said proudly, celebrated, accepted. Male carriers were seen more often, no longer being as taboo as it had been in the past. In days gone by, being a male carrier was a death sentence, something to be avoided at all costs before caesareans were developed. Now, thanks to advancements in the medical field, those with the potential to get pregnant could do so without fear, able to carry their babies to term and have them be delivered safely into their arms.

Jos Verstappen was stuck in the past, a relic of times when being homosexual was illegal, the terror of being a carrier too horrific to imagine. Max knew he would never change.

Max found himself making his way to Charles’ apartment, ringing the bell and his sad “hey, it’s me” granted him instant entry.

“You look awful, what happened?” Charles asked, concern in his voice as he ushered Max into his home and towards the sofa. “Would you like a beer?”

“George is pregnant,” Max stated plainly, stopping Charles in his tracks to the fridge, turning to face Max with wide eyes. “With my baby.”

“Oh merde.”

Max rolled his eyes as Charles’ dumbfounded statement. Charles recovered semi-quickly, grabbing the beers from the fridge and popping the caps off. He handed one to Max and took a seat next to him, one leg curled under the other to turn his body towards the Dutchman.

“Start from the beginning.”

Max gave him the full rundown while they sipped their beers, and told him how his life had been flipped in less than an hour.

“You should have heard my dad, how am I supposed to tell him that I am the father? He hates carriers, he thinks they are disgusting… And now his first grandchild will be born from one.” Max chuckled weakly, more disbelief and horror than humour.

Charles, to his credit, had contained his surprise reasonably well, proving himself to be an attentive listener, only interjecting to ask questions such as “were you not using protection?” and “how did he seem?”. Max was glad he had confided in him drunkenly one night and told him about the agreement he had with George, it made explaining a little bit easier.

“So what are you going to do?” Charles asked, tipping the last of his beer down his throat, the empty bottle joining the two others on the table.

“I don’t know, mate,” Max ran an exasperated hand through his hair, trapped in indecision. “On the one hand, it’s my baby, you know? And yeah, we’re not in love or anything, but we could make it work.”

“And on the other?” Charles knew, but he wanted Max to talk it out with him.

“And on the other… My dad will never talk to me again, I will be a disappointment to him.” Sadness hung heavy on Max’s face as he picked at the label on his beer bottle, the condensation making it easy to curl up from the corner.

“Bro, forget your dad, he’s an asshole,” Charles’ tone left little room for argument, so plain and direct, “You cannot live in his shadow all your life, mon frérot, if you want to be there for George then you should be, fuck Jos and what he thinks.” His accent had become thickened, the way it always did when Charles was being passionate or sincere about something.

Max nodded with a sigh, his lips set tight and thin. He knew Charles’ words spoke sense, but that didn’t make it easier.

Charles clamped a friendly hand on Max’s knee, looking at him with eyes that held nothing but good intentions. “If the only thing holding you back is what your father will think then you should go for it. Think about it bro, but whatever you do, do it for you.”

“What if I am a terrible father?” Max’s voice croaked a little as he uttered something he had feared all his life. He had always vowed that he would never be like Jos, but his childhood haunted him.

Jos had never shown remorse for how he had treated Max, he always made it sound like he did everything for the benefit of Max, he bragged about how his cruelty had made Max into a world champion. He would never understand how much of a negative impression he had carved into Max, how terrified he was that he may turn into his father without realising it.

“I have seen you with Jimmy and Sassy, my friend, you could never be like Jos.” Charles said, putting voice to words Max hadn’t spoken, like he knew exactly what Max was thinking without him having to say it.

Charles gave his shoulder a squeeze, standing up, “One more beer?”

—
Max lay awake that night, flipping between what George, Jos and Charles had said. In the morning, Mercedes would announce George’s pregnancy to the world. The other teams would follow with their own perfectly worded social media posts. People would comment with both passionate enthusiasm and genuine cruelty. Part of him felt like he should be involved, though he had no right to think like that. It just seemed cruel that George should go through that alone.

He swiped his way through apps and web searches until his algorithm led him to a tailored Etsy ad. His stomach flipped in something resembling warmth and excitement as he added a couple of custom options to his basket before he could really think about it.

Subconsciously he acknowledged he had made his choice, but he couldn’t dare think about it too deeply yet, not without his heart pulsing with anxiety.

He hit ‘pay now’ and selected express delivery before he could change his mind.

When sleep finally took him, he dreamt of a bull, fierce in size but trapped by faceless butchers that held cameras instead of knives.

Chapter 5: A Start

Breaking News!

George Russell will not return to Mercedes for the 2026 season as the team made a sudden announcement just days before the start of the season!

The Mercedes team posted on their Instagram that Russell is carrying a child. A shock announcement and a first in F1 history. Russell will be replaced this year by rookie Frederik Vesti.

Russell has yet to make his own statement, but has been spotted “liking” the post made by his team.

While it has not yet been announced who the father is, fans are going wild with speculation.

See the full post by Mercedes below.

“The Mercedes-AMG PETRONAS Formula One Team is overjoyed to share a wonderful piece of news from within our #SilverFamily: George Russell is carrying his first child, who is expected in August 2026. We extend our warmest congratulations to him as he embarks on this very special journey.”

George skimmed the article, one of many popping off all over the internet. He didn’t dare to read the comments, just hit the heart icon wherever it seemed appropriate.

He felt like he was a stranger watching someone else’s life be broken down, it left him numb, the kind that makes your leg ache after the blood rushes back and every step is agony. His body hurt in ways he didn’t think it had any right to, not yet. His hips held a dull ache and he felt bloated despite his healthy breakfast.

He idly flicked his way through Netflix, not knowing what to do with himself. Most drivers would be training, in meetings, gearing up for 2026 as the excitement built around them. He supposed he should be preparing too, perhaps looking at carseat options and selecting the perfect crib. Alas, he just kept hitting the arrows on his remote, barely registering the synopsis before moving onto the next one.

His phone vibrated noisily on the table, and he almost ignored it, until he spotted Max’s name briefly appear at the top of the screen until it went dark again. He picked it up quickly, abandoning the telly remote on the sofa.

Max: Hey. Red Bull have called a meeting but I wanted to talk, can I come over later?

George stared at the oddly long and reasonably polite message; usually their messages were barely a conversation, limited to few words and an agreement of where to meet and what time they should arrive. This was different, new.

George: Do you even know where I live??

Okay, he could have been more polite, but it caught him off guard and he was having a rough day.

Max: You could send me your address?

Well, that would help. George sent off a pin and laid his phone down, unable to fathom what a text conversation with Max would actually be like, not these days. When they were younger they would text more, not often but enough that it didn’t feel awkward. Now it was stilted, like they were afraid to say too much so neither of them got the wrong idea.

George looked around his apartment, messy from his lethargy and desire to do as little as possible. With a sigh and a command to his Alexa to play some music, he stood and began to gather the laundry that hadn’t made its way to his machine yet, collecting the two cups that sat next to his bed as he went.

By 6pm his back ached and his head hurt but his home was back to being presentable and welcoming to guests, a candle burning on his coffee table filled the room with sandalwood and tonkabean, sweet and woody. Sweaty from his cleaning he glanced at his phone; no text from Max yet, so he took himself to shower.

Showering was always one of his favourite activities, hot water easing tired muscles as he lathered himself up with expensive bodywash. His hands swept over his stomach, still bloated and making him look heavier than he was. He allowed himself a quiet moment, hands cupped under the swell of his abdomen. Perhaps he was finally accepting the hand he had been dealt as his thumbs stroked gentle up and down patterns.

The cleaning had been a welcome distraction, it saved him from thinking too much except what to wash or dust next. But now, now his mind drifted back to Max and why he might be coming over. Was he coming to tell George he wanted nothing to do with the baby? George had mentally prepared himself for that, but hearing it might break him. He thought about Jos, and the way Max’s face had darkened while his father laughed on the phone. Laughed about George, no doubt.

And there was still the fear, the dread that if Max did want to be involved, he might be just like his father and George didn’t want that for his child. Max had a track temper, admittedly it had simmered through the years, but George had still seen it, the way Max’s eyes narrowed and his face hardened.

George turned the water off, smoothing his hands through his hair to get the worst of the damp off of it. Towel around his waist, he padded his way to the livingroom and checked his phone. The little WhatsApp icon showed in the corner. He pulled his screen down and swiped away most of the notifications; he didn’t want to deal with any of them right now. There was Max, 17 minutes ago.

Max: Meetings won’t end, can I still come over? Might be closer to 8pm.

George didn’t hesitate to type back.

George: Sure, just let me know when you’re on your way.

George sat his phone back down and went to get dressed. He felt too uncomfortable to wear anything too formal so he opted for a t-shirt and joggers; it’s not like Max was one to critique anyone’s fashion sense.

His stomach rumbled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten lunch. His fridge held little of interest, his cupboards even more depressing.

George: I’m ordering Japanese, do you want anything?

George sent the message before he could consider the implications. An olive branch, perhaps, disguised as chopsticks.

Max responded quickly, however, saying he was starving and giving George options to order for him. He also let George know the meetings were finally wrapping up, and he’d be over in about 30minutes.

George ordered way too much food, but fuck it, what was the point in being pregnant if you didn’t get to enjoy eating for two?

When his door chime finally went off, George opened it, surprised to see Max and his food order.

“You feeding an entire team?” Max huffed as he spoke over the cardboard box he carried. George held his hands out to help take some of it off him, but Max looked him up and down and refused to hand it over, brushing past him towards the kitchen island. George shut the door and followed him, watching curiously as Max started to unpack all of the styrofoam containers and metal trays.

Max moved effortlessly in his space while George watched him open things and sit them out once he had discovered the contents. Eventually he moved, grabbing plates and cutlery from his cupboard and drawer, helping to dish out the food. They didn’t really talk except to ask the other what was who’s, how much did he want on his plate at once.

Once they were both satisfied with their helpings, George briefly considered the dining table as an option before leading the way to the livingroom, taking his place in his usual spot and leaving Max to decide between the armchair and the space beside George. The sofa dipped slightly as Max sat down.

“Your place is nice,” Max commented, breaking the air between them.

“Thanks, though I think I might have to move,” George replied, poking at his plate with his chopsticks and picking up a bit of lobster tempura.

“Why?”

George sighed, holding up a finger for Max to wait for him to finish chewing before he replied. He swallowed, already diving back in for another piece, “It’s only one bedroom, no space for a nursery.”

And there it was, said, topic open for discussion.

Max laid his utensils down and turned a little towards George. “I would like to be involved with the baby, if you would be open to it.”

George’s stomach fluttered as he temporarily abandoned his tempura. “Are you sure? You’ve not had time to think, this could ruin everything for you. Your career, your reputation, your father-” George could have gone on, listed all the things he was sure Max hadn’t considered, but Max cut him off.

“What would you like me to think about? Yes, it was a shock, it still is, but I’m not an asshole.” Max’s face was serious but ernest as he waited for a reply.

“But your dad…” George tried to protest.

“Fuck him,” Max shrugged, like it was so simple. George doubted it would be simple at all. “I spoke to Charles last night, he said I cannot keep living in my father’s shadow, and he’s right.”

“You told Charles?” George asked, “What, everything ?”

“Well, I left out the details, but yes, should I not have?” Max’s brows drew together, as he tried to work out if he should have asked first.

“No, no it’s fine, I don’t mind.” George’s voice was tight with emotion, and despite his best efforts, tears gathered in his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Max asked, concerned as he edged just a bit closer, looking like he was stuck between comforting George and not wanting to overstep.

“Nothing, I just thought I was going to have to do this alone, which would have been fine, but it’s been terrifying, fuck I’m sorry,” George babbled between ugly sobs. God he would love to go one day without crying, he had been so close.

Max shuffled just a bit closer, until he could reach out and pull George’s face to his shoulder, arms wrapping around the Brit and comforting him the way Max wished he would have done the previous night. It still felt tense, but George leaned into the embrace anyway, getting Max soggy with tears.

Their plates lay abandoned on the coffee table as George muttered more apologies into Max’s tshirt, how sorry he was for getting them into this mess, for drama it would surely cause them both, for being a carrier in the first place.

Max was reassuring in his curt answers, his tone soothing in a way George had never heard before. Maybe this was the Max the rookies experienced when Max comforted them after incidents on track, guiding them with his experience and helpful suggestions.

“We will work it out, but you are not alone.” A tender kiss was placed to George’s temple as they parted, George finally crying himself out of tears.

“Fuck, I’m such a mess, sorry, be back in a minute.” George took himself to the kitchen sink to splash water on his face and used kitchen roll to dry his skin off. Any other time he would have balked at the mere suggestion that he use something so harsh on his skin, but he was too tired to care at that moment.

Max stared at him as he meandered his way back to rejoin him, and kept staring as he sat down.

“What?” George asked, slightly uneasy at the constant gaze.

“Are you sure you’re only fourteen weeks?” Max asked, eyebrow raised, smile tugging at his lips.

“Oh fuck you,” George laughed covering his stomach with his hand, “I’m just showing early, everyone is different.”

Max hesitated for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching in thought. “Can I feel?”

The question surprised George, but he took Max’s wrist and guided it to his tummy, “There’s not much to feel yet, no kicks yet, I just feel fat.”

Max was quiet as his hand explored the swell of George, thumb skimming over George’s tshirt, “Not fat, beautiful.”

And fuck if that didn’t bring George close to doing something stupid, torn between another hormonal outburst and kissing Max. Instead he placed his hand over Max’s, fingers interlocking as he leaned his head on Max’s shoulder, not caring that he was resting his head on the damp patch.

“We will make this work, George,” Max promised with a slight squeeze of his fingers.

For the first time, George let himself believe it would all be okay.

Notes:

BeltsAndBiceps writing comfort with minimal angst?! The world must be ending.

I hope everyone is enjoying this so far 💚

Chapter 6: Pasta and Sugared Tea

Neither George nor Max could have imagined the storm they would get swept up in. Formula 1 was a riot with speculation and rife with rumours. People were saying Toto was the father, that George was faking it, Mercedes were covering up for something more seriously wrong with George.

Meanwhile, George was contacted by countless magazines and media journalists, all desperate and hungry for more information from George. His answer to every question remained the same.

Did you know you could carry? Yes.

Are you excited to be a parent? Yes.

Can you tell us who the father is? No.

The week following the night Max came for his impromptu takeaway was a blur, each pulled into very different meetings and briefings, endless conversations about the upcoming season. They had had no time to see each other again, though they texted. Small things, little tidbits about what an idiot mechanic just said to Max or another stupid question asked by a journalist to George.

Max went back on the Tuesday before the start of the season. They had agreed that more talking would be good for them, allowing them to work out their next moves as a team. It made George smile to think of them as a team, Team Parents vs Team Fans and Team Media and every other group that might be against them.

George had cooked them up a pasta dish with a creamy tomato sauce and little bits of steak and mushrooms through it.

“My trainer would kill us both if he knew about this,” Max jokingly complained as he took a seat at the dining table while George plated up.

“Why both of us?” George asked, sitting a plate in front of Max then taking a seat with his own plate.

“You made it, it’s your fault if I get fat.” Max, despite his protests, twirled his fork around his plate and took a bite, making a happy little groan of contentment, “It is very good.”

“Well, it’s your fault I’m getting fat, so excuse me if I feel no pity for you,” George joked lightly, pointing his fork accusingly at Max.

Max actually dipped his head at the tease, trying to hide the blush that swept over his face, “Worth it though.”

“What, the sex was worth me getting fat or the food is worth you getting fat?” George questioned, picking up the smirk in Max’s voice. Dangerous territory but better than fighting or uncomfortable silence. 

“Both.” 

Oh god, was Max flirting with him? George couldn't deny he had missed the sex, but it was never something they talked about, not outside of hotel rooms. They didn't tease each other or speak this openly about it. They barely spoke at all unless it was work related, shared interviews and the like. 

“Are you flirting with me, Verstappen?” Brave question, said in mock horror, watching his reaction. 

“Maybe I am, Russell.” Max's knee bumped George's under the table, just a touch, “It is a Tuesday, after all.”

George groaned lightly, a pink flush going over his cheeks. “Eat your pasta, Max,” George deflected, stabbing a mushroom a little too firmly. 

Max let the conversation drop, but it hung there, like an invitation to a party that you knew you shouldn't attend because it would end up messy. Messy nights were always the most fun though. 

“I mean, I just don't think sex would be the best move for us right now,” George defended after a prolonged silence, filled only by forks touching plates.

Max hummed, chewing thoughtfully. “You might be right,” he paused, looking up at George through his lashes, “But it’s not like you can get more pregnant, right?”

George desperately wanted to know which alternate reality he had slipped into that led him to be eating dinner with Max Verstappen in his own apartment while Max flirted with him.

“We’re supposed to be working on our next steps, and you’re making it very difficult right now,” George told him, a little firm but not harsh. “All finished?” He asked, to switch the subject, standing to gather the plates.

“Let me do it, you cooked,” Max interjected, grabbing the plates before George could do it. George settled back down but shifted his chair to watch Max rinse off the plates and put them in the dishwasher. “You’ll have to let me cook next time,” Max told him as he dried his hands on a towel then hung it back up, exactly like George had placed it originally. “Tea?” He suggested, already flipping down the switch on George’s kettle like he’d done it a million times before. Except he had only done it once, last time he visited, once George was all cried out.

“Alright, where’s Max and what have you done with him?” George laughed, standing to grab his cup and a spare for Max, sitting them out on the counter.

“What do you mean?” Max leaned back against the worktop as George got out a spoon and fetched milk from the fridge.

It caught George slightly offguard. “I mean you’re being very kind.” Max frowned at him, “It’s nice, that’s all,” he shrugged, popping teabags into their cups.

“I’m not always an asshole, you know,” Max told him, sort of quiet, like he knew that’s how most people thought of him. He turned and lifted the kettle after it popped, pouring the water into the cups.

“I’m learning that,” George said, softly, reaching out to grab the sugar jar, “Will you tell anyone if I add sugar to my cup?” He usually tried not to have sugar in his tea, despite how much better it made it. Every calorie counted when training, and sugar was a bad thing.

“It can be our secret,” Max promised, taking the spoon once George had added his and taking a little half spoonful for himself. “My mum would make me sugary tea after I had been out karting all day,” Max admitted while pouring the milk in and stirring them both.

“My mum made ham and lentil soup.” It made George smile, to think back on it. It made him wonder just how similar their childhoods had been. George put the milk back and grabbed his cup, leading the way to the sofa where they took up familiar positions, though George didn’t press himself as close to the corner this time, tucking his legs to the side so he was angled towards Max.

“Are you still flying out with your team for the first race?” Max questioned as he sipped his tea.

“Yeah, I’ve to sort of coach Vesti and be there for media - Toto is still working on the details. It feels weird to not be racing though. I’m allowed to sim test, so that’s something at least. When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow afternoon, most of the team fly out in the morning, but they agreed to let me catch a later flight.”

George hummed and brought his hand to his tummy, a move he made so subconsciously that he didn’t realise he was rubbing small circles until he caught Max staring at him. “What?” Slightly defensive as his hand stilled.

Max sat his cup down, mostly empty save the dregs at the bottom, and shifted a little closer, “Would it be strange if I asked to feel it again?”

George let out a breathless chuckle, lifting his hand off, “Go ahead, I don’t mind.”

Max reached out, though the angle was awkward, and placed a hand where George’s had been. It wasn’t very comfortable for either of them. “Wait, let me just…” George trailed off, moving so he was side by side, their hips flush against each over. Max seemed to take the hint, lifting his arm so George could tuck himself under it. Once he was settled, though his heart thudded in his chest, he took Max’s hand and lifted his shirt, letting Max touch his skin.

To say the feeling was wonderful would be an understatement, George had barely been touched by anyone in weeks, and it had been months since he had felt something so intimate. Max rubbed gentle motions over the skin as they breathed together, both content in the silence, until Max spoke, so quiet George could barely hear him, “How long until it starts kicking?”

“A couple of weeks, according to Google.” George had thought he had felt a couple of flutters here and there over the past week, but nothing solid, nothing that he could feel from the outside. “I have my next scan next week, if you wanted to come along? It’s okay if you don’t though, just a suggestion,” he hurriedly tacked on at the end, not wishing to pressure Max into being more involved than he wanted to be.

“I would like that,” Max reassured him, giving George’s shoulder a squeeze. “Oh, I forgot, I brought something with me.” George reluctantly sat up as Max went to move off the sofa, already mourning how comfortable he had felt, how wonderful it was to have Max touch him in such a gentle way.

Max went to his bag and pulled out a little gift bag, grinning as he came back and took his seat, handing it to George. George took it curiously, reaching inside and pulling out two tiny babygrows. He burst out laughing when he looked at them.

“A Mercedes one and a Red Bull one? There’s no way my child will wear Red Bull, Verstappen,” George joked even as he turned them over, revealing their numbers and names, “Really, our names and everything?”

Max grinned at him, seeming quite pleased with George’s reaction, “They can alternate between the teams, keep it fair. Do you like them?”

“I love them, thank you.” Without thinking he leaned forward and pressed a chaste kiss to Max’s cheek, making them both smile shyly. Max brought his hand up, eyes searching as he cupped George’s face. It was a bad, terrible idea, but as Max leaned in just a little, George mirrored him, until their lips brushed, short and sweet and not nearly enough.

George pulled away reluctantly, his hands finding the babygrows again to distract himself. He didn’t miss the slightly disappointed look on Max’s face, but he tucked it away to unravel later. “I have to be up early, my flight is at 9am…” George let it hang, hoping Max would take the hint.

“Of course, I’ll let you get on with your night,” Max stood, with George following him to the door. “Thank you again for dinner. Next week, you could come to my place after the scan?”

“I would like that, see you around the track?” George asked hopefully, pausing before opening the door.

“See you around.” Max pulled him in for a hug, giving him a squeeze before letting go. George opened the door and stood for a moment, watching Max leave then closing it.

As he turned back to his flat, it felt a little more empty than it had done before, but the tiny Mercedes and Red Bull suits brought a smile to his face. He hadn’t bought anything for the baby yet, and knowing Max had bought them their first outfits made his heart melt a little.

Perhaps he had been wrong to worry about Max being the dad as much as he had.

Chapter 7: Parade

What George didn’t anticipate about being back in the paddock was just how crushing it would be. He was mostly there to show face, having little to do except perform interviews and offer any words of wisdom to Vesti that he could.

Drivers and people from every part of the organisation came up to congratulate him, with Charles’ whispering in his ear that he was there if George ever wanted to talk. George’s eyes had gone wide as he remembered that Charles was the only other person in the world that knew who George’s baby daddy was. Everyone was very happy for him.

Well, almost everyone.

Some people glared at him, stuck their noses up and pretended they didn’t see him. Jos Verstappen sneered at him and for a split second George was tempted to tell him everything just to see his face as he said it.

When Max bumped into him, he congratulated him coolly, but when they pulled together for a friendly shoulder to shoulder embrace, George whispered in his ear, “Congratulations to you, too,” making them both have to restrain their smiles. Max couldn’t stay longer, Jos hanging by close, his face disgusted, like he didn’t know why Max would even bother being friendly with someone so repulsive. As Max stepped away he let his fingers just ghost over George’s tummy, a touch that was barely there, but George felt it.

Race day, George was at the sidelines while Max was in pole, and George felt ever so slightly bitter. He pushed it away though, climbing onto a truck bed with Kimi and Charles while Max boarded another one. He barely felt he should be in the parade, but Toto had insisted. It was crowded, and George didn’t miss the way Charles and Oscar positioned themselves to guard him from too much shuffling.

They were barely a quarter way around the track when the murmurs started. It was slow, at first, journalists on the truck beds started looking at their phones, glancing at George, twisting to look at the other truck. A microphone was stuck in George’s face as a short woman with blonde hair asked him, “George, it’s just been leaked that Max Verstappen is the father of your baby, can you confirm?”

Fuck.

The next few moments passed in a blur, people called and yelled his name, asking questions. George’s eyes flew across the track and saw Max getting equally cornered. Time lost sense of meaning as drivers moved to form a barrier around George, stopping him from being crowded. Charles was by his side, though what he was saying in George’s ear barely registered.

“I need off this truck,” George panted through breaths he could barely take as his eyes lost focus, chest tight and constricting. He slid down until he was sitting, Charles sinking down beside him.

“We’re going back now, George, breathe in, and out with me.”

George tried to copy his breathing, but his own continued to be laboured as he saw a flash go off above him.

“Need Max,” George tried to communicate as the truck rolled to a stop. Drivers continued to keep a barrier around him, with Oscar jumping down ahead of him to help him down, gripping his hand tightly. Charles followed swiftly at his back. Together the two of them helped George, feeling like he could barely stand.

“George!” He heard his name be called, unmistakably by Max, the Dutch accent making him turn.

He didn’t even see Jos charge towards Max, not until he was in Max’s space, face like thunder while he cursed Max out in Dutch. People moved swiftly, pulling Jos away, drivers encircling Max as they had done George, protecting him.

“No son of mine gets a bitch pregnant!” Jos cussed out in English. It made George’s stomach lurch. Of all the things people had called him, no one had ever stooped that low, spoken that horrifically about him.

George was pulled away, heart still racing as he was guided to a small room with a couple of chairs. At some point Oscar had fallen away, leaving just Charles to sit him into a chair. The panic had fallen away, leaving his heart racing as he felt frozen, shocked, too stunned to move.

The door slammed open suddenly, making him jump as his eyes shot over to see an enraged looking Max, furious and breathing hard. He fell to his knees in front of George, clasping his own hands over his.

“George, are you okay? Is the baby okay?” His eyes pleaded for an answer, looking wild and terrified beneath his anger.

“How the fuck did it get out?” George whispered, “No one knew except us and…” His eyes darted to Charles, narrowed and accusatory, “You.”

“Hey woah,” Charles’ arms went up in defence, “Non, not me, my friend.”

Max glanced between them, “It wasn’t Charles, I trust him, someone else.”

George hung his head, realising he was being irrational. “Fuck, everyone knows, Max.”

“Shh,” Max soothed, “Ignore that, are you both okay?”

George pressed a hand to his stomach, checking it for tenderness. “We’re okay. What about you, your dad, what did he say to you?”

“Things I do not wish to repeat,” Max uttered, and looked as if he were about to say something when a knock sounded at the door. Charles got to it first, barely opening it an inch before confirming who was outside and letting them in.

Toto and Laurent Mekies entered the room, both looking stressed and frazzled. The room was getting crowded and Charles announced his departure, not wishing to interfere with proceedings. Max called out his thanks to him, which Charles met with a small dip of his head.

“What happened, Toto?” Max asked, turning to the Mercedes principle. He seemed to have calmed a little, but not by much.

“Footage was leaked of you both at a hotel, consecutive visits on Tuesdays. You spread out your timings but someone worked it out regardless. An anonymous staff worker gave an interview, we don’t know who yet.” Toto’s tone was so matter-of-fact and calm, and he turned to let Meikes speak.

“Max, the FIA have said you may be excused from this race, under the circumstances."

Max nodded, disappointment behind his eyes. “You should go, win it,” George encouraged, squeezing the hand that still hadn’t let his own go.

Max looked torn. “You sure? We could get on my jet and leave…”

“It’s the first race of the season, Max, do it and really fuck your dad over.”

“Jos Verstappen has been removed from the track,” Toto interjected, “The FIA are looking at what to do about future races.”

Max nodded, leaning down to kiss George’s hands then standing up.

“Alright, let’s win this race.”

Notes:

I have a headcanon for the reasoning as to why "bitch" is so offensive in this universe but I don't know how to work it in yet. Just know it's an awful thing to call someone.

Thank you to Live4StarWars who pointed out I had used Charles' name instead of George's at the end last chapter, whoops! Hopefully nothing like that has slipped through this time.

Chapter 8: Schatje

Max, predictably, won the first race of the season, the new Red Bull looking spectacular and unchallengeable with Max behind the wheel. George had watched from the Mercedes paddock, a staunch security guard not far from his side. He perhaps looked a little too happy to see Max win, with Toto chiding him good naturedly, “You’re not supposed to be happy when your team gets beaten.” George had had the good grace to look sheepish but he was still elated for him, for knowing that despite one of the worst things to have happened before a race, Max could put it to the side and come out first, a massive fuck you to the headlines and social media posts being written about them.

George stayed out of the way during the podium ceremony, answered his mum’s frantic WhatsApps and promised to call her when he was home. At some point a guy from their socials team approached him and asked if wanted to make a statement, to which he politely turned down, not wishing to say anything before he had a proper chance to talk to Max.

Max was less polite in his interviews and declined to say anything that didn’t involve the race, the sport or Red Bull. Even the tiniest comments about carriers, George or fatherhood were instantly shut down.

Max: I have to go to a couple of meetings, I won’t be out anytime soon
Max: What are your plans?

Truthfully George wanted to go home, he was so done with the weekend, it didn’t have the same glamour and sparkle when he wasn’t driving.

George: I’ll be on the next flight home, hopefully. Cup of tea and joggers so old and comfortable I wouldn’t be seen dead in them

Max: Okay, no problem

George sensed it wasn’t quite what Max had in mind, but fuck if he didn’t want to be curled under a blanket. He felt exhausted and as he shifted in his chair his back gave a twinge.

George: I wouldn’t mind if you saw them though
George: No laughing at me

Max sent back a series of laughing emojis and agreed to go to George’s when his flight landed.
—
The flight back to Monaco took far too long, and by the time George stepped foot inside his apartment he was ready to crash out for a week. He tiredly made himself a couple slices of toast, dragged himself for a shower and then curled up in bed. Sure, it was 8am and he knew he should fight through the jetlag but his bed was far too comfortable to resist.

He was only stirred awake by his phone vibrating noisily on his bedside table. He blinked one eye open, squinting at the name before answering.

“Hey,” was all that he could manage, voice rough from sleep and spending over twenty hours on a plane.

“You didn’t answer my texts, so I’m outside.” Straightforward and to the point.

“Fuck, sorry, one second,” George appologised, sitting up, “Give me a minute, I get dizzy if I stand up too quick.”

“Take your time.” Max hung up, leaving George perched on the edge of the bed until the spinning stopped. He carefully stood, still feeling disorientated and not knowing if it was morning or night.

Barefoot and barely more than a quick hand ran through his hair, he opened the door, Max leaning casually against the frame of it. He looked better than George felt, far too freshfaced for whatever hellish time of day it was, especially considering that he had had as long of a flight home as George.

Max just stared at him, mouth slightly open, until George finally realised he was shirtless, his pajama bottoms slung low on his hips and scooping under his small bump.

“Take a picture, Verstappen, it’ll last longer,” George teased, standing back to let Max into his space. Max visibly swallowed and stepped in, dropping his backpack at the door. “I’m going to put a shirt on, make yourself at home,” George waved at him.

“Do you have to?” Max called out after him, making George shake his head, determinedly ignoring him.

When he reemerged, more appropriately dressed, it was to see Max sitting two cups of tea on the coffee table. Max had used the same cup George had given him the two previous times. Maybe that made it Max’s cup now. Something about it made George’s chest do happy little pitpats.

“You are an angel,” George sighed, taking the cup once he had sat down. “How was your flight?”

Max shrugged, “I slept most of it, the meetings went on for a long time. They were talking about my dad’s role in the team, among the usual things.”

“Did they decide anything?” George asked, curiosity getting the best of him - it wasn’t really his place to ask about the inner workings of Red Bull.

“I asked to get him banned.” Max’s face was stern, emotionless as he spoke.

“Fuck, that’s like, a lot, are you okay?” George reached out, the hand not holding his cup lightly touching Max’s forearm.

Max shifted his arm, and at first George thought he was pulling away until their fingers interlocked. “I will be, I have more important things to worry about.”

George let the room go quiet as they both drank their tea, wondering if Max’s head was as buzzing as his own was. It had been less than a month since he found out he was pregnant and it had already been leaked. “I wanted to be able to do things on our terms,” he sighed, “I’m sorry I’ve caused so much shit for you, you should have walked away, and not get wrapped up in my mess.”

“I could have,” Max agreed, then gave his hand a squeeze, “But I told you, I’m not an asshole. We do this together.”

Together.

The word held more weight than George dared to think about. But Max was here, in his flat for the third time, drinking out of a cup that was now apparently his, and still not running away. That had to count for something.

He mused as he drank the rest of his tea, the quietness comfortable after the clamour of the paddock.

It was small at first, the first kick. His hand flew under his shirt to his tummy, feeling for it again. There it was, a tiny press against his palm.

“Max, Max, Max,” he said hurriedly, excitedly, as he practically threw his cup on the table and grabbed Max’s hand, pulling it to his skin.

Max’s eyes were wide, and for a moment they stayed like that, not moving, until the next movement came. “It’s kicking,” Max said, wonder in his voice. He sat his own cup down and shifted himself to be able to reach better. George moved with him, until his arm was wrapped around Max’s shoulders and Max’s head resting against his chest, each with a hand on George’s stomach, feeling for the little flutters and ripples under the skin. 

Maybe it was the hormones, maybe it was because George hadn't gotten any in months, too stressed to manage more than the odd solo session here and there. Even that had been about ten days ago. 

Whatever it was, when Max's pinky caught the edge of George's pyjamas by accident, it caused his breath to hitch. Max’s eyes caught his, his hand not moving, just the tip of his little finger brushing the sensitive underside of his bump. Max tipped his head back, eyes seeking for his next move. His hand moved, just a little, three fingers inside George’s waistband.

“Tell me to stop, and I will,” Max promised, not looking away from George.

George didn’t answer, instead giving up his reservations and throwing understandable caution to the wind, and leaned in to capture Max’s lips with his own. The movement, the tilting of George’s hips as he brought his hand to the back of Max’s neck, pushed Max’s hand fully into his waistband. George keened up to the touch, eager to feel Max’s hand on his rapidly hardening cock.

Even when George hadn’t missed Max, in the past, he had still missed the sex, knowing every second Tuesday he was sure to have the best fuck of his life. When the season ended, before George knew he was pregnant, they had had one last Tuesday together, with George not letting Max go until they had both cum twice. Though things were often heated, they threw barbs and insults at each other as they stripped, George loved the fight. The battle for dominance that he usually submitted to, but not without making Max fight tooth and nail for it.

Once, after Max had lost a race, he had grabbed Max’s hair and pushed him down his body, told him to do something he was actually good at since he was a shit driver. Max didn’t remove his mouth until he had swallowed George’s cum and George was begging him to stop, too sensitive for Max’s teasing tongue. Max had fucking him rough that night, while telling George how much he enjoyed looking down at him from a podium.

Their rivalry made their time together all the better, taking what they needed from each other, even if it meant leaving bruises or one of them sucking on a Soother on media day.

This was different though, Max moved deliberately, almost cautiously, his hand wrapping around George’s cock to stroke him to full hardness.

“My bed isn’t made,” George murmured into the kiss, making Max pull back a little, his hand stilling.

“Why does that matter?”

“Because we’re going there right now, and I don’t want you to judge me for rumpled sheets,” George informed him, giving Max the green light to pull him to his feet, the pair of them almost tripping over the coffee table in their hurry to get there. There was a rush, an urgency to the way they undressed each other, clothing landing in the hallway to George’s bedroom.

But there was a tenderness too, as Max paused to kiss him against the wall, leaving George breathless before they were moving again.

When they finally reached the bed, Max was gentle, opening George up carefully, not rushed and done as something that just had to be done to get onto the next step. No, this time he worked him open with slow fingers, reaching for the place that made George beg.

Max sought out a condom, but George asked him not to; he had always hated them, used only as a means to prevent… well, they hadn’t worked anyway. Max had agreed, telling George he could have whatever he wanted, and when he pushed inside, George moaned, pulling him in with the ankles he had wrapped around Max’s thighs.

They kissed as Max thrust into George, each achingly slow movement brushing over George’s prostate. For once they weren’t digging their nails into each other, now they clung to the other, touching as much skin as possible. They weren’t insulting each other, no, now they were telling the other how good he felt, how amazing he was.

When they were both spent, George cumming as Max stroked his cock in time with his movements, and Max spilling inside George, Max had cleaned them both up then falling back into George’s open arms. They were both sweaty as they held each other, Max tucked under George’s chin as George ran his fingers through Max’s hair.

“Will you stay tonight?” he asked into the quiet, no noise except their breathing. He held his hand still as Max tilted his head, pressing a chaste kiss to George’s lips.

“I would love to, Schatje.”

Notes:

I won't lie, I'm nervous about this one, but the response so far has been overwhelming, so thank you to everyone who has read thus far 💚

Chapter 9: Hormones

Travelling was more tiring than George remembered it being. The constant movement with short stints at home grated on him more than he remembered it had in the past. All he wanted to do was sleep until it was time for the baby to arrive.

Which was why, when his parents left, he shut the door and locked it with a very dramatic sigh, leaning heavily against the wood. “Thank fuck they are gone.”

“Oh come on, they weren’t that bad,” Max tried to placate him, wrapping his arms around George to pull him in for a cuddle.

“You only had to see them for a few hours,” George grumbled into Max’s shirt, “I had them for two days while my mum prattled on about how lovely it will be to have a grandchild and my dad gave me a history lesson on male carriers.” He welcomed the hug, even if they couldn't press quite as close together anymore.

“At least they seemed happy.” There was a sadness to it, and George knew it was because of the ongoing wreckage his dad had caused. Jos had been banned from future races and Max had filed for a restraining order, but it was causing Max all kinds of headaches.

George pulled away, pressing a quick kiss to Max’s lips. “They loved you at least, think my mum would have had you for herself,” he grinned, untangling himself from Max’s arms and moving to clear the dessert dishes that had been left on the dining room table.

Max came up behind him as he placed the plates in the sink to rinse them before putting them in the dishwasher. “Leave them, schatje, I can get them for you.” Max placed a kiss just below George’s ear, “Go get changed into your comfortable clothes.”

George couldn’t lie, the thought of his oversized sweatpants and a wellworn t-shirt sounded blissful; the button of his jeans was digging in something awful. “You’re a star, thank you,” he smiled gratefully, tilting his neck for Max’s lips, “Can’t move if you keep doing that, though.”

Max laughed and lifted his arms in surrender as he took a step back, allowing George the space to slip away to his bedroom.

Things between them had progressed considerably well, since the night they first felt the baby kick, since Max had stayed over. They had gone to George’s sixteen week scan the day after, after making a pitstop for breakfast in a quaint little cafe. They weren’t with each other every day, that was impossible with their careers, but they did try to spend some time together, always with the intention of planning their next moves, working from the same script when it came to the media and how they wished to be portrayed. They didn't put a name to it, what they were doing, just played each day as it came.

“Do you think we should find out if it’s a boy or girl tomorrow?” George asked as he walked back, stopping to shuffle the baby books his mum had brought and organising them into a neat pile, sitting them on the sideboard.

“Do you?” Came the reply as Max finished putting the dishwasher tab in the machine and pressing play.

George rolled his eyes, “I asked you because I wanted your opinion, not just so you could ask me back without answering.” He was tired, achy, and a little grouchy.

Max shrugged, turning off the kitchen light before joining George, “I don’t mind.”

“You don’t mind?” George echoed back incredulously, “So you don’t care if we paint the nursery the wrong colour? If we buy dresses and need to give them away? You don’t give a fuck if we end up loving a name and not getting to use it because we didn’t know what we were having?” Okay, maybe more than a little grouchy.

“Woah, George, that is not what I-” Max tried to defend, but George kept going.

“Maybe you would give a shit if the baby was a race car.” George knew he was pushing, unreasonable even to himself, but he had started now, and he didn’t know how to stop.

“That’s not fair,” Max told him firmly but keeping his voice even, “I meant I do not mind if it is a boy or girl.” Max took a risk, and reached out for George’s hand. George didn’t pull back so he continued, “I am just excited to have a baby with you.”

George’s shoulders sagged as he fell back against the sofa, rubbing his hand over his face. “Sorry, that was harsh of me,” he apologised quietly, giving Max’s hand a squeeze.

“I might forgive you,” Max’s voice held a hint of a smile.

“If?”

“If you give me a kiss.”

George rolled his eyes, Max’s playfulness working wonders on his foul mood. While not quite as graceful as he had been four months ago, he was still able to manoeuvre himself easily into Max’s lap, facing him as he rested on Max’s thighs, chest to slightly bigger chest. “What if I give you two?”

“If you give me two?” Max paused to think, thumbs brushing George’s hips, smiling devilishly at him, “If you give me two then I’ll bring you tea in bed in the morning.”

“Deal, Verstappen,” George agreed, canting forward to capture Max’s lips.

Max ended up getting way more than he bargained for. He would complain that George’s hormones were giving him whiplash, but when George had ridden him until they were both sweaty, sticky and spent… well he would never complain about that.

“I know what we should do,” he declared into the room as he combed his fingers through George’s hair. George hummed in interest to show he was listening. “We should get the… what is the person called, the baby picture person?”

“Sonographer?” George supplied helpfully.

“Yes, that. We should ask them to write down what the baby is, and put it in an envelope. If we want to know, we can open it, if not then we can leave it alone.”

George grinned into the dark, arching his head back to kiss Max, “That’s such a good idea, let’s do that.”
—
“Open it, I want to know,” George insisted, barely in the car after their appointment, slapping Max’s arm softly in excitement. The scan had shown the baby was cooking nicely, everything looked healthy. It always relieved George to know things were going as they should be.

Max laughed, hand going to his pocket that held the envelope. “Are you sure?”

“I can’t wait another twenty weeks, please can we open it?” He pleaded, doing his best doe eyes at Max.

“Not the eyes, schatje, you know I can’t resist those,” Max pretended to protest as his fingers toyed with the seal on the envelope. “Are you positive?”

“Ja,” George replied. He had taken to replying to Max in the tiny bits of Dutch he knew - which mostly came down to yes, no, please and thank you - but Max couldn't help but soften whenever he did. 

George watched as the paper was gently, carefully torn open by Max’s fingers until he could slide the little handwritten note out from it. 

Girl!

“Oh my god,” George half-whispered as he stared at the bit of paper. 

“A girl,” Max read outloud, voice full of emotion. 

They raised their heads up to look at each other, and George was surprised to see Max’s face crumple as he started crying. 

“Did you want a boy?” George asked, scared of the answer and completely misreading Max's outburst. 

“No, schatje,” Max twisted in his car seat until he could pull George in for a wet and tender kiss, “I am very happy we are having a girl.” 

George let Max bury his face into his neck. “Me too, Max.” Feeling brave in the moment, full of hope for the future, George tentatively asked, “Would you like to go out for dinner tonight? Celebrate?” 

They hadn't done that, and sometimes George wondered if he was doing things backwards, going from fuckbuddies, to pregnant, to now, shyly asking Max out on a date. 

Max pulled away, eyes red-rimmed but happy, a smile making his eyes crinkle. “Only if I get to pick you up,” he agreed, much to George’s delight.

“Deal.”

Chapter 10: Home

Max, in true Max-style, had shown up to pick up George in his Valkyrie, a car George had always found absolutely stunning. He had asked Max if he was trying to impress him, to which Max smirked and said “maybe”.

Clambering out of the thing was more of an issue, George feeling very ungraceful with his added bulk. Max had held out his hand to help, not laughing or judging, just supportive. George hadn’t let his hand go until they reached the table.

At dinner they mostly tossed baby names between them, some serious, some not so much. Georgina and Maxine were instantly ruled out while they laughed into their starters. George found himself often lost staring at Max, surprised by how easy the first public date was.

It probably helped that he was already pregnant with Max’s kid.

“Would you like to come back to mine?” Max asked, as George handed his card over to the waiter to pay for dinner. They had bickered over it, both wanting to pay, until George had threatened to tell the baby that her daddy was Zak Brown. 

“That sounds nice, I haven't met your cats yet,” George agreed. They had always spent time at George's apartment, which he never minded, it was better than the blank and impersonal hotel rooms they used to meet in. 

“Before we go home, I want to show you something,” Max told George as he held the door open for George to get into the car. He was perfectly capable of getting his own door (it was just getting out was an issue), but he couldn't deny that he admired the display of chivalry.

“What “something”?” He questioned once Max was beside him, pulling his seatbelt on. 

“It's a surprise.” There was something nervous about Max, quiet on the drive, looking deep in thought as he took them out of the city, until the high-rise buildings shrank, becoming villas and grand houses. 

They pulled up to such a place, with its large gate open, welcoming them in. 

“What’s this?” George queried as Max helped him out. Max didn’t answer, just led the way. A man stood in a suit, clipboard in hand. 

“Mr Verstappen, pleasure to see you again. Here are the keys, take your time looking around, I'll be here for any questions you may have.” The suit told Max in a Monégasque accent, handing over a set of keys, and George had to wonder about the “again” part. 

“Merci, Alain,” Max replied, turning to George. “Come on, schatje,” Max beckoned, taking George by the hand. George was, understandably, very confused, but followed Max into the strange house. It was immense, clean in a modern way, white walls layered with tasteful art.

“Max,” George stopped him, tone probing, curious, “Who’s house is this?”

Max looked a little sheepish, shy and unsure, “I thought it might be nice for the baby to grow up with a garden to play in.”

George stared at him, dumbstruck to silence. Was Max suggesting they move here?

“Let me show you the house, then you can tell me what you think, call me Mad Max if you want to,” Max insisted, proceeding to drag George around. Every room held the same polished look, impersonal like it was for show rather than living in. George began to imagine how he could change things here and there, make it look like it belonged to someone.

“And this room could be the nursery,” Max explained as they found themselves in another beige room. There was a large bay window with a padded seat under it; George could see himself sitting there reading to their little bean.

George stepped further in, surveying the space. “It would need to be decorated,” he mused, doing a slow turn. It certainly had potential.

“Big bull mural on the wall?” Max teased, stepping up to George and placing his hands on George’s hips.

“Absolutely not,” George scoffed, resting his forearms on Max’s shoulders. “Our princess doesn’t like bulls.”

“Oh is that right?” Max quirked an eyebrow, tilting his head back a little to look up at George.

“Mmhm, she told me,” George leaned forward and kissed Max on the lips.

“So, is it a yes?” Max asked, voice full of hope.

“It’s a “show me the rest of the house”, then we can talk about it.” Max’s face fell a little, but George cupped the sides of it, “It’s not a no, either.” That earned him a smile and another kiss. “Now show me which room you want to put your sim rig in, I know you’ll have picked one already.”

Max had, of course, had a room in mind for his rig, but he pointed out it was big enough for two to go in side-by-side. George was touched that it was something Max had considered.

All in all the house was suitably impressive, and George could see himself making it into a home.

“What did you think, sirs?” Alain asked as they rejoined him outside, Max handing back the keys. Max turned to George, giving him the opportunity to voice his opinion.

“It’s very nice, spacious,” George complimented, then cast a glance at Max, “And you’re sure you’ve thought about this?” Part of him worried it was a bit quick, too sudden, but their baby wasn’t going to wait for them, half their time was already gone and they were now on the downwards slope towards her arrival.

“Your apartment is not big enough, you said so yourself,” said plainly, like it was the obvious solution.

Alain looked between them expectantly, waiting for an answer. George gave a nod to Max, deciding to throw caution to the wind. “Fuck it, let’s do it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” The word bubbled in his throat, overcome with emotion, of pure elation. A few months ago he thought his life was ruined, beyond all repair. Now, now he felt like he was living for the first time, life no longer controlled and segmented into blocks of race, work out, race, couple days at home, get fucked, race and repeat until winter break.

He couldn’t believe it was all down to Max Verstappen and a broken condom.

Max pulled him in tight, letting him work out his emotions while apologising for being silly, he was just so fucking happy that it was all going so damn well. He wasn’t spending most weekends anxious about losing, of being a disappointment.

It was freeing.

“You good?” Max asked as George pulled away.

“Yeah, I’m good. Sorry, hormones,” George directed wetly to Alain.

Alain chuckled and held out a packet of tissues, which George took gratefully, “I remember it well when my husband was carrying, I don’t envy your own husband.”

“Oh we’re not-”

“He’s not my-”

George and Max both went to start, then turned to look at each other, half horrified and half finding it hilarious.

“Ah, my mistake, sirs, I should not have assumed,” Alain rushed to apologise but Max clapped him on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry about it. Now, we would like to buy this house…”

They went back into the house to fill out the paperwork needed to put in an offer, though George spent most of it staring at the walls, imaging trophies and baby pictures on shelves not built yet.

He could make it a home for all of them.

 

Chapter 11: Beautiful

Notes:

Slight warning as this goes a little into the sad history of male carriers.

“This is bloody ridiculous,” George complained as he looked in the mirror. His racing suit was pulled taught over his bump, fabric stretching and distorting sponsorship logos. “I’m not even racing, why do I have to wear this shit for the parade?”

Max gave him the fond look of a long-suffering lover, “Leave it open, hardly anyone zips theirs up for the parade,” he suggested, coming up behind George and wrapping his arms around his middle, resting them on the bump. He tilted his head to the side to see - too short to rest his chin on George’s shoulder. “If it helps, I think you look beautiful.”

“I would look better in my apartment where strange men are currently boxing up my entire life and are likely to smash a trophy or pocket a watch,” George snapped back, instantly feeling guilty. He sighed and closed his eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t sleep well again,” he explained, leaning back slightly against Max.

“More bad dreams?”

“Yeah, always the same.” George was having recurring nightmares that his baby was fully grown, its limbs stretching George’s skin like thin rubber, pushing at his rib cage and crushing his lungs, his uterus contracting with no way to push the child out. He dreamt nameless men approached him with knives and cruel instruments to cut the baby from him while he begged them not to do it.

It was once the reality of male carriers, the chance of surviving a caesarean was so low, so dangerous, that it was considered foolish to risk the chances. Laws were put in place to prevent such things happening. There was no way to know who might be a carrier, so King Henry VIII outlawed all acts that might lead to "unnatural conception”. George couldn't help but think about the good men that had died for their children.

“You know it will be fine, schatje, you’re in safe hands with your medical team,” Max soothed, pressing a kiss to George’s shoulder. His hand reached up to the zip at George’s throat and pulled it down, freeing George from the tight confines until the zip settled under George’s tummy. “Let them all see how beautiful you look.”

George huffed a laugh, looking at Max in the mirror, “You called me that once as a joke, do you remember? On the Red Bull fan stage.”

“It wasn’t a joke, I have always found you to be beautiful.”

George turned in Max’s arms, “Is that so?” His tone was teasing, flirtatious as he fished for more sweet words.

“I just didn’t know how to tell you, before,” Max shrugged.

They had talked about how things were before, the way they treated each other so coldly, even when Max had George bent over hotel dressers or pressed him into overstarched sheets. George occasionally felt guilty, and a bit mournful that it took him getting pregnant to bring them together properly.

“And now…?” George asked, his fingers tangling in Max’s hair.

“And now, I love you,” Max stated confidently, the first time the words had been uttered between them. It made George’s stomach do happy little flutters - though that could have been kicking. Either way he was elated to hear the words leave Max’s lips, and pulled him in for a crushing kiss.

“I love you,” George replied when they fell apart, cheeks flushed and a smile so big it hurt his cheeks a little.

A small knock came at the door, “five minutes!” called through the thin wood.

“Thanks!” George shouted back before covering his mouth. “Whoops, forgot this wasn’t my room,” he half-whispered.

Max laughed, stepping back to get himself ready, “I don’t think they will mind.”

George pulled the arms of his suit down as Max had suggested, letting it hang by his sides. Max eyed him up and down, “Think you could wear that at home, sometime?” He suggested, playfully.

George drew him a look and rolled his eyes. “Whatever gets you off, Verstappen.”
—
George needed to piss, badly, and they were only half way around the track. Max wasn’t by his side, busy getting interviewed, and Kimi was pestering him with questions about being pregnant, his eyes wide and curious.

“Is it rude if I ask to feel your stomach?” The little Italian asked.

“No, you can, but thank you for asking,” George laughed, taking Kimi’s hand and holding it to his tummy where the baby was kicking, “Just don't press hard, I really have to take a leak.”

“Woah, that’s crazy,” Kimi exclaimed, his touch gentle as the baby reacted to it.

Max chose that moment to reappear, hooking an arm over Kimi’s shoulders. “Hope you’re not trying to steal my man, Antonelli,” he joked, making Kimi pull his hand away quickly.

“Down boy,” George laughed, settling Kimi’s nerves by tapping Max on the arm. “Your rookie was just curious.”

“My rookie, he's your teammate, mate,” Max chuckled, ruffling Kimi's hair. 

“Yes but we all know how much you love the rookies.” 

They were completely oblivious to anything happening around them, as almost comically, the other rookies started to gather around them, along with Charles, who leaned in close to Max. 

“You know the fans joke that young Kimi here is the child of divorce between you two, perhaps he is no longer?” 

Max shot a glance at George. He stood tall with a hand balanced on his stomach, talking animatedly with Kimi and Isack. He was fucking glowing in a way Max had only read about.

“Perhaps you are right, brother.”

Notes:

Just a short one today as it felt natural to stop. Going away to Amsterdam for a few days in the morning so updates might be slow, thank you everyone that's still with me 💚