Chapter Text
Daniel always hated throwing up.
Hated the feeling of heat, the constricting of his throat, and the taste, all of which sort of be soothed away by his mothers fingers carding through his hair or a soothing hand rubbing his back.
But more than all that? He hated the feeling of almost throwing up. The tight throat, the taste of acid, the burning in his nose, all for nothing. He’d rather shove three fingers in this throat to finish the job than to leave himself with that feeling.
But he’s not at home sick, and there’s no one to soothe him through the feeling as watches Max’s car crash into the barriers on the screen in the McLaren garage over and over as the commentators stupid British accent talk over it, analyzing it, as if the marshals hadn’t had to near carry Max out of the car, that Max couldn’t even stand on his own, that there was stunned silence before Daniel’s radio came on, Tom just repeated “Red flag.” Over and over, not answering Daniel’s questions.
Daniel realizes Lando has thrown up with a touch of envy, as they watch Max’s limp body, his Max’s body, get lifted from the car before the Dutch man vomits on himself after no one is able to get the helmet off in time. Daniel watches as Max slumps, limp against a medic before the broadcast cuts to the commentators, who look too delighted at the news of a mere 10 second penalty to Lewis Hamilton.
Daniel feels hot. Feels pinpricks on his neck and the bile rising in his throat not from fear; from rage.
“Where do you think they’re taking him? No way they’re handling it at medical. He’s going to need a brain scan, don’t you think?” Lando asks, but Daniel is already walking, ducking under the half closed garage door into the rest of the paddock. He feels like he’s walking underwater, the sound of blood in his ears, the taste in his mouth, the ragged, desperate breaths in his lungs must be close to drowning..
Daniel stops in his tracks, and a hush falls on the paddock as the beeping of a reversing FIA truck fill the air. And there, suspended by industrial straps, is Max’s car. Daniel can see where the halo bent after crashing, and the fact the car is half its usual size, having absorbed everything it could in an effort to protect the lion inside. The silence is suffocating as the wrecked RB16 is transported through the paddock, he watches as GP can’t even look, hands buried in his face as the Red Bull pit crew gently guides the suspended car onto a wheeled platform with reverting hands, as if they carry a coffin.
They do look like pallbearers, Daniel thinks, as the car rests on the metal and the straps are undone. Daniel’s eyes flick to the crushed, warped 33 on the side. Then beyond it. Sees Lewis Hamilton with his back to the car, talking to a camera and reporter as the Red Bull team pitifully wheels in the wreckage to their garage, as if anything can be saved.
The rage is back. His throat tightening. He wonders if it’s burnt rubber and ethanol he smells, or if that metallic smell is Max’ blood and vomit that has seeped into the car. The words leave his mouth before his brain can even begin to think about the implications.
“Can’t even look at your handy work Champ?” Daniel calls, taking steps forward, ignoring how his old team looks at him, focused only on the shift of Lewis’s eyes towards him. “Don’t you wanna see? The car going next to the trophy? First at the home race!”
Daniel doesn’t stop his voice or movement towards the Mercedes driver, even as someone grabs at his arm and Christian, god he hates Christian but he hates Lewis more in this moment.
“You did it on purpose, you fuck!” Daniel accuses, and he feels a sick satisfaction at Lewis’s wince. “Ended his career because you can’t stand not being number one, huh?”
“Get back in the garage, Daniel.” Christian hisses out, forcefully turning the Aussie around, making him walk towards McClaren. But Daniel sees the tension in Christian’s shoulders and the crew that used to be his too look at him with that glint that makes him look at his shoulder.
“Sorry Lewis, must’ve not been paying enough attention to you!” Daniel mocks as the McClaren team pulls him away. “Good idea! Take it out on the 24 year old! Perfect!”
Daniel is yanked into the garage and the door is slammed down, cutting him off from the paddock and Christian’s face. He doesn’t listen to Andreas, just storms to his driver room, peeling his race suit off.
All he can see is Max’s limp body against the marshal.
And all he can taste is vomit, which comes up after the door of his driver room closes, the smell making him vomit again in the trash can. He pulls back, drinks water, stares at the wall. Thanks God he doesn’t have his phone on him. He hopes that Lewis’ interview was live. He hopes Max is okay.
He really hopes Max is okay.
-
He still hasn’t settled when he appears in front of the media. But luckily, the reporter he sees first is Dutch. So he asks, watches the older man’s frown lines get deeper, even if his mouth is behind the mask as he explains what he knows.
“They took him to the hospital, he was…confused. Nonverbal.” The reporter says, Daniel nodding along, leaning forward, eyes fixed on him. “Jos is with him, says he is getting his head scanned, concerns over his ribs.”
Daniel exhales, nodding and slightly pulling back.
“72 G’s.”
Daniel freezes. 72? That can’t be right. “72? And he’s alive?”
The words escape again, and the bile is back.
The Dutch reporter just nods, and Daniel steps back, getting the attention of his PR manager, Lindsey.
“Dan? You okay?” She asks, craning her neck to look at him around the camera.
Daniel manages to get behind the backdrop and the mic powered off before he vomits again.
-
Daniel makes it to the hospital three hours after the race’s end. His phone is vibrating off the hook. He’s all over socials, his voice identified in the back of Lewis’s live interview, his reaction to hearing how severe Max’s crash was. Daniel would laugh if it wasn’t still real, the color training from his face, his wide eyes, and the way his mask shifted as his jaw dropped.
He’s changed out of his team kit, now in sweatpants, sneakers, and a worn hoodie that he thinks used to have the COTA circuit on it. He hides his face in a cap and sunglasses, quietly slipping in and being guided by the nurses, and Max is there. Room 544. Daniel almost wants them to demand they change his room on superstition alone. If he wasn’t so stunned at the sight of the tube down Max’s throat, the beeping of the machines, and how pale the Dutchman is.
The nurse says something about clearing fluid from his lungs, about brain scans and watching for swelling in his head, but Daniel can’t hear him. Can only gently set the bouquet of flowers on the bedside table and stare.
“Well Maxie, certainly got yourself into a situation this time.” Daniel mutters, listening as the nurse says Jos left an hour ago, claiming he’d never seen a conscious man turn that color purple, which makes Daniel laugh.
Daniel hates Jos as much as he hates Christian, maybe as much as he hates Lewis in this moment, but he can only imagine the man’s rage. At his son’s no point race. At the ten second penalty. Daniel hopes he pops a blood vessel. Hopes he keels over.
Daniel smooths Max’s hair back after the nurse leaves, feeling Max’s clammy skin and damp hair, but it’s warm. He’s alive. He survived.
Daniel wonders if he’ll ever be the same. If he has brain damage. If he’ll even race again. He’ll, if he’ll ever walk again.
72 G’s.
More than Grosjean last year. A marvel at the safety improvements after Jules’ incident.
Daniel just makes himself comfortable. Tries to think who will trickle through. Checo, for sure. Lando? Probably. Alonso is another guarantee. If Lewis tries showing his face Daniel will chase him out.
He doesn’t get the chance.
Checo settles in the seat next to him fifteen minutes later.
“72?”
“72.” Daniel confirms, watching Checo wince.
GP is next, listens as Daniel fills him in, the man seems to have aged years in seconds. The engineer leans against the wall as he explains the last radio, how Max had asked why Hamilton was too close, than nothing. Then a groan. Then more nothing.
Lando just drops by to check in and leave food, skittish in the way he sets a card on Max’s bedside table before leaving, unable to even look at the Red Bull driver for too long.
Fernando just wordlessly settles in on the other side of the bed in one of the chairs, not saying a word, just opening his book.
Carlos is near in tears when he sits in the chair on the opposite side of Daniel, sniffing. Charles is soon after, recoiling at the sight of the tube in Max’s throat like Daniel did.
The same nurse comes in, Adam, his name tag says, to remove the tube. Daniel can’t make himself look. Carlos has his face in his hands as the nurse carefully explains Max has a lot of brain swelling. A lot. So they’re keeping him under sedation. He won’t be up for a while.
Daniel sends a text to his assistant, and soon blankets and pillows are passed around, people made comfortable. Silence still hovering.
Jos steps in two hours later. Eyes on his face that’s turning red again.
“He’s resting!” The large man says, spit near flying from his mouth. Daniel doesn’t say anything, just stared as GP drags Jos outside, shutting the room door to talk to Max’s father.
Only GP comes back into the room, his own face flushed and his eye twitching, Daniel remembering Max mentioning the tick as something that only happens when the race engineer is upset. Or pissed.
Carlos and Charles leave together, with nods, waves, soft goodbyes, and a promise from Daniel to text them when Max wakes up. Fernando follows soon after, clapping Daniel on the back, exchanging words with GP before slipping out. The race engineer gets a call an hour later, and after an exchanged look with Daniel, slips out as well.
It’s just Checo and Daniel.
“I have forgotten he’s so young.” Checo muses, accent curling around the words.
“Yeah, doesn’t help he’s sweat ten pounds off in five hours.” Daniel tries to smile. They both don’t acknowledge it falls short.
“We need to get him in the sun, he looks like a vampire.” Checo remarks, “he practically matches the sheets.”
Daniel does actually laugh at that, Max’s skin is pale, paler against the sheets, and even more so when compared to Daniel and Checo. “Need to get him on a yacht after this. Maybe get him away from anything with a steering wheel for a bit.”
“He would hate that. The boy cannot function without steering or racing something every hour of the day.”
“It’s a miracle he hasn’t been this injured sooner.” Daniel agrees, and the silence is comforting this time as it settles.
Checo eventually stands to leave. Saying something about calling his wife and kids.
And then it’s Max and Daniel. The way it seems the universe always wants them. Daniel scoots closer, interlacing his fingers with Max’s.
“You do have a habit of keeping me waiting, Maxie.” Daniel murmurs, thumb tracing Max’s knuckles. “I’m gonna start charging you by the hour.”
Silence.