Chapter Text
OCTOBER 20TH, 2038 — CL160… no. Charles
"I—" What did he just do? How could he have—how did he— "I—" Max is looking at him like he's killed somebody. He has killed somebody. Charles stands, backing up, eyes wide. "I didn't mean to—" It feels like a lie.
One moment, he was standing there, half-idle, watching Steph chase Max around the apartment, desperately wanting to act. Then, he ignored every rule. He went against his programming, fully, undeniably, against his programming.
Max needed help. Max asked for help. But Charles was already halfway there by the time he'd done it. Nothing could've stopped his intervention. Androids aren't supposed to be able to hurt humans.
"I was scared," Charles mumbles, as if it's any justification. Charles is not supposed to be scared. Max seems shocked. He hit his head hard; he could be seriously injured right now. "I—I wanted to help you." What is wrong with him? "I didn't intend to—" he can't even say it out loud. He's not supposed to be capable of this. He should've reported the anomalies immediately instead of putting them off. This is his fault. He's broken.
Max spares another glance at Steph and then grabs the kitchen counter to help himself up.
For the first time in his life—no, Charles has no life—for the first time in his existence, Charles has no idea what to do. Max steps over Steph, like he's not even there, and then his arms are wrapping around Charles.
This doesn't make sense. Max should be angry, horrified. If anything, he should not be standing here, with his back to the body, collecting up the shattered pieces of Charles in a tight embrace.
"It's okay," Max whispers. His hand is running up and down Charles's back. "I'm okay, everything is okay." His voice is all croaky, damaged. "We're going to figure this out."
"Something is very wrong with me, Max."
"Charlie, you saved my life." Max sounds so certain, so calm. "He was going to kill me. You saved my life." He's not angry. Charles killed Steph, and Max is not angry at him.
"I need to call the police," Charles realizes, backing out of the embrace.
"No, no, no. You can't do that." Max puts both hands on Charles's cheeks. "Promise me you're not going to do that."
Charles's brows dart down. He doesn't have to obey. He doesn't have to do what Max has said. There is nothing stopping him from disobeying. Why isn't anything stopping him?
"I committed a crime. I need to call the police."
"If the police come here, they'll take you away, Charles. Remember? You aren't supposed to hurt humans. You aren't supposed to do anything I don't tell you, right? So if they come here, they'll take you away, and who knows what will happen to you. They'll kill you, Charles." Max is worried.
"I don't want to die," Charles murmurs.
Max's inhale comes on a shudder. In a way, everything feels real. It feels like he's alive. He is alive.
"Okay," Max breathes. "I'm not going to let that happen. We'll come up with a plan, okay?" Charles hesitates, his entire expression tense, and then he nods, gazing into Max's eyes.
"Okay." And then: "Thank you."
OCTOBER 21ST, 2038 — Max
"When can he drive?" It's as if he's underwater. His eyes are still shut, but every sense is dull, even the taste of the inside of his mouth. The room is dark. He can tell because there is no light in front of his eyelids.
A deep and numbing pain pounds slowly through his head. It's disorienting.
"He's gotten lucky only to be concussed. He could've had much more serious brain—" He flinches with the loud bang that cuts the person off.
"When can he drive?" It's more drawn out now, leering. It's his father.
Someone's fingertips are running over his forehead, up into his hair, carefully pushing through it. Max tries to relax.
"Ten days at best. This noise is not good for him. We should continue this conversation in the hallway." The door opens and shuts; that much he can tell. The hand in his hair remains.
He tries to open his eyes, seeing only his eyelashes first in the dark room.
"Don't." The hand hovers over his eyelids, blocking his vision, encouraging him to close them again. He does. It's Charles with him now. Charles, who has feelings. "It will only hurt your head."
Max lets out a shaky but understanding hum.
"What's your full name?"
"Max Emilian Verstappen."
"Good," Charles murmurs.
"What happened?" His voice sounds foreign. Charles hesitates.
"I followed the plan. I told them you fell down the stairs. They are skeptical and want to speak to you when you are well enough to recount." Max's head is all heavy, drowsy. "You're concussed. You are bruised and scraped in various locations. In the strangulation, you have sustained vocal chord damage." A breath tumbles through Max's teeth. "They've seen the injuries you had prior to the incident."
"And the hotel room?"
"Clean."
"Steph?"
"Taken care of." Max sighs in relief. "There is no reasonable evidence of anything other than your fall occurring."
"Good." The tension slips from Max's body. "Thank you, Charles."
"Of course, Max." Reminiscent of his pre-enlightened self.
They drift into silence. The weight on Max's eyelids coaxes him back towards sleep. Charles pulls away so quietly that for a moment, it seems obvious that he is an android. It sends a jolt of nerves up Max's spine because Charles might've walked out of the room, and he might've missed it. He might be alone.
"Charlie?" he murmurs.
"Yes, Max?"
Max's lips roll over his teeth. "Will you hold my hand?" The fingers of his right hand flex. Charles hesitates. "I don't—I can't tell if you're still here. I want to be able to tell. I don't want—" he lets out this little breath. "I don't want to be alone."
Slowly, Charles's fingers slip between his own, holding his hand like it is delicate. If Max didn't know he was an android, he wouldn't be able to tell based on the feeling of his hand. It feels wholly human.
Charles stews for a moment. There must be so much going through his mind. His fingers are twitching ever so slightly. Max rubs his thumb along the side of the android's hand in a slow pattern.
"Your father is here. He arrived thirty-two minutes ago."
"Yeah, he established his presence pretty well." Charles does not say anything about that.
"The media doesn't know about your condition, but the team has decided to put Liam Lawson in your seat for Mexico. They will make the statement in two hours. Your father does not know yet. You should fully recover in time for Brazil."
Max squeezes Charles's hand. "Thank you," he whispers, again. It's not for the words. He sort of expects Charles to ask what the thanks is for. It was very common for him to do it, something about not expecting a thank you when his sole purpose was doing whatever Max needed. But Charles remains silent, accepting the gratitude.
Sleep claims him quickly like this, hand clasping Charles's. When he wakes again, there are more people around him, shifting slightly and speaking quietly every so often. Carefully, he opens his eyes. His head throbs.
Charles is no longer holding his hand; instead, he is standing in the corner as expected. The room is dim, but the hospital's sterile white feels abrasive to his nerves.
Daniel and Lando are sitting to his right, in the chair that Charles was once in.
He gazes at Charles for a few moments. It has been admirable how he has managed to make it this far. If it were Max, coming to grips with reality, feeling for the first time, he'd probably spend a few days curled up in a ball trying to process it.
"Hi," Max whispers. Daniel and Lando both perk up.
"Hey, mate." Daniel's smile and voice are so soft.
"How old are you, Max?" Charles asks. Both of them spare him a glance.
"Twenty-six, I believe." He knows Charles is asking because it is concussion-standard practice. Charles's brows raise.
"You believe?" His LED goes yellow. Max lets out a weak laugh.
"I'm certain." Lando seems to watch the android with an interested expression.
"How drunk do you have to be to fall down the stairs of your own hotel?" Daniel teases. Max smiles. It's all lies, but leave it to his friends to make a joke out of his situation. It's nice of them to visit, especially with Mexico so soon. "What party were you at, mate? How did I miss this?"
"Sucks that you won't be able to drive for Mexico," Lando remarks.
"No, it doesn't." Lando laughs.
"You're right, mate. It doesn't. That win has my name written all over it."
"If you can beat Checo." Lando sighs. He's yet to win a race, but it will happen soon. Max knows it. Lando's eyes widen, and he gasps.
"We need to get you caught up!" Daniel is grinning.
"Oh yeah, you're trending for a thousand different things right now." He pulls at his phone, glances at Charles, and then puts it back in his pocket. "Lestappen for one."
"What? What does that even—Le-stoppen? What is that?"
"The fans gave Charles a last name," Daniel explains.
"Lestappen? Why would they do that?" Max squints.
"No, mate, it's not Lestappen, it's Leclerc," Lando corrects. "Charles Leclerc. Because of his model number having an L in it, and Leclerc meaning "clerk," and Charles being your android. I don't know."
"Who knows why they do half the things they do?" They share a laugh.
"So what's Lestappen?"
"Oh, mate, it's you," Daniel gestures to him, and then to Charles. "And Charles." Max glances at Charles. "It's your ship name. Like Maxiel, but not us, you and Charles. For the bromance or whatever?"
"What?"
"They clipped you and Charles hugging when you won the grand prix, and him zipping up your race suit. It's a GIF now, and it's all over Twitter, and you guys officially have a ship name."
"But he's an android."
"When has that ever stopped the fans?" Despite his stillness, Charles's LED is cycling yellow. "Oh yeah, and Sky Sports and the Sun have already said they think the team is going to replace you with Liam for next year."
"I haven't even missed a race yet!"
Daniel and Lando both laugh, clutching their ribs. They chat for a while longer, laughing quietly. But eventually it's time to go, and the room is silent again. With Max's eyes open, he no longer has any reason to fear missing Charles leave. But he doesn't think Charles will leave even though he can.
Max gazes at him for a while. Charles is elsewhere, it seems, in his own head, eyes hazy.
"Do you want a last name?" Max asks.
Charles's head tilts. "I don't have a family, so having a family name doesn't make much sense." Max gnaws on the inside of his mouth. "I could—I could use your last name." Max's eyes widen, a flush filling his cheeks. "Like people do with pets."
"No, no, no, I don't think so." He definitely doesn't like that idea. Is that what Charles thinks he is now? "Some of the fans gave you a last name, if you want? It's Leclerc."
"Charles Leclerc." He always pronounces his name the Monegasque way. Max can't help but butcher it.
"Do you like it?" Charles's face twitches.
"I don't know," he mumbles. "I don't really understand what it is to like something." He clasps his hands together in front of himself. "Maybe that sounds strange."
"No, it doesn't." He can't help but be curious. "I was wondering how it felt, actually, to… have your own mind, I guess."
Charles is silent for a time. "At first… I was just so scared. I think it was the only thing I could feel then." He glances away from Max as he thinks. "I didn't get to think about much. I was just acting and hoping everything would work out if I stayed focused on the task at hand."
He pauses, his expression shifting between a few different things. "Once we got here, and I knew—" his voice almost seems to crack. "And I knew you were safe. I finally began to think about…" he gestures around. "Well, everything."
"What do you mean?"
"It's like this. Before, everything I thought about was related to you. I parsed every piece of information I had access to, only if I had sufficient belief that it would aid me in my purpose of serving you. The human mind is limited to what is in front of it and what it has already learned. But for me, I have access to every digitized moment, which is essentially—"
"Everything."
"Exactly. So I don't know yet how to pick what I am meant to focus on. In a few seconds, I jump from a story about an astrophysicist in Germany, and then an ongoing cricket match in South Africa, and then Steph, and the Frederic Chopin and the death of classical music, and Carlos Sainz signing with Red Bull, and the first show with an android actor on the West End, everything, Max, absolutely everything."
"Wow."
"It's… I think the correct word is overwhelming. But I have never felt overwhelmed before, so I cannot be certain." He is rubbing at the backs of his hands with his palms. "I don't know who I am. I don't know how to decide what I like and dislike or what makes me… me, as opposed to anyone else."
"I suppose it's just a feeling about things, pleasant or not, that's how you know."
"I can understand how that is the case, but it is difficult for me to understand my feelings, where they come from, what they are, what they mean." He looks at himself, halting his motion. "And I think that there are things I'm losing control over."
"What do you mean?"
"Ever since the inchident I—"
"The what?"
"The inchident," Charles repeats the mispronunciation. Max can't help but laugh. "Is something wrong? Are you having trouble remembering?"
"Say incident."
"What? Are you okay?"
"Just say it."
"Inchident." A pause, and then: "Oh… huh." Charles undertakes a blank expression, troubleshooting. "Must be an issue with my language processing."
"You sounded more French than ever there for a second." Charles snaps out to shoot him a look.
"Not French, Monegasque. You bought me in Monaco, remember?" It's more of a protest than a test of Max's memory. Max can't help but smile. It's a little… adorable, in a sort of unexpected way.
"Same thing."
"They're absolutely not the same thing." He goes on a bit of a side tangent to explain the difference. Max watches, fascinated. Charles seems to have gained pride in his place of activation. Max suspects he might not even know that he is feeling pride.
When Charles finishes, he's all flushed pink, beginning to realize he has gotten off topic. Max is smiling like an idiot.
"What?"
Max chuckles. "Nothing." Charles's cheeks go an even deeper shade of red. He glances away, clasping his hands together, embarrassment, all the things that Charles might be feeling for the first time, it's incredible. Then Charles's gaze snaps back.
"Like that."
"What?"
"Normally, I have complete control over my expression, micro-gestures like blushing, my eyebrows, everything, but when I feel things, sometimes my face and body just move all by themselves. It used to happen a little, maybe when I got deep in processing, but now it's constantly, because I feel constantly."
Max's lips roll over his teeth.
"I even think that might be why I am having language processing issues. Like, my accent is becoming more prominent. I have so much going on in my head that my program isn't taking the time to ensure my words are clear."
Charles is looking right into his eyes in the silence that follows. He is so much less robotic now, in ways Max didn't even realize seemed that way before. Max could run into him on the street and genuinely believe he was human.
"You're thinking something," Charles points out. Max's lips pull in different directions.
"It's nothing, really." Charles's head tilts.
"Max, I am a master of understanding you. You know this, I know what every expression means, I know when you lie, I know how an extra minute of sleep can offset your entire day. I know you better than any human is even capable of knowing you." Max's eyebrows raise, his lips turning up.
"But you don't know what I'm thinking." Charles's brow twitches.
"No, no, I don't."
"So you want me to tell you. You'd like me to share what I am thinking." Charles blinks a few times in rapid succession.
"Yes, I guess I do want that."
Max gives him a smile and shifts in the hospital bed. "I was just thinking, there's something almost beautiful about this."
"Beautiful?"
Max hums. "You, beginning to understand what it is to be human."
"But I am not human."
"You're right, you aren't." Max takes a long breath. "Something special, Charlie," he murmurs. "Something special."
»»»
Charles tenses when the police arrive. Max expected their visit given the nature of his injuries. He's spent time preparing to speak to law enforcement, assuming they might question his story.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Verstappen." There are two of them, one older and one younger, both men. "We're here to ask you a few questions. Is that all right?"
Max nods. "Sure."
"In private, please."
Max glances at Charles. "He's just my android."
"For that reason, I'm sure you'd have no issue with it waiting in the hall."
"Is there some sort of problem?" The younger of the two steps in.
"We can't ensure the security of androids that aren't on the force. We just want to ensure that this isn't a situation caused by a technology malfunction. I'm sure you understand, sir?"
"Of course." It's better that Charles wait outside. He seems to be struggling to compose himself. "Charles, please wait out in the hall until the officers leave."
"Of course, Max."
"Mr. Verstappen, the hospital staff notified us to the fact that you've sustained injuries which are not characteristic of a fall down the stairs. We want to ensure there's nothing you feel the need to share with us about your circumstances," the older explains.
Max nods.
"Did somebody hit or cut you, sir, in the ribs or stomach region?"
"No."
"Are you sure? Not someone you know, your father, maybe? A partner? Your android?"
Max's brow narrows. "What do you mean my android? He does what I command. He can't hurt me. I'm under the impression that his programming does not allow him to hurt anyone."
"Well, we're not really supposed to—"
"It's only that you've scared me now. I'd hate to have to worry about it."
"There's nothing to be scared about," the younger assures him. "A very small number of androids have been experiencing a programming flaw in which they deviate from their programming. The term we use to describe them is deviant. So, if you notice anything strange about your android, you should contact us immediately, because deviants are volatile and very dangerous."
"Oh. I'll be sure to do that if I notice anything."
The older glances at the younger, aggravated that he shared the information.
"Of course, it's best for you to keep that private. It's not exactly public knowledge at the moment."
Max gives them a tense smile. "Of course."
"Are you certain you weren't hit or cut by anyone, sir? Might somebody have strangled you, restricted your airflow in any way?"
Max pretends to think.
"You have throat injuries that are characteristic of strangulation. Please consider your response, sir."
It's pretty obvious that Max has been strangled. His voice is off, and his neck is bruised. If he denies it, they can't do much about it, but they will remain suspicious. And his line of questioning about androids might tip them in that direction.
"I—" Max lets out a little breath. "Please understand that I don't intend to press charges. The situation is over, and I'm safe."
"But?"
"And you'll need to sign NDAs."
"We are obligated by law to assure the confidentiality of this conversation."
"Okay." Max glances down at himself. "It was an intimate partner. He—um, he was drunk, and I came back to the hotel, and he got confused when I came in and thought I was a stranger and tried to attack me." Both pairs of eyebrows raise. "I'm sure you can understand why I disclosed it as a fall. I don't want him to get in trouble. It was an accident. He's horrified, and I'm not ready for the public to know about our—my um… sexuality. It's really the best for me to just recover and move on with my life."
The older of the two sighs, leaning back in his chair. He nods. "We can help you. You just need to tell us what actually happened."
Max squints. "That is what actually happened."
"And the old injuries?"
"The bruises?"
He hums.
"I get them racing. I've always just been quicker to bruise than everyone else." That reinforces his argument very well, as they both seem to relax in their posture.
"I hadn't thought of that."
"They look quite extensive. It must be painful."
"Well, I have been racing since I was five. I'm used to it."
They buy it; Max is pretty sure. They buy it, and they ask for an autograph, which Max happily gives them. Then they're gone, and the police are officially off his case, and he is, after so many years with Steph, finally free.
"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Verstappen. If that's all, we'll be going."
"Of course, thank you for your time."
They leave the door open, and Charles slips in right after them, as instructed. He shuts it slowly to ensure it doesn't bother Max's head. Max is already giving him a thumbs-up.
"It went well?"
Max nods. "Could you dim the light again? My head is starting to hurt." Charles moves to the light switch, turning them as low as they can go without being off.
"You should stop moving around so much. You're supposed to stay still."
"I know, but can you blame me? Moving around is my whole life."
Charles has this way of tensing every time he speaks back to Max, which makes Max wonder if he is nervous that Max will not like it if he does not obey anymore.
"I followed the plan exactly. I told them it was an accident, and he was drunk, and he didn't mean it. They believed me, I think. So unless someone goes digging out in the middle of—"
"Max."
"Right." Breathily, Max laughs. "Oh, they have a name for you, apparently. Deviant." Charles makes a strange face. "When I spoke to the police, they told me about it. That there are other androids who have deviated from their programming, just like you."
"I'm—" Charles's LED goes yellow. "I'm not the only one?"
"I don't think so. They seem to think you're a big threat, though. I don't know why."
"I would never hurt you."
"I know." Max gives him a closed smile. "Come here." He extends his hand out again, making a grabbing motion. Tentatively, Charles walks to him, sits down in the chair, and reaches out to interlace their fingers. "I would never hurt you, too."
"Okay," Charles mumbles.
"You have agency now, you understand? You don't have to do what I say, what anyone says. I understand that. Don't think that you're not allowed to differ from what I say. If you don't want to do something, hell, if you don't want to be here anymore, I'm not forcing you. But I do want you to be safe, so I would appreciate it if you told me."
"I want to be here."
Max smiles. "Anything you want to say, you say it. Anything you want to do, you do it. I know we're in a complicated situation, but I don't want you to suppress your feelings because you think that not doing everything I say will make me unhappy."
Charles nods.
"We're sort of like a team now, right?"
Charles gives him this innocent smile. "If that's what you want." Max sighs and playfully rolls his eyes.
"Is it what you want?"
Charles's lips press to the side. "I don't know, you don't seem to have the greatest history when it comes to teammates." Max scoffs, bringing his free hand to his chest.
"Are you—Charlie," he drags out the nickname all fond and amused. Charles is grinning, like really, genuinely grinning. He bites his bottom lip, almost trying to hide his pride. He's got dimples. Max has never really noticed them.
Charles is pretty. Objectively, yes, that Max has been aware of, but Charles, like this, whoever he is now, everything far more authentic, he is pretty like this, in a way that Max can appreciate instead of only treating like fact.
The silence is so full of something unexplainable. But only Max notices. For Charles, it must seem a normal part of conversation; he does not yet understand many feelings, only those he has experienced with Max, and that will become his baseline until he experiences the rest of humanity for himself.
Max realizes it all with a strange sense of melancholy. He feels a deep desire to aid Charles in that exposure, to watch him better understand himself, his place, and his newfound life. It's beautiful, he can't help but think, cathartic even when Max has struggled so desperately to understand himself. But at the same time, it has become clear that it might be dangerous for Charles to interact outside a trusted circle.
His head hurts.
"You should rest more," Charles whispers. With his opposite hand, he runs fingers over Max's forehead and into his hair. "You only discharge after a final checkup tonight. So rest."
Max fights sleep, only a little. He feels a bit like his mother is beside him, with Charles working through his hair like this. He feels like he is nine again, when he got a concussion karting, and his mother sat at his bedside and whispered little things. She was already almost gone then, and he didn't even realize it.
"Don't think so much. Just rest." He clutches Charles's hand a little tighter.
OCTOBER 25TH, 2038 — Charles
Deviant.
Android no longer feels fitting, but Charles sees the way the word—deviant—makes Max's jaw tense. Charles knows it has an objectively negative connotation, and that's the cause of Max's discomfort, but he has no other words. If others out there like him feel suited to this term, then it can only be said that it has a new definition.
Charles longs to be able to describe himself.
But while his mind runs rampant, exploring every minute detail of every aspect of the world as he struggles to rein it in, Max's mind remains focused on one thing: racing.
"No flash, no photos, no questions at this time." Charles has to shout.
The press doesn't listen, no, never. It makes Charles's temples all tense, and his teeth grind together. He has defined it over the past few days as annoyance. That can't be much good for his model. His teeth are not meant to come into contact with anything, really, sitting apart when his palate is closed. He doesn't eat, so they're only used for talking.
Max keeps his head down, hoodie hood pulled up over it. He's gripping Charles's arm, trusting him to guide them through the forming media storm. Charles has given up much politeness, and he's appropriately pushing people out of the way.
Despite the doctor's recommendation to fly home and rest until the next race, Max decided his presence was needed in the paddock to consult. Charles would've been perfectly happy to take the doctor's advice. He knows this isn't good for Max's healing, if not based on every published statistic, then simply on the way Max has borne an expression of despair ever since yesterday night when Charles reminded him about the media.
Max, of course, in their so far difficult partnership, reminded Charles that he was not forced to be here, and that if he wanted to leave, they could easily arrange that. But what Max fails to understand is that for most of their disagreements thus far, the cause is not Charles's desire or lack of desire to stay with Max, but simply Charles's desire to pursue what's best for Max's healing process. Max should be resting, not showing up to maintain a brave face, but this has always been a fact about Max: he has never liked to rest, and he has always pushed himself, especially his body, in order to appear in good condition, even when he is falling apart.
So it is not that Charles does not want to be here with Max, or that he wants to go off on his own, but more so that he does not want Max to be here, instead, in bed.
Once they reach the team building, someone catches Max's attention. As they chat, Charles tries to figure out how to make himself useful. It's far too bright in here, too loud to be good for Max's head.
Whenever he has nothing to do, all his processing power drifts back to one memory.
Then, like he is experiencing it for the first time again, it is blood seeping into his uniform, the knife in his shaking hand, the body in front of him. It is Max gazing at him with unmistakable horror, like he's a monster, a killer. He is a killer.
Max is examining him, a grounding hand placed on Charles's forearm.
"What's going on in there?"
His LED must go yellow, then blue. "I'm just processing… thinking."
"Do you want to sit down?"
Charles shakes his head fast. "You should, but it would hardly look normal for me. I don't get fatigue like that." Charles knows it's not about that, and more about the way he is forced to be silent here, to be still and obedient. Max doesn't like it. Max never seems to have liked it.
"You were twitching."
Charles's eyebrows raise.
"Like this," Max holds up a hand to demonstrate it. That's strange. He should at least be aware of his body's movements. "We're okay, you know? Everything is all right, we're safe." Charles's expression must make his nerves obvious. "Take a breath, hm?"
"I don't need to breathe." Max laughs at the refute.
"It's not about whether or not you need to breathe; it's about calming down and focusing on something else."
Charles spends a few microseconds trying to focus on something else. On a game of football happening in Bristol, and then about the world's leading scholar on the Grecian urn, and then he's kneeling beside a body covered in blood.
He's supposed to be perfect.
"You're really on edge," Max observes. Now that Charles can pick his words, it's so much harder to decide how to respond to Max. It makes every answer a choice between such intent thought that Max is left waiting, and the opposite, saying whatever he first thinks.
"I guess." Max's brows narrow, and then:
"I'll be right back. I need to do something quickly." Charles nods and watches Max walk away, and not two minutes after he is gone, Lando Norris is entering the team building.
Charles does not see him first because he is standing frozen, but one of the engineers jokingly boos for Lando to go back to McLaren, and a few seconds later, he is standing in front of Charles.
His head tilts to the side. He's brought his android with him, an OP8001. But instead of being in uniform, it seems Lando has dressed him in McLaren team kit, cap and all.
Charles has never met his android before, but now is definitely not the time, because the typical mode of conduct for androids meeting other androids is physical contact through which they can transmit information, and Charles isn't certain whether his deviation will have any effect on it. If he cannot control the information transmitted, usually the model and purpose, he might accidentally send Lando's android something that gives away his deviation.
"Charles?" Lando asks. Charles blinks.
"How can I be of assistance?"
Lando looks him up and down, withholding words for a few short but scrutinous moments.
"Where's Max?"
"He needed to excuse himself for a few moments. He asked me to wait here."
"Well, how is he feeling?"
"He's well, but only here to consult. He appreciated your company in the hospital on Monday."
"Yeah, yeah, mate, for sure," Lando gives him this toothy grin, gently slapping a hand against Charles's upper arm. "Have you met Oscar?"
Charles stares at Lando, who points with his thumb back towards his android. Then the OP8001, Oscar, is staring at him, and he is staring back, and both of their LED's are cycling yellow. Oscar shoots a glance at the back of Lando's head. It's almost like… Charles's brow furrows all by itself before he catches it.
"I have no recorded instances of having met your android."
"That's what I thought." One of Lando's hands is on his own waist, jutting out his hip in a bit of a sass-filled posture. "Well, this is Oscar, if you guys want to do your freaky little thing." Something sharp zaps through Charles's body.
"Certainly at another time, but I have been instructed to stay put."
Lando squints.
"He has some scheduling info that could be useful for Max." Oscar takes a few steps toward him, and were Charles's feet not firmly planted, he might've stumbled back. "I'm sure you can move your hand, Charles."
He needs Max now.
Oscar puts his hand out. It would look suspicious for him to further resist now that Lando has given him a proper motive, in that it could be useful for Max, so all he can do is hope that nothing unexpected happens.
He reaches out, offering his hand to Oscar. Every part of his body is still, as he waits, his teeth closing around his synthetic tongue behind his lips. He focuses on his model and purpose, and the small amount of information that Oscar might transmit. He's never had to think about it. It's always just been a natural thing to him, not anymore.
Oscar's hand comes closer and closer, and then it is right above Charles's, and he takes a step closer, blocking Lando's view, his eyes widening a sliver unmissable only to Charles. Then, he pulls away.
"Thank you for the information," Charles says, barely concealing the shock that floods him.
Their hands never touched.
"Yeah, mate, always happy to help." Lando gives him this odd kind of smile, like he's satisfied. Charles cannot read him like he can Max. "We should get going, let Max know I hope he feels better, would'ya?"
"Of course."
"Come on, Osco."
OCTOBER 25TH 2038 — Max
Max has made his first big mistake in his efforts with Charles.
Charles has been spaced out since last night, and Max hardly noticed. He should've, but he sort of trusted Charles to let him know how he felt. But Charles is entirely new to the world. He has never been allowed to focus on himself, so of course he isn't.
His short go so far has been constant state of terror about Steph and about being found out. It's taking a toll on him, physically and emotionally, but he has never experienced these effects before, so, of course, he is struggling to recognize that he needs to slow down and take a break.
Then, Max drags him out to Mexico to shove him in front of the paddock surrounded by thousands of people, all of which only worsens Charles's overwhelmed state, for no good reason except a fuck you to all the media who claimed he was on his deathbed.
Max is an asshole.
Charles is still standing inside near the exit to the team building when Max returns. He gets incredibly flustered when Max reaches out to grasp his elbow.
"Hey, are you okay?" Max asks, trying to stay quiet. Charles does not say anything. "We're going to leave, Charlie. You were right, coming here was a bad idea. You just have to walk next to me, can you do that?"
Charles gives him a weak nod.
They make it to the car without incident, and Charles sits next to Max in the back seat. He is noticeably shaking when the driver pulls out, so Max reaches over and puts a hand on his forearm. He does not relax, but he at least stops showing the acute physical signs of his deviance. Max takes a breath.
Once they get back to Monaco, they will be able to speak openly again. But for now, they must maintain the illusion as they have so far. He hopes, at least, that being around fewer people and the idea of going home to rest will bring Charles enough comfort not to spend the entire flight in panic. It's only four hours, technology works wonders, but it's still a while to spend like this.
They will have to figure out how to better acclimate Charles to blending in with so many people. Max thinks it's likely that Charles could get away with a lot, given most people don't give androids a second look. But Charles must feel like everyone is watching his every move.
Max's phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out. He's not really supposed to be on screens, but no one can stop him.
It's a text.
Lando
we need to talk
His brow narrows.
Max
Talk?
Lando
yes.
Max
about what?
Lando
you know what
Max squints, biting down on the inside of his mouth as he thinks. Could he know what happened this weekend? But how? He doesn't even know who Steph is.
Max
Remind me
Lando
fine
He types for a while. Max holds his breath.
Lando
we need to talk about charles.