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Chapter Text

“Summers P5, barely a second away and catching up,” Charles spoke, rather calmly into the microphone attached to his headphones and looked back at the screen in front of him. 

Having briefly re-scanned the statistics displayed in the form of colourful graphs, he shifted his focus to the screen on his left and calculated. Yet before he got to voice the results of his rather quick analysis, he heard Simon in his headphones, his voice uncomfortably loud, even though he was pretty certain the volume settings remained unchanged. 

“Don't care. Give me Howlett.” As expected.

The American driver he was the race engineer of wasn't exactly easy to work with. Especially when it came to the Canadian currently in P3, James Howlett, Logan for friends, or anyone willing to drink with him. The guy looked like he had worked as a lumberjack before accidentally stumbling into a Formula 1 car but at the very least he listened to his team's suggestions. It was actually quite alarming how well he and Grey worked, especially considering her brother-in-law was currently on track and slowly minimising the advantage both Logan and Simon had over him. Speaking of.

“Howlett P3, one point six seconds in front. You will have to defend from Summers before Turn 13,” he said rather quickly, making sure to include that piece of advice before he was inevitably cut off by the guy on the other side of the radio. 

“No, I won't.” was what he heard in response and soon after that, the radio sound cut off, most likely turned off by his driver. Too soon, actually. 

“Copy that,” he muttered under his breath to no one in particular and rubbed his left eye, once again coming back to the numbers on screen. They were, in truth, quite comforting.

For one, they didn't have a habit of throwing a fit whenever somebody suggested anything other than what they had set their mind to.

Everyone (which, in this case, meant Simon and about no one else) was surprised when the Las Vegas Grand Prix ended with James Howlett safe and sound in P3, Alex Summers in P4, and Simon Niles dropping down to P7, after an embarrassing turn of events. 

Not only was the (self-proclaimed) American prodigy not able to get within the DRS range of Logan when coming out of Turn 13, his quite unfortunate lack of telepathic abilities (or, much rather, basic logical thinking skills and common sense) caused him to get immediately overtaken by Summers the moment they entered the DRS zone as the Australian surprisingly (not at all) happened to get within his range. 

And then, to everybody's (nobody’s) absolute shock, Niles seemed to lose his head and gave up further positions. Nobody could have seen that one coming , Charles thought to himself, and almost, almost felt bad for the guy. 

He would've, maybe, grown to feel at least some pity for him but then he heard one of his post-race interviews and the only thing he started to feel was his blood boiling.

— ◇ —

“Miscommunication in the team! Is he hearing himself?” he complained later to Raven, at her Vegas apartment. 

Usually, he hated American races, hated herds of celebrities and influencers swarming the paddock and garage, making his job even harder than it already was, and, most of all, hated the way Simon was capable of becoming approximately eight times more insufferable the moment he crossed the border of his home country. 

Yet this was one of the very rare occasions when it was all worth enduring, because his sister's schedule finally aligned with his own and so they could sit in one of her apartments and eat pizza that had the time to turn fully cold while Charles was busy getting worked up about how much he hated the driver he had to work with. 

It probably wasn't doing any good for either of them but, at the moment, he simply had no fucks to give about that. He glanced at the TV screen, the most punchable face he has ever had the misfortune of seeing displayed in absolutely horrifying 4K quality. 

“I told him to look out for Summers and make him lose some of the momentum instead of focusing on Logan that he had no chance of catching up to on that lap. But why on Earth would he listen to me! I'm only his race engineer! It's only my literal job to help him!” he threw his hands in the air and then decided he needed to lie down. 

Raven only looked at him funny and proceeded to munch overenthusiastically on her pizza slice.

“I don't get it,” she said after a short silence, her mouth somehow still half-full. Models and their weird dieting methods. “Why don't you tell dad to, I don't know, give him a warning?”

“If only it was that simple. He was already making faces at me when he learned I'm the team principal's son. Like I don't have, you know, qualifications to do this.” It was, in all fairness, a quite common reaction. 

People always assumed that since Brian Xavier was the team principal of McLaren now, he could do whatever he liked. Well, maybe he could, but Charles certainly didn't know about that, and yet nobody seemed to care to check his degree and see for themselves, why exactly his father decided to curse him with getting to work for the most aggravating personality on the grid.

“He's just being a dick. Don't think too much about it. He'll complain to the media for a while, and then realise it's making him look stupid.” Charles really wished that was true.

— ◇ —

It obviously wasn't. When he checked Twitter the next morning, and saw pictures of himself and that godforsaken American sweetheart (more like, the Devil), with different flashy fonts over them, all spelling out “I guess that's what happens when your team hires the principal's family members.”, he wished he had jumped onto the race track the day before and ended his miserable existence. 

Upon realising that Raven had already left the apartment (she left a note saying she got an early shoot and would join him after lunch), he fell onto the couch and groaned loudly into one of the pillows. 

After a while, he reached for the phone again and, having ignored the notification of three missed calls from his father, began to look for clips or context of the quote that seemed to have successfully ruined his day so early on. 

Finally, his brief research brought him to a Sky Sports commentary that included the full quote.

“Misunderstandings are a common thing, you know.” the voice rang from his phone's speaker. “Sometimes you wish you were told something sooner or you're not given the feedback you expected, and you just have to work with that. It's not pleasant, not when you know you did everything you could. But, I guess that's what happens when your team hires the principal's family members.” 

There it was, a complete load of bullshit, spoken like it was the obvious truth. And if that wasn't quite enough to make Charles lose his mind, the tone used by the man on his screen, like he was holding back laughter, definitely got the job done. He started pacing around the room, lightly pulling at his hair, as another person spoke, this time with a noticeable accent.

“I think Simon might be exaggerating a little. It was his home race, and I don't think he really did everything he could, so I would say he might want to find someone else to blame, because that is some serious accusation right there.” and now Nico Rosberg, famous for definitely-not-having-a-Wikipedia-page-about-his-father was defending him. Wonderful.

Soon after that, the clip was cut and the silence filling the room became almost unbearable. That was of course until his phone vibrated, the screen displaying another incoming call from his dad. The day was already ridiculously awful as it was, he didn't think a short call could do much.

Hope would probably be the death of him one day. 

After a disturbingly long screaming match with his father-turned-boss, all he got the energy to do was staring blankly at the wall in front of him and occasionally breathing out a string of curses. He was supposed to, good Christ, apologise to the guy. And then they would film social media content. And act civil. 

(Like they kissed each other goodnight, his father said, with a strange note to his voice that Charles didn't even want to begin to think about.) 

There would be no warnings or reprimands or even instructions for Simon to start listening to his team. Instead, Charles would be dragged around by the PR team and told to make funny faces and laugh at the person he loathed probably the most in the world right now. Truly fantastic.

He tried getting up to, maybe, at the very least, get some of his work done, but his laptop somehow ended up on the other side of the apartment and so the attempt ended with an obvious defeat, leaving him to scroll through all social media platforms he could think of to figure out what the public’s opinion was, get rightfully upset after seeing hundreds of Simon's fans dragging his name through the mud (“Only McLaren could ruin their own driver's home race. Fire the Xaviers!” May Hell swallow you all , he thought.), and then feel slightly better when he saw not everyone was against him (“Maybe if Niles listened to his own team and used logical thinking he wouldn't get overtaken by Summers and his tractor. Fraud.” He switched accounts and reposted that one.) 

At some point, he realised that the infuriating quote that was now playing almost on repeat in his head managed to generate a discourse big enough for other drivers, or even team principals to weigh in. And somehow, some of them honestly weren't that bad.

“I don't know, I love my race engineer. Don't tell her husband, though,” Logan said to one of the journalists and winked at her, walking away with a smug look on his face, and in that moment Charles thought he could die to work with him. But then again, he could probably die to work with anybody who wasn't Simon. 

Or he could just die. For the fun of it.

Others, however, weren't as nice to hear. Helmut Marko (why on Earth was that man still allowed to publicly voice his opinions), for example, said that there is no place in the sport for incompetency and, as he called it, “family schemes”. 

“God,” he mumbled, leaning against the kitchen counter as he was chewing a bite of one of the bagels Raven left for him in the morning, “let me live in peace for one day. Please.”

And obviously, just as he was saying those exact words, another clip popped up on his screen, this time of a guy in a red cap, saying something at the post-race press conference. 

He locked his phone and pushed it as far away as he could without it dropping to the floor. Last thing he needed now was for a guy who breathed red and bled Italian even while being everything-but-Italian to tell him what he thought of the entire situation. The Forza Ferrari brain tumour would not get him, thank you very much!

— ◇ —

The Forza Ferrari brain tumour did, in fact, get him. 

But only many hours later, when he was sitting on the couch again, this time with Raven's head in his lap, her blonde hair splayed everywhere, golden highlights of it creating a halo of sorts around her face. Lord, his sister was truly beautiful. Even more so as she giggled, squirmed a little and threw a crisp at him.

“Have you considered it?” she asked suddenly and he realised he must've drifted off because he had no idea what she could possibly be referring to. He hoped his expression would convey as much. “The offer. Have you considered the offer?”

“What offer?” he asked, feeling, and probably looking, even more confused than before. Now it was Raven's turn to look at him like he spoke a different language. 

It took her a minute, but when the realisation finally came, it was a very distinguishable moment, as she sprung to her feet and immediately started pacing around the room looking like a mix of a range of different feelings he was simply too worn out to identify.

“My colleague, Irene, she's crazy about this stuff, you know? We did the shoot together this morning, and she was talking about you. Like, a lot. She was talking and then she mentioned this guy. She got all excited, you know? She always gets so excited! It's honestly quite adorable, if you think about it, but also sometimes makes me want to cut my ears off. I could do a Van Gogh shoot maybe. That would be something! She would love that, Irene loves–”

“Raven, you’ve lost me,” he interrupted and observed his sister as she blushed furiously, probably upon realising that she started babbling about one of her work crushes again. She always found it embarrassing, while Charles found it rather amusing.

“Okay, so she mentioned this guy, I think she said he was a Ferrari driver. And she said he offered you a job? I think that's what she said. It was during a press conference or something. You know I don't know much of this stuff anyway.” There was truth to that. 

As much as racing felt like a family business to him, and he had been aware since he was a little kid that one day he would find his way in, he knew his sister never really shared that sentiment. He was glad, he often thought, that she wasn't forced to. But who in their right mind would deny her anything? 

He figured he was getting distracted again, so he tried replaying Raven’s words in his head. Ferrari driver, press conference. Hell.

“Oh!” he exclaimed after a long beat, possibly startling Raven. “I think I saw something about that! I didn't watch the clip though, didn't care to further ruin my mood. Let me find it.”

He clicked on one of the little icons on his phone screen and then quickly began to type in phrases that would help him find what he was looking for. And on the second try, it worked. Then, he grabbed the remote, turned the TV on and cast the video he found onto that screen, so they could both watch comfortably. 

It was the usual post-race press conference setting, a few of the drivers sitting on a couple of couches, answering boring questions, same stuff every single week, unless the race was eventful, in which case the entire conference would be about a single crash or a nasty team radio recording. 

This time, he guessed, it would be about Simon Niles, who somehow wasn't chosen to do the conference, and his horrible race engineer with his incompetency and his nepotism allegations. Truly, a blast.

It took the interviewers exactly two and a half minutes before they got to the point, first of the Xavier-related questions being directed at the second driver of Mercedes, poor youngster who probably had to endure James Howlett attempting to seduce their entire team all day long all year round. 

The next few questions and answers were a blur, as he was mostly focusing on ignoring the guy sitting to the left of the Mercedes lad. The first driver of the current Ferrari lineup, car number 93, currently third in the drivers’ standings, losing by 17 points to Howlett. Raised watching Schumacher, Vettel, and Rosberg, yet another example of some weird Formula 1 champions producing gene mutation clearly present in German boys. 

Erik Lehnsherr, with his terrifying grin, snarky remarks, and a Forza Ferrari brain tumor. 

Really, he was the last person Charles wanted to know the opinion of, especially since it was well known around the paddock that the guy was about to split with his own race engineer, Emma Frost deciding to “pursue other endeavours in her career”. Whatever that meant, really. 

He just couldn't wait to hear about how good Lehnsherr believes he is, how he doesn't really need a race engineer, and how he'd love to welcome Charles to the Ferrari family and fight for his very own street in Maranello. Or whatever bullshit the Italians were feeding him. 

His thoughts seemed to resonate with some celestial entity because as he was thinking, one of the journalists addressed Lehnsherr, who shifted in his seat, a red Ferrari cap still on. 

“Erik, what would you say about the situation, given that you and Miss Frost are about to part ways, as well. Would that be a good approach for McLaren?” Amazing work , he thought. Ask him if they should fire me. 

Lehnsherr seemed to actually consider the question, although how much of actual consideration could be done with his brain rotted by Italy and the colour red, Charles couldn't tell.

“I couldn't possibly say,” he started, his voice sounding weirdly empty of any hints of mockery. “I have no idea what the situation at McLaren looks like but I have heard a thing or two about Charles Xavier being a very skilled race engineer. From what I know, he even got his degree earlier than you usually would. I can't tell if what happened is a conflict of personalities, but I do know that sometimes drivers don't know what's best for them. Anyway, as you've said, I'm parting ways with Emma after this season ends, and to be honest, my future race engineer still isn't decided, so, if anything, I think he should give us a call if he decides to split with Simon.”

That was… Unexpected, to say the least. 

He desperately tried to find even a shade of irony to the German driver's voice, but he was either a masterful actor (Charles dared to doubt that, considering the entire paddock knew exactly which drivers Erik liked or disliked), or he was being genuine. Both options felt terrifying when he came to think about it. 

He started wondering. About his father expecting him to film PR content with Niles for the rest of his life (before he inevitably committed suicide), about the guy himself making his job a living hell only to then run to the press and tell them about his incompetence and nepotism at McLaren. He glanced sideways at Raven, looking at him expectantly. 

Maybe he would look good in red. Eating pasta everyday didn't seem so bad either. God, the brain tumour.

Chapter Text

“I'm not even gone yet, and you've already found yourself a replacement,” was the first thing Erik heard when he picked up a call from Emma. 

He was rather spent after the Vegas weekend, and so when the invitation for drinks from Logan came (nothing too personal, Logan invited everyone to drink with him, every single race weekend), he had to politely decline, quoting the need to have some immediate discussions with his team after a successful race. 

That was (obviously) a lie, yet he was ready to make that sacrifice to his conscience if it meant getting everyone off his ass and letting himself properly wind down after the podium.

So there he was, in a spacious hotel room, mostly looking at the ceiling or replaying different bits of the weekend, trying to come to some coherent conclusions, with very little success, when Emma's number appeared on his screen.

“You know nobody could replace you, but unfortunately that doesn't mean I don't need a race engineer,” he spoke matter-of-factly and then lied down in his bed, dropping the phone elsewhere, having put it on speaker.

“They could've promoted one of our engineers, no need to go around the paddock offering people jobs.” He figured she was right. 

He got to work with a really talented team during his time in Ferrari, and he could be sure Hank, or some other junior race engineer would do a good job next season. If only it was about talent and skill, and not something else entirely. 

Emma must've been reading his mind, because her next words had a tone of amusement to them, “Come on, Lehnsherr, tell me what your real deal here is.”

He had no intention of telling her. After all, it wouldn't be very mature of him to want to get back at Simon Niles for something he did almost twenty years ago and for being an overall insufferable individual. He couldn't possibly tell her he did a background check on Charles Xavier to figure out if the guy wasn't a complete moron barely ten minutes before he offered him a job during a live broadcast, all to simply spite his karting days rival. 

The Brit certainly didn't sound like one, not from the very limited knowledge he managed to gather. He didn't seem big for celebrations and public appearances, or maybe he hasn't yet spent enough time working in the sport to feel like he belonged, so there was a very slim chance they had met personally, but he was quite certain he remembered seeing or hearing him while watching some of the race replays over the last two seasons. 

Then, a quick Google search seemed sufficient, and soon enough Erik knew pretty much everything he needed to know. 

A year younger, Charles Xavier turned out to be surprisingly good at his job, even while being employed by his own father. In truth, he wasn't quite fond of people with a name in the sport, having spent years working towards his own, but the guy genuinely didn't look like a bad choice, with his early graduation and clearly angel-like personality, considering he managed to endure two straight seasons working for the most annoying person Erik has ever had a chance of meeting without resorting to gun violence.

“Nothing, really. Keeping my options open, in case Hank refuses to work with me,” he joked, sounding not at all convincing, yet the woman on the other side of the call didn't seem to care to mention it, God bless her for that.

“We both know he wouldn't do that," she said instead. “Why Xavier's boy, anyway? I doubt he's gonna leave his father's team because Niles acts like a spoiled brat from time to time.” 

More like, all the time, he thought.

“Heard he's good, and the entire conference was about him either way,” he hummed trying to convey a sense of nonchalance, which came out rather believable, if he did say so himself. “Is he not?”

There was a long moment of silence following his question, and he even considered grabbing the phone to check if the call wasn't mysteriously ended, but then he heard some movement, like Emma was readjusting herself in her seat, and so he dropped that idea and waited for her to say something. After another few beats, she spoke, hesitantly.

“He is. Not as good as me, obviously, but he is good. Very good.” she paused, clearly gathering her thoughts. They knew and worked with each other for long enough he could almost see the expression of calm focus she was probably wearing right now. She made the same face whenever new testing results would come in, carefully grouping and organising the data in her wonderful, wonderful mind. 

She was probably doing that now, pulling drawers in her head open, looking for everything on Charles Xavier. It was really admirable, the way her brain worked, where even his simple, more conversational than not, question was considered an analysis prompt. Her job was to help him achieve the best possible results using the available information, and she seemed to be doing the same thing now. She was amazing at this, and he would miss her immensely. Not that he would ever tell her that.

“He made the right call today. Had Simon listened to him, he could've podiumed. Remember his first win, last year in Suzuka?" Of course he remembered, it was one of the very rare weekends when he agreed to Logan's offer, and spent the entire night listening to drunk Niles either bragging about his fantastic win, or being a threat to the public safety in a karaoke bar. 

Since then, he has become very wary of those invitations, as Howlett didn't seem to care who his drinking companions were, and if they were bearable in the slightest. 

“Great analysis from Charles after that Safety Car. His first season on the job, and he was already doing better than some of the veteran race engineers. I have no idea how you came up with this, but it's a good choice, if anything.”

He was glad to hear that. As unlikely as actually hiring Xavier was, he could now at the very least say he saw the potential and gave the credit where it was due, unlike Simon Niles who was clearly stuck in middle school with his know-it-all attitude that led him to consistent midfield placements and into a racetrack wall, occasionally.

“Do you think Fred would be on board with this?” Emma asked after he had been silent for a while, maybe to keep the conversation going, or maybe out of genuine curiosity. “If Charles decided to give you a call?” 

He thought of his team principal, the French man well beloved by all of Ferrari's factory in Maranello, and also by the entire nation of Italy, he was quite certain, and laughed.

“Of course he would. He stole Lewis Hamilton from Mercedes, a team he called his family for ages. He'd be delighted to take in another principal's actual son, especially if he's as good as you say he is.”

“Fair.”

After that, they ended up talking some more, making up for a team debrief they didn't get a chance to have because of the very commercial nature of American race weekends. Qatar was up next on the calendar and there was work to be done if he wanted to snatch the runner-up spot in the drivers’ championship from Logan's metaphorical claws.

— ◇ —

The next morning, he got another call, this time from his team principal himself. He took this one while drying his hair with a towel, another one still wrapped around his hips.

“I honestly don't know if I should kiss you or curse you out, Erik,” said the man on the other side, and Erik could just tell he was smiling.

“Good morning to you too, Fred. What have I done this time around?” he attempted to sound oblivious, but he knew for sure Fred could tell it's all an act because, well, it's Fred, he could always tell.

“Cut the crap, Lehnsherr. Brian's golden boy is publicly losing his mind and finding new ways to call his race engineer that you've offered a job without consulting me an incompetent nepo baby.” 

“Is he now?” he tried really hard to hold back laughter, with mediocre results. 

He has actually been doing just that the entire morning, ever since he heard the RTL guys refer to Niles as two kids in a trench coat pretending to be a Formula 1 driver. Oh, the things he would do to get to work with Charles Xavier, even if only to see how much more embarrassing his American rival is able to get. 

Either way, he realised that he ought to follow up on his obviously rhetorical question, “Is there anything else you wish to tell me, Fred?” 

A loud sigh coming from the other side would've been enough, if the team principal's disappointment in him had been all there was to the matter, but Fred still hasn't hung up on him, so clearly there was something else.

“Brian called me this morning,” interesting. “He asked me to tell you to keep out of his team's business.” he raised his eyebrow almost involuntarily. Fred obviously couldn't see it, but the silence from Erik got the message across. “Well, not exactly that, he's a diplomat. A British diplomat. What I'm trying to say– it was painfully polite, like a homicidal intent being voiced by my granddaughter.” 

“What can he do, anyway, it's not like he can stop his son from switching teams, if he wishes to,” he reasoned, although this entire discussion felt honestly quite pointless to him, as the chances that a guy with a name so powerful would make things harder for himself, simply because some American with shit for brains called him names to the press that's known for being able to find a better subject in approximately two business days, were minimal.

“Just don't tell me I didn't warn you once Xavier bites somebody's head off. And let's pray he settles for Simon, instead of getting you, or me. I have a team to lead,” Fred said jokingly, even though Erik could swear that last bit had a hint of seriousness to it, clearly making its first appearance today. It was a sign to investigate the subject a little further.

“Why would he get you?” he asked, making sure it sounded like lighthearted banter. “It's not like you're in control of everything I ever do and say. Ferrari isn't a cult, that's just a joke around the paddock that I'm sure Brian won't take seriously.”

“He could get me,” Fred said then, carelessness from before coming back, and stronger than it had been, “for hiring his son, obviously.” 

What?

“Make sure you take a nice suit with you to Qatar. We're having lunch negotiations.”

At first, he thought he must've been misunderstanding something. That was, until Fred noticed his consternation, and decided to spare his poor self, explaining what he meant and how he expected to achieve that. Sly bastard, he got this game all figured out.

The plan was almost ridiculously simple. They would give Charles another day or two to reach out to them, letting him fully process the insane amounts of utter nonsense being spread about him online or by questionable media outlets. Then, if they didn't receive a call from the guy, Fred would pull some strings and contact Brian Xavier's son himself to invite him to join him, Erik, and Emma for lunch during the weekend in Qatar, preferably a few hours before the lights out of the one of the night races on the calendar, a meeting not binding enough to mean anything, and yet just the right amount of suggestive to make people talk. It looked like Erik wasn't the only one who liked setting up public humiliation for his rivals. 

The best thing? If they managed to pull this off, he would not only get to watch Simon Niles go absolutely crazy, he could also gain a worthy replacement for Emma, without the need to put too much pressure on Hank. And with a good work partner, maybe he could start thinking about getting a street in Maranello named after him next season.

However, no matter the outcome, the upcoming race weekend could be a show worth witnessing. That happened to be precisely what he told himself when choosing a well-cut tan suit he sent to the hotel in Qatar in advance with the rest of his luggage. 

Nobody could catch him lacking once he was trying to seduce (in a strictly professional sense) (and, actually professional, not Logan-like professional) his rival's race engineer. It was also what he told himself after landing in Italy to spend the few remaining days either occupying the simulator or working out. 

— ◇ —

That's why, when on a Tuesday evening his phone vibrated in his pocket, he ignored it, and didn't see a message coming from Fred that said only as much as, “He's in.” or something along those lines, until the next morning, when he finally read it and gave his phone screen one of his widest, all-teeth grins. 

Soon enough, he was on a plane to Qatar and then, without even noticing, already on track for the first practice session. It went smoothly, although he did find himself a little distracted during breaks when he would stand in his garage and stare at one of the screens playing the practice broadcast, hoping he would get to have a look into Niles's garage, to see if the vision of getting back at the guy was just as exciting for Charles Xavier as it was for Erik himself. 

Emma eventually scolded him for his lack of focus, saying she should feel offended that he's so eager to catch even a glimpse of her replacement. He barked out a laugh at that, and saw a few heads turn in their general direction out of the corner of his eye. It was all beginning to work.

He turned out to be (as always) correct. The Italian press happened to be the first on the topic, releasing a couple of exaggerated headlines, some talking about the harsh relations at McLaren, others coming to more ridiculous conclusions, like Brian Xavier's outrageous decision to fire his own son and leave Niles his entire fortune in his yet-to-be-written will. Did that mean the Italians believed this entire Xavier fiasco would end in Raven, Charles's younger sister he found out about while completing his third background check on the guy, also getting disowned for choosing modelling over motorsports? He could only guess. 

The entire situation was starting to look rather hilarious to him, which may have resulted in his exceptionally good humour on the day of qualifying. He even made sure to do the walk and sign some stuff for the Tifosi waiting for him outside. He rarely did that, always using the excuse of: “those autographs are gonna be worth a fortune once I'm the world champion!”, but, to be fair, most of the time, he just wasn't in the mood. 

His PR team absolutely loathed him for that at first, babbling about wasting the potential of a crazily dedicated fanbase that came as a package deal with being a Ferrari driver, but they eventually worked it out. 

And now, he had thousands of Italian nonnas being wildly protective of their “Vettel of fewer words”, as they called him. He often wondered what Seb thought about that. 

By the time he got out of his car later that day, having qualified front row, with Logan all the way down in P8, after a very Mercedes-like car settings adjustment mishap, he was basically grinning non-stop. 

Strangely, it earned him some weird looks around the garage. Not that he cared about any of that, as his mind was already racing to the comfort of his giant hotel bed and the vision of spending the entire evening watching the replay of the qualifying broadcast, reviewing any possible mistakes and subconsciously waiting for a certain headline-making race engineer to appear on his screen. 

He supposed he would also have to talk to Emma again, and definitely get her to pick the appropriate size of a rose bouquet, so that the number of flowers would mean “Thank you for accidentally becoming a tool of my multiple decades long revenge scheme against the absolutely infuriating guy you have the misfortune of working for. Be my race engineer?”

— ◇ —

Around eight, Fred called him up to discuss the details of the meeting, reservations made for half past one the next day (to allow all of them to attend the race briefings and strategy meetings), at a lovely restaurant near the circuit, according to Fred's secretary who found the place. 

Erik found his confirmations and inquiries to be rather chaotic, the quali buzz probably still having its effect on him. The Ferrari team principal must've noticed that because at some point he abruptly paused explaining something about French cuisine to Erik.

“You're not nervous, are you?” he asked, and normally, Erik would laugh at that. 

It was, in fact, really laughable, to even consider his very German self would worry about first impressions and such. Yet the laugh never came, as he realised, to his complete horror, that the unusual tingle in his stomach wasn't caused by room service oysters. He was nervous, and he couldn't even tell why. 

If what Emma told him almost a week ago was right, and his personal research didn't fail him, Charles Xavier was a very intelligent individual, who would quickly enough understand that signing with the Italian team was the best decision he could possibly make at this point of his engineering career. 

No, it couldn't be that. Then, it dawned on him. It was anticipation. 

Years ago, Erik’s karting coach dropped him and moved on to train Simon Niles, whose parents paid almost twice as much as his own. A week later, the American kid was walking around the track, laughing with his friends about his coach telling him he simply had more talent than Lehnsherr. Many years later, during his debut in Formula 1 (he got signed by Williams two years after Niles had his first race as the second driver for Haas), he passed Simon in the paddock before the second free practice. He saw Erik, and there it was, that same, condescending smile on his lips, the one thing that hadn't changed about his appearance. 

Years ago, Erik considered dropping out of the regional novice karting tournament, left without a coach mid-season. 

Now, he was third in the drivers’ standings, fully intent on taking the second spot on the final race of the season. And so he would make an impression so good, Charles Xavier was gonna beg to work with him, ignoring his daddy's money, the hopes of Niles ever leaving midfield departing together with his race engineer. 

“I want to make a decent first impression, I guess,” he shrugged, even though Fred obviously couldn't tell.

“Erik, you don't make decent first impressions, ever. When you came to me, you didn't even sit down properly before telling me I needed to sign you because you wanted to win a championship, and not waste your time at Williams. That's why I signed you.” he remembered that. A smile found his lips again. “Why do you even care so much?”

“I want to win a championship.”

“Then tell him that, tomorrow. And try sitting down first.”

— ◇ —

“I want you,” he said the next day, extending his hand to Charles Xavier, sitting across from him at their restaurant table, while still standing up himself. So much for following Fred's advice, “to help me get a street named after me in Maranello.”

Chapter Text

The issue with superficial analysis is that as useful as it is in high-pressure situations where a certain amount of experience-born intuition is used when deciding on the most suitable approach, it is very inefficient when long term results come into the picture. 

During a race, it is simply unachievable to take all tracked factors into consideration, even with the entire team glued to their screens. Depending on varying circumstances, certain components will be ignored in favour of other, more relevant data. However, once the race is over, you may start to notice things you overlooked because they weren't impacting the outcome of that particular race, and you should begin to think about a time and place when these very same factors will be most important. 

Once you understood that, you could put that knowledge in the trash because human behaviours aren't exactly numbers and graphs and, oh my God, how much Charles wished they were. 

Life would've been so much less complicated if every one of his decisions came with a premade forecast of its consequences in the next five years. A rating on a fatherly disappointment scale would also be quite delightful. Unfortunately, he could never have anything in his life, and so a quick mental list of pros and cons would have to suffice.

“So?” the silence was finally broken by Raven who must've noticed Charles wasn't going to say a thing anytime soon, considering he just stared at the paused image of Erik Lehnsherr's face on her TV screen for a solid thirty seconds. He was sure, if she focused a little more, she could see switches being flipped, knobs getting turned inside his brain. 

“So what?” he said, a touch dumbfoundedly.  Guessing by the face she made at him, he looked way more stupid than he felt. The attempt at regaining at least some of his usual, respectable appearance wasn't too successful. He even straightened in his seat, which only earned him another impatient look from his sister, who now seemed to be drilling holes in his head with her glare. “It's nice of him to say that, isn't it?”

“Oh, for God's sake, Charles, but will you consider it? This could be it!” She ran a hand through her hair and walked across the room, clearly frustrated. 

With so many conflicting thoughts flying around his mind, bumping into the walls of his skull and then shooting into the opposite direction, he could not think of anything to say in this situation. 

Furthermore, the bullet points he tried writing on a nonexistent yellow note stuck onto his frontal lobe were coming together so slowly he could just as well be carving them out with a chewed-on toothpick on a hard surface of choice (preferably a brick he could later throw at Simon Niles). 

So, instead of torturing Raven by having her listen to him trying to string a sentence together in his current state, he sent her an apologetic look that must've looked at least somewhat believable (miserable), because these never worked on Raven, more than knowledgeable when it came to his tricks, and now, it seemed to be more effective than it usually was. It made something about her expression shift, suddenly growing softer. 

He could tell she cared, even if she was rarely willing to admit that. “You could work for them, and maybe I would finally get a break from hearing you complain about your job. That you chose.”

He laughed, feeling a warm, fond feeling well up in his stomach. When he first began to process the offer, still hearing a tiny voice in the back of his mind telling him it must've all been a joke, it did seem like a good choice, a rescue even. 

Now, the list of cons included a possibility of getting disowned and having to work with someone who could end up being much worse than Niles (three question marks next to that one as it didn't seem like a realistic threat, yet, who knows, Lehnsherr could be a psychopath). The list of pros, on the other hand, was just “NO SIMON NILES” written in red, with seven? (eight, actually) exclamation marks. Two to one. 

“I don't know, Raven,” he sighed, finally. “How do I even know he's not, uh, joking?”

She raised an eyebrow at him, like he was the one making a joke, a mediocre one at that. “And why on Earth would he do that? Is his race engineer really leaving?”

He nodded, an image of Emma Frost popping up in his head. He always found her terrifying, in all fairness, thought she looked like the type of woman to wear jewellery that turned into shuriken, or something.

“So he must be looking for a new one, right?”

“He did say it's not yet decided–”

“Then what's stopping you?” now it was his turn to look at her like she had just said something ridiculous (which, honestly, she kind of had). 

The frontal lobe sticky note glared at him now. Possibly getting disowned or Lehnsherr turning out to be a psychopath. Tough choice. He'd flip a coin if he could.

“How do I know it'll be better at Ferrari? A team that lets their drivers do and say whatever they want doesn't seem like a good working environment,” he was trying really hard to believe his own words, “plus, the guy might be insane.”

“Then that'll make the two of you.”

“That's not very nice of you.”

“Well, it's not very smart of you to ignore such an opportunity and yet we're still having this conversation because you're scared of what our dad would think if you decided to leave.”

He froze at that. Erik Lehnsherr potentially making blood sacrifices and eating virgins (with three question marks!) was indeed just a way to hide that his only real worry regarding the offer was Brian Xavier's reaction. One to one, it was. And the pros list included more exclamation marks. Raven must've noticed his reaction because she marched over to the couch from where she was standing and put her hand on his arm, tapping it lightly in a vaguely comforting fashion.

“He'll understand,” and as much as he wanted to trust her words, he just couldn't get himself to. 

He often called Raven, who declared she would never go into motorsports because they bore her at a very young age, a black sheep of the family. He knew very well that outside of rare Christmas dinners and their father's secretary sending flowers to her shows, the relationship between her and their dad grew much more casual. Maybe that's what it should look like when you have adult kids. 

He couldn't possibly tell, as his relationship with their father was never the same as Raven's to begin with. As the older sibling, Charles made sure to get every first out of the way. 

He was the first to come back from school with a bad grade after he spent the night before reading. He was the first to disappoint his father when he declared he would rather be an engineer and didn't want to start karting. Raven never knew this, she was too little to remember how long it took before their father spoke to him in the same tone again, without a threatening hardness to it. 

Then there were the girlfriends. The only time it was Raven who got to do something first. When she was fourteen and Charles was seventeen, Raven brought her first girlfriend over. She hadn't come out to anyone before that and Charles felt a little betrayed. She must've known, and still she didn't say a word. The girl that came with her was a real sweetheart, and so their father had kept silent until after she was gone. He was upset and Charles thought it was the first time he saw him scream at Raven. He blamed himself for it, he should've got that one out of the way too, but he was too terrified to do it. 

She wanted to leave, back then, and only abandoned that idea because he begged her not to. And because their father apologised the next morning. 

Only a couple years later, and months after his first boyfriend came over, when at the dinner table his dad asked him when he would introduce his girlfriend to him and that he should find one in college because it's embarrassing that he still doesn't have anyone, he realised his apology to Raven was a one time thing. 

He loved his daughter, yet he considered her a lost cause, who he still supported because it would be improper not to. And Charles, for some reason, he considered a work in progress. He'd rather lie to himself about his own son for the rest of his life than admit he didn't turn out the way he wanted him to. 

Raven never knew any of this, and considered Charles's fear of their father's reaction irrational. While he was just scared because he couldn't tell at what point he, too, would be considered a failed project.

“I don't want him to lose credibility. What kind of team principal loses even the employees he's related to?” That seemed reasonable enough an excuse. 

“One that knows what's good for his team, and this whole thing with Niles clearly isn't. Also, I thought you wanted to prove you weren't hired just because you're his son?” How come he always managed to set himself up like that, he could not tell. He sighed, defeated as she laughed, throwing her head back. She had always been a sharp mind. 

“Let me think about this,” he said, finally. It probably wasn't the answer she expected, but it was something, for the both of them. 

— ◇ —

And so he thought. After Raven went to bed, having reminded him at least four times to think about it, he finally got to sit down with his laptop and actually work. Ferrari transfer or not, he still was at McLaren and one infuriating American wouldn't change that he was good at his job. He analysed new simulation results uploaded into the database, went over possible Qatar race strategies, noted to ask for clarification about the cockpit setup. 

When he checked the clock, it was two in the morning, so around ten in England. He brushed his hair out of his face (it was getting longer, if he was to get into any talks with Ferrari, he would need to cut it to look at least somewhat presentable). And oh, there it was. He was thinking about the offer. He shook his head, trying to get rid of the idea, at least until he had got this thing sorted. 

Ten in the morning, England. He quickly typed a message to Sean, using the work channel. Two words, just a “Zoom now?” and a few seconds later, instead of a response, there was an incoming video call from the junior engineer he had under his care. 

“Cassidy! Good to see you, how's it go–”

“Are you really leaving us?”

“I– What?” he took a good look at the guy now, he looked completely stressed out. He was away for what, not even two full days and his crew was already losing their minds?

“Are you really going to sign with Ferrari?” Charles didn't know the answer to that. Once he was done with this, he would think about it, he really would, and he would find an answer. This was still too early. “Oh my God, you are.”

“What, no! Sean I– Good Lord, I don't know!” he exclaimed, not entirely sure what answer would be the least awful. He knew Sean professionally, he couldn't possibly guess what his stance on workplace gossip was. And he certainly didn't want the entirety of the McLaren factory to find out he was switching teams, when he himself still hadn't known if he was. 

“Is it because of Simon? Oh, what am I saying, of course it is. He's been walking around the factory telling everybody that you couldn't possibly leave because no one will want you, that he would fire you if he could, and then Mr Xavier called him into his office, and Angel heard he told him to keep it down, and he said Simon was right, and he promised to replace you, I don't blame you, Charles, but there is no one who could take your place, and, oh my God, what are we gonna do without you, he's going to eat us all alive, Charles, I wish you wouldn't leave, but I also understand you completely, because the things he's saying, they're awful, but–”

“Sean. Sean! Slow down. My father said what?” for a quick moment he saw red. 

The moment was now. The moment he would get written off. In the morning his father told him he would need to act civil, and then he was in Woking promising to replace him. Replace him . Arguably the most competent member of his godforsaken team, because poor Simon Niles doesn't know how to do his own fucking job. 

All those years, all those adjustments his father had to make to his vision of the son he wanted because Charles kept choosing differently than he wished he would, and he would consider him a failed project over a talentless bastard, whose biggest skill was probably ruining everyone's day and crashing into a wall when the race was going too well for him.

“Oh my God, I shouldn't have said that, now you're definitely going to leave, oh my God, I am so sorry,” he could not listen to this for a second longer. Not sleep-deprived, on the other side of the world, when he couldn't walk into his father's office and scream into his face, not helpless in his sister's apartment in Las Vegas.

“Listen to me, Sean. I sent you some files, you review them, put them into the simulator, let me know what comes out. Get Angel to talk to the mechanics, tell her I emailed her the inquiries I want her to make. It's night over here, I'm going to sleep soon, so if you need me, I'll be online in a couple hours. I'm flying straight to Qatar, we won't see each other at the factory this week. Take care,” and before the kid got the chance to say anything, he ended the call. 

He closed his laptop and stared at the ceiling for a little while. He promised to replace you. Seems like they both made promises they couldn't keep. Charles promised Raven he would think about the offer. He didn't believe he needed to anymore.

— ◇ —

…Or maybe he did? 

“Charles, please tell me you're kidding.” Raven was sitting on the kitchen floor the next morning, looking up at him in disbelief. He told her everything, how could he not. “He promised that dick he would replace you, and you're still not sure? You want him to actually fire you before you finally decide to do what's good for you?”

“He probably didn't mean it like that, I'm telling you, he–” he didn't actually get to finish because she suddenly stood up, almost knocking a kitchen stool over, and snatched his phone from the table.

“What's the number?”

“What?”

“The number. To Ferrari, their team principal, or that German guy. Whatever. Give me the number,” she was almost seething, and in his mind he could see the teenage Raven, stomping in place like she was close to doing now, whenever he acted dense and she'd had enough.

“Raven, this is ridiculous–” he tried reaching out for his phone, and she just raised her hand, holding it up. He could still reach it, so she wasn't realistically achieving anything, but it was an A+ for effort. Really, some things never changed.

“Charles, the number,” she muttered, and he could be certain that if he dragged it out a minute longer, smoke would start coming out her ears. 

“It's probably in the contact database, I could look for–” it really wasn't his day when it came to getting to finish his sentences. Yet now, it wasn't Raven who interrupted him. 

It was his own phone lighting up in her hand, and immediately starting to vibrate. An incoming call, from an unknown number. He reached for it again, and this time she gave it to him willingly, as he mouthed “great timing” at her with a devilish smile on his lips. She kicked him in the shin for that. 

He winced and answered the call. The next few minutes were mostly silent, with his sister almost holding her breath as if that was going to help her overhear who the person on the other side was and what they were saying. The silence was only disrupted every so often by Charles saying “No, that's not a problem at all,” “Yes, I understand,” “I appreciate it, thank you,” and an awful lot of humming, in a wide variety of tones and expressions. 

Finally, the call was ended, and Raven looked at him with poorly concealed anticipation. Whether she was curious to know about the conversation that had just taken place or just couldn't wait to continue screaming at him, he was unsure about.

“Get your stuff, we have to get me a decent suit, I didn't bring any with me,” and when that didn't seem to clear the confusion, he added: “And find us a good Italian place around here, I have to start practising my pasta-identifying skills.”

— ◇ —

Both missions ended with a success, he thought, when he was sitting in a bougie restaurant in Qatar in his brand new light blue cotton suit (Raven said it made his eyes pop, although his eyes felt quite normal, and they seemed to be staying in their designated spot like usual), ready to apply his detailed knowledge on the difference between penne rigate and penne lisce when needed. 

That was, of course, until Erik Lehnsherr was standing over him, extending his hand to him, and… telling him he wanted him? Oh, to get him that street in Maranello. The Ferrari propaganda thing. Right.

“It's a pleasure to meet you too, Mr Lehnsherr,” he stood up, before shaking the guy's hand, as Fred Vasseur looked at his driver, infinitely amused. “Let's sit down, and we'll see what can be done about that street.” 

He initially wanted to give him his most perfect business smile, but he was sure he caught the exact moment when Lehnsherr slapped himself mentally, and so he settled for some of the less practised, genuine ones. If the man worried about first impressions, he most certainly didn't practise any sort of demonic rituals that included butchering babies in his free time.

“Erik. You can call me Erik, Mr Xavier.”

“Charles, please. It's only fair.”

Chapter Text

Erik spent the first couple of minutes scanning the room looking for any phone cameras directed at their table, and, to his grand disappointment, found that there were none. 

His companions seemed to be quite engaged in some form of professional small talk, something that was neither fun nor easy for him. The man across the table from him, however, looked delighted, or at least very well pretended to be. Fred was, as usual, halfway through telling an anecdote Erik and Emma had probably already heard, and Charles would probably hear another eighty seven times had he decided to sign the contract. Emma, who has always been strangely fond of their team principal and his stories, looked like she was genuinely, attentively listening, but she could have been pretending too. Race engineers. 

If he really thought about it, it’d be great for her and Charles to share some similarities, just enough to ensure his (hopefully) future partnership with the man going smoothly. Although, he wouldn’t lie if he said he’d welcome some differences as well. 

That smile that Charles gave him after what must’ve been a horrendous first impression on his side, for one, was a great start. Emma rarely smiled, and when she did, it was hardly ever a genuine, warm smile that Xavier wore so effortlessly. Hers were rather, for a lack of better word, frosty. (Good God, he was making name puns in his head now. Really lucky for him that Charles Xavier wasn’t really a punnable name. Nevertheless, he felt there was a certain X-ray-like quality to his frighteningly blue eyes. Sweet Jesus.) 

Just as his mind was starting to spiral, which happened to be even easier while registering that Fred was now talking about eating the table flower arrangement at Toto Wolff’s wedding? …whatever, he caught a glimpse of the guy opposite him, who must’ve been observing him completely spacing out for some time now, as his slightly raised right eyebrow could only be read as a sign of amusement. 

That shook him awake somehow, and got him to straighten and look anywhere but back at Charles. Once he felt assured that the man’s attention had shifted elsewhere, he finally tried peeking at him again, only to find out he had been wrong and Xavier was still looking at him. 

Caught red handed again he had no choice but to maintain the eye contact, now fully taking in the Brit in front of him. It’s not like he hadn’t seen him before, but he clearly wasn’t one made for cameras, as none of the pictures or videos he saw of him did the softness of his features justice. 

His hair was slightly longer than Erik’s own, reaching just below his ear. The pale blue suit he wore worked really well, if he did say so himself, as it made the colour of Charles’s eyes (ones he was still looking straight into) even more intense, one could even say that to an unnatural extent. He eventually tilted his head slightly in what he hoped would be considered a questioning fashion. All he got in response was a gentle, slightly apologetic smile. 

“And that’s why you should never ask me to be your best man!” Fred exclaimed enthusiastically in that moment, which shouldn’t feel sudden considering every one of his stories was always told in a really animated manner, yet for some reason it did. 

He looked in his direction and then at Emma, nodding her head, one of the corners of her mouth ever so slightly lifted, still, not really a smile. He then looked back at Charles, who was laughing now, even though he could tell with a solid dose of certainty that he hadn’t been paying attention just now. 

“I also stole his best driver from him, though that’s mostly his fault anyway.”

“And look how that ended… Lewis with a street in Maranello, anyone would risk a friendship for that,” said Emma, dreamily. She was still a junior engineer when he won his first title with Ferrari, and made sure everybody at the factory knew she was there to witness it. (Erik couldn’t blame her, who wouldn’t?)

“Speaking of, you know, stealing employees, and street names in Maranello…” Charles prompted and cut off, like he didn’t quite know where to go with it, and although his expression looked rather ashamed to be bringing this up so early into the meeting, there was a sharpness to his eyes, one that hadn’t been there before, one that you could only really interpret as determination. 

So he really was a diplomat, and a bit of an actor at that. He applauded both skills, as he possessed neither. He could, on the other hand, be so blunt about things, nothing seemed really straightforward in comparison.

“Let’s get to business, I still have a race to win tonight.” Nailed it. (He was sure of that, Emma was making one of her weird faces again.) “Don’t get me wrong, Fred, but both me and Emma have heard that wedding story at least eight times each by now, and I assure you, you will have much more time to torture our poor Charles here once he actually signs with us.”

He grinned, a wide smile that some compared to that of a shark, which honestly didn’t sound half bad. Especially since it scared the living hell out of most people. None at this table, though. His team because they were way too used to it, and Charles Xavier because for whatever reason he seemed to understand that Erik not letting him finish was a friendly gesture. Charles even nodded, barely noticeably, and yet noticeably enough for him to catch it. They were already working as a team, in a way. Good, that’s good.

He made sure to be more engaged in this part of the conversation, whether it was by making fun of Charles’s poorly concealed surprise at the base salary offered him by Fred (“Did you even get pocket money at McLaren?” Emma was near scolding him for that until the man sitting next to her laughed brilliantly at the remark), or contributing to the performance expectations discussion (“I really want that street in Maranello.” “I got that, Erik, and I intend on making sure you get it.” Even his current race engineer smiled at that.) 

Then, around the time the desserts came and Erik had already checked the place for journalists or even regular fans that could potentially take photos of their little party like four times (really, was no one eating lunch near the circuit?) the matter of handling the situation PR-wise was finally brought up.

“I say we announce it tonight,” he said, maybe a shade too impatient to seem nonchalant about it.

“That’s why you’re not allowed to make these decisions, Lehnsherr,” Frost said, with little humour to her voice. Having spent a couple years being on his team, she was fairly familiar with his constant need to embarrass Simon Niles, and did take pride in being one of the people that made it possible, since she wasn’t the biggest fan of the American driver herself. 

He was sure, under any other circumstances, she’d be the first to agree with him. Now, she was acting professional, God bless her for that, somebody had to, after all. He glanced at Charles, who was looking at him from under his raised eyebrows, blue eyes scanning Erik thoroughly, carrying out an analysis. When he caught his gaze, his expression quickly softened, a subtle smile on his lips this time (did the man ever stop smiling?)

“I appreciate the eagerness to announce our partnership, Erik,” he said then, his dessert fork fiddling with a piece of pavlova on his plate. “Although I think it is rather unlikely for the Ferrari lawyers to write the contract on such short notice. Plus, I wouldn’t like to steal the spotlight of your win tonight.”

“Already supporting your driver’s rival?” he tilted his head with a sly smile, which got him an equally good humoured eye roll in response. 

“I have to agree with Charles. Paperwork for these transfers is always a lot. Especially since, I believe, your father will try to stop us from going through with this,” Fred was addressing Charles now and it made Erik think. 

How were they able to meet so soon, he wondered, taking into consideration that Brian Xavier must’ve been doing everything in his power (so, quite a lot) to stop his very valuable team member, and, which also seemed to be of relevance, his son from leaving. Or could it be possible that he was on board with this? 

No, didn’t seem too likely to him once he remembered the phone call he had with his team principal merely a week ago. Homicidal intent, Vasseur said then. Or did Charles’s father just… not know? 

He caught a glimpse of his eyes now, all soft rims and pools of azure. He tried putting the image side by side with the one from earlier, strong and cold, a roughly edged ice sculpture. It created a dissonance of sorts in his mind, because how could someone this gentle and proper, with skills and familial support that could get them anywhere they wanted, be so desperate for a position they didn’t need in the first place? Was he really ready to go behind his father’s back for this? His questions, luckily, hadn’t remained unanswered for long.

“That shouldn’t be an issue. My current contract expires at the end of this season, and I still haven’t been offered a re-signing. Can’t blame me for looking elsewhere, really,” Charles shrugged, and even Emma was staring at him a little surprised now. He quickly noticed the clear shift in the atmosphere and added lightheartedly: “Especially since I got such an unrejectable offer from Erik here.”

That didn’t help him much, the three of them still facing him with expressions that varied from Fred’s subtle confusion to Erik’s grimace that looked almost offended. Yet, the man in front of them just chuckled, shaking his head slightly, and then putting on another one of his brightest smiles, this time with a faint bitter aftertaste to it.

“I have been informed…” he hesitated for a bit there, as if looking for the right way to put it, “that there have been talks of my possible replacement at the factory during my absence these past few days. I believe I’m doing both sides a favour.”

There was no right way to put that. Even with his limited knowledge about him, Erik could tell there wasn’t a single scenario in which degrading Charles would be a good decision. Sense of humour and brilliant smiles aside, if Erik Lehnsherr was to trust anything in the world with his life, it would be Emma’s analysis. And she said he was better than some of the sport’s most experienced race engineers in his very first seasons. 

So unless Brian Xavier managed to snatch Bono from Mercedes or drag some other legend back from retirement, this was an unfathomably stupid choice to make as a team principal. And what for? A driver who never grew up and a week of buzz around your name in the press? He felt he was starting to hate Niles even more now. He never thought that was even possible.

“You’re not signing with McLaren, are you?” he whipped his head around to look at Emma, who barely graced him with a look, and when she did it was one she reserved for times when he was being an idiot in her opinion (she had that opinion quite often, in truth). 

He laughed it off, yet hoped immensely that Charles would get the allusion. There really wasn’t anybody available they could successfully replace him with without humiliating the entire team in the process. It’s not like he opposed this specific team getting ridiculed (between hiring Simon Niles and inviting Donald Trump to the garage in the past, they didn’t have many redeeming qualities in Erik’s books, maybe except for having the title of Lewis Hamilton’s first F1 team), but he felt strange about all of this nonetheless.

“How about a week after Abu Dhabi? I will have the contracts sorted, and then we'll release a statement,” Fred offered and Charles cheered up at that, joy radiating off him as if wide beams of light. 

“And when am I going to start working?” he inquired, clearly excited. Suddenly all that was left of the lousily covered sourness the mention of the McLaren team principal evoked was a misty memory. 

Erik wished it would remain this way, now closely observing the passion that seemed to fill Charles Xavier's entire body, maybe even reaching beyond its slim frame. He reminded him of Emma now, in those rare moments when she was drifting off into remote realms of her wonderful mind, losing herself in numbers and graphs, quick fingers and even quicker wits. 

He wondered if he would get to see him like this, in love with what he was doing, often. A laugh rang in his head. Who would've thought petty revenge could bring yet another genius into his life. 

“As soon as you feel ready. Emma will be able to join you in the factory for the first couple of weeks, if you ever need her assistance,” said Fred with a warm smile, clearly just as thrilled to see the man's enthusiasm as Erik was. Emma, like usual, was a little more reserved.

“We wouldn't like to rush you,” and even though they both knew she meant well, and Charles nodded humbly at her words, when their eyes met over the table, they both rolled them jokingly. 

Erik wasn't necessarily a fan of big claims and poor attempts at prophesying, yet this could work. He certainly wanted it to. 

Chapter Text

Charles couldn't wait to tell Raven about the meeting. “He’s not insufferable!” he could say to her, and she would probably comment on his possible mental issues, then moving on straight to asking him about every single detail about the lunch. 

He would most definitely start from all the unimportant things one could possibly think of, such as the location, and the food (even though it was rather lovely), just to build some tension and have a laugh at Raven’s growing despair. 

Maybe only after she had screamed something about him being completely and absolutely infuriating, although still not as bad as the French photographer she was scheduled with this weekend in Nice (she always complained about the French, he couldn’t really blame her), would he finally tell her something of relevance. “Salary increase of 40%,” he would sneak in as her yelling got tame enough for her to hear him. An immediate pause on his sister’s side of the phone, and then a “Now you’re talking.” 

Next, he could start telling her about things that were really worth mentioning (not that salary wasn’t, of course, but that wasn’t even a fraction of what convinced him to sign with Ferrari, much rather a nice backup if his father decided to demand he paid his trust fund money back in wake of his betrayal). 

He could, for example, talk about how genuinely funny and not-aggravating-at-all his new driver would be, a vision of never having to endure Simon Niles again already filling him with a bubbly sense of happiness. He obviously still had to survive two races in McLaren colours, two of the most intense races, as well, but that, oddly enough, seemed like a low price to pay for getting to work with one of the rare cases where the clear lack of media training made someone infinitely more affable. 

Charles could barely remember why he even questioned Lehnsherr’s, Erik’s, good nature in the first place, the rumours of his cruelty both on and off track slipping his mind, like a dream forgotten right after waking up. He actually felt like he was having another one of those when the great white of the Formula 1 grid offered to call a cab for him so no reporters would bother him on the way to the hotel to change.

“I don’t believe I’m recognizable enough for anyone to do so, especially since my hotel is two streets down from here. I’ll be perfectly fine taking a walk there,” he recalled himself laughing, as he was sitting in the taxi that was currently waiting at the traffic lights. It goes without saying he used up most of his negotiation skills during the meeting.

“You are now, remember?” Erik said to him just a few minutes prior, standing by his side in front of the restaurant, in an impeccably fitted tan suit that accentuated all the angles of his tall figure. (Charles, understandably, only noticed this because he was the brother of Raven Xavier who always appreciated a good cut, and she’d be very pleased to hear about this, beyond flattering, one.) 

He could almost see the toothy grin as he remembered the German driver adding “Thanks to that half-brained papaya I don’t see you catching a break soon. Allow me.”

Then, Erik Lehnsherr hailed a cab in what must’ve been record time, because Charles didn’t even get to argue that they spent most of six quarters in a very crowded place right next to the Qatar circuit and no one seemed to have paid them any mind. And now, as he was exiting the car, he couldn’t help but think that sharks really deserved an apology for all the bad press they got over the years, all the two-legged ones included. 

— ◇ —

It wasn’t until he was in his room an hour later, already dressed in his team uniform, when a message from Raven popped up on his phone. “Irene says hi,” it said, with a picture attached. And from the photo, a smugly-faced Erik looked straight back at him, a digital image of Charles himself standing next to him, caught probably in the middle of explaining to the driver how he wasn’t famous. 

You are now, remember? And Erik was correct, he definitely was now, and would be even more so with a picture of him and the Ferrari first-seater spreading across all social media platforms like wildfire. Then, another realisation struck him. 

Lehnsherr was looking directly into the camera, meaning he saw it, and didn’t say a thing. Hell, he wasn't even sure the guy didn't call whoever took that photo on them, disappointed with not getting his way during the negotiations. Still, he insisted on calling him that cab, and Charles could tell for sure he wouldn’t have to look far for the pictures of that as well. 

As expected, the first thing that welcomed him once he opened Twitter were two shots that served as appropriate context to the post that said “We’re so getting the Lehnsherr-Xavier duo at Ferrari next season.” Erik's impatience he couldn't guess the root of really was quite astonishing.

That would be it for keeping the talks low profile. Cat’s out the box, he thought, as the prospect of an angry phone call, or, even worse, an office confrontation with his father charged him with immeasurable amounts of dread. 

The latter felt so much like a horror, he was disappointed his phone hadn’t lit up with Brian Xavier’s number before he left the hotel to get to the paddock. This time around, the drive wasn’t as pleasant, and above all it was a necessity, instead of an act of kindness born out of… Well, Charles wasn’t even sure what exactly initiated it, alongside Lehnsherr’s visible eagerness when it came to the matter of coming out with the contract announcement. 

He did hear enough about him and Niles disliking each other, and as much as he related to Erik if such was the case, he couldn’t think of a reason the two drivers would share a rivalry aggressive enough to have prompted whatever humiliation ritual this could’ve been. (Not when Simon was stuck in mid-field, while Erik had the runner-up spot within his reach.) 

No, it must’ve been something else entirely, he figured as he stepped out of the car, a familiar noise reaching his ears now, soothing his nerves ever so slightly. The walk past the paddock entry was more a blur than anything else, distant voices calling out to him, probably journalists praying on a single comment from him before he gets to the garage and interrupting his work will be considered unprofessional. 

He wasn’t in touch with his body enough to tell for sure that he wasn’t running when a hand clasped his shoulder. He was ready to shake the insistent reporter off and cuss them out for invading his personal space, but when, in an unexpected display of sensibility, he decided to trace the arm with his eyes, they ended up meeting with a pair of confusingly blue-green ones, looking down on him from a few inches above.

“Great to see you, my friend,” Lehnsherr patted his shoulder now, with a clearly fake and very overdone serious expression. A twitch of the corner of his mouth gave him away, but Charles could bet all the cameras, phones and eyes around them wouldn't catch that. At this point, parading with a Ferrari contract stuck to his forehead would be more subtle, “Did you get to your hotel safely?”

“I did, thank you,” he smiled stiffly. And then, noticing their surroundings getting weirdly quiet, like everyone suddenly started holding their breaths, added, lowering his voice: “Good to know your care about my well-being isn't only a thing for the cameras.”

Trying to leave him with that, he turned to go, regained his quick pace and hoped the element of surprise would make Erik abandon the idea of further pursuit. It wasn't his day, evidently. Soon enough, the German driver was walking by his side, having caught up with only a few long steps. 

“Oh, you're misunderstanding. I do care about your well-being, the cameras just happen to always be there,” he said, grinning at him. 

Charles started to think Ferrari only got him under control (to a certain, rather limited, extent) because he let them, as otherwise the man seemed to have very little regard for any sort of authority and societal expectations, which, he believed, could be charming in a way when used to question oppressive systems and norms. 

Heightening the probability of Charles getting torn apart upon stepping into the McLaren garage and then whatever would be left of his corpse getting disowned and shipped to whichever corner of the world Brian Xavier found the least pleasant, wasn't fulfilling that purpose, hence not ticking the box required for him to find himself won over by Lehnsherr's antics.

“I thought we agreed on something earlier, did we not?” he looked up at the German driver then, wearing one of his sterner expressions. 

To his surprise, the man beside him didn't deflect that with another smartass kind of answer, instead squinting his eyes in a slightly confused manner. What followed was an apologetically crooked half smile that seemed like his own facial muscles weren't used to it.

“We did, I recall. Really, it could’ve been a coincidence,” he was almost sure Erik tried sounding reassuring with that, to no avail.

“That we met for lunch during the race weekend a week after you offered me a job?” he hoped he raised his eyebrow high enough for the other man to see how foolish he considered the idea to be.

“I used to get away with worse,” and like that, the Jaws-poster-worthy grin was back, “Flash them a smile and figure something out!” 

Only after Lehnsherr clasped his shoulder again, giving it a firm squeeze this time, did Charles take note of a group of people wearing red shirts to their right. Above their heads, a banner version of the man beside him looked down on the both of them. Stealing a glance at it, number 93 and the name Erik Lehnsherr spelled neatly next to it, left him feeling sort of uneasy. 

Up there, was another one of the countless Ferrari sons, men who lived like the red suit was worth it all, their very own crimson blood included. The tifosi have had their heroes, and their warriors. So many people, so many entries in the team’s hall of fame, so many streets in Maranello. The garage they were standing in front of had hosted the greatest of all time, and yet to him, they were all banners. 

Posters, beautiful names, picture-perfect and most of all loyal, to the history, to their uniform, to their beloved Ferrari. Fictional. 

And so, as he lowered his head, confronted by the cocky look of someone who believed he owned the place, instead of being one of the many knights on their black prancing horses willing to die for an idea, a vision in which they were neither the first nor the last to take the main role, he found it infinitely more real than the myth he initially thought he, too, would soon become a part of. 

Now this was a source of comfort. Lying for a little while surely wouldn’t kill him, he figured as all fight within him dissipated, sudden lightweight sense to his body leaving him in a state of strange giddiness. 

For the first time since arriving at the paddock, he smiled, genuinely, and judging by the spark in Erik’s eyes gaining intensity, also a little mischievously, which wasn’t exactly a look he sported often, but still seemed appropriate. 

If any higher being was in charge, it must’ve decided to name the lovely Sunday as the day of absolutely zero willpower for Charles Xavier. 

If the deity happened to listen to human prayers, he was sure it was Raven’s fault. Otherwise, he would need to re-evaluate Lehnsherr on the matter of blood sacrifices.

“Have a great race, my friend,” was the last thing he said to the man before turning to go. 

He straightened his shirt on the way to his designated spot at Niles’s pit wall, chuckling to himself at the ridiculous orange coloured everything around him. The Italian team most definitely wouldn’t end up being a thing for fairy tales, contrary to popular belief, but at the very least he could finally stop dressing like a radioactive papaya to work. 

His humour, as good as it was, didn’t last long, soon enough shaken by the image of Sean Cassidy in his seat. Or, to be precise, the first words that left the kid’s mouth when he noticed him walking in.

“I was told to take over today, I’m so sorry, Charles. Mr Xavier told me to tell you to come to his office, Charles, I am so very sorry, really, you have to believe–” he didn’t hear the rest of it. If he looked past the anxiety that creeped up on him with every step, the whole thing was working in his favour. It was one race with Simon Niles in his headphones less, after all. He couldn’t deny himself that sort of personal win.

— ◇ —

He knocked on the door of the small office used by his father during races, pushing it open upon hearing a muffled sound of invitation coming from the other side. Brian Xavier was sitting in his chair, with a tablet in hand, possibly looking through data for the race that was to begin in, Charles glanced at his watch, 87 minutes. 

“Sit down, son.”

Chapter Text

“As the drivers get ready for lights out here in Qatar, it seems like the McLaren garage has had some last minute staff changes.”

“That's right, it seems that Simon Niles's race engineer is not there with him tonight. Instead it looks like the junior race engineer Sean Cassidy has taken over.”

“I don't dare to doubt the young man's abilities, but is it a sensible choice to make at one of the last races of the season?”

“It might as well be. For those of you just catching up, there has been some real drama going on at McLaren.” 

“Oh yes, after Vegas things have been heated between the American prodigy, Simon Niles and his engineer, Charles Xavier.”

“Yes, you heard that right, Xavier, just like the McLaren's principal, Brian Xavier,” it was the last thing Erik heard before losing interest in the livestream and taking his earphones out. 

He only put it on to find out why on God's green Earth he didn't see Charles with other McLaren engineers on the big screens in the Ferrari garage. The screens didn't have any sound on so he resorted to his phone in order to get any sort of commentary, but just like usual, the commentators were more focused on the drama of it all than providing him with any sort of context. 

Is it a sensible choice to make, one of them asked and Erik had to hold in a snort. He found it very hard to believe that said choice was actually a consciously made decision and not another sign of Niles terrorizing everyone around him. It had to be, after all. No one in their right mind would let a guy that looked like he had to get back home early to finish his high school maths homework and had an overall anxious aura to him be the lead race engineer in Qatar of all places. 

Surely Brian Xavier was a little smarter than this. After all, he got enough brains to lead one of the most famous Formula 1 teams of all time. Something else entirely must've happened and soon enough Erik figured out the restlessness he was feeling was just him desperately wanting to know what it was. 

At some point that afternoon, maybe while dissociating in the pre-race team meeting, he realized he was experiencing a weird sense of protectiveness over Charles Xavier, the all too proper Brit who he had just met. 

He had no reason for it, other than their shared past? (that sounded ridiculous even in his head) of getting disrespected by Simon Niles. He had heard a lot about a common enemy uniting people in his life, and somehow it only made sense now, after their silent, almost secretive smiles at lunch, like code. Like “yeah, I hate the motherfucker too”. He was smiling to himself now, just thinking about it.

“What are you grinning about now?” he heard a familiar voice to his right and immediately turned, flashing Darwin some teeth. Darwin was the second Ferrari driver, and possibly the only person on the team, outside of people who worked closest with Erik, like Emma and Fred, obviously, who wasn't losing their shit whenever he looked in their general direction. 

Being a positively terrifying persona on the paddock had its perks, but it was still nice to talk to his people, ones that didn't perceive him as a bloodthirsty monster. Maybe that was another factor responsible for his sympathy for Charles. He seemed to completely disregard whatever crazy reputation Erik had among other people involved with his sport. 

Darwin was also, among other things, the second black Formula 1 driver in history, following in the footsteps of the great Lewis Hamilton and so anyone could guess he didn't have it easy. Erik admired people like him and they got along well. Sometimes people would call them “Ferrari's greatest hits”, which they both hated, and nearly nobody but them could understand why.

— ◇ —

“Really? A German and a black guy and suddenly we're Schumacher and Hamilton? Vettel and Hamilton?” Darwin said once in a press conference earning himself an awkward laugh from the journalist who clearly didn't think this through. 

It was after one of the very first of his races, and as much as Erik wasn't into socialising, he kinda got the feeling they should grab beers later, which was how their friendship, if he could call it that, started. 

When they did, Darwin joked they should move to Mercedes if anyone calls them that one more time, to which Erik replied with “Really? So they can call us Brocedes 2.0? We're just getting to know each other and you already want this beautiful friendship to fail?”

“Williams it is, then!” he exclaimed. 

“God, please no,” he replied to him then.

— ◇ —

“Nothing. I like Qatar,” he replied to him now, shrugging.

“No you don't, Lehnsherr,” he gave him a knowing smile and bumped their shoulders together.

“No I don't, Muñoz,” he really didn't. He wasn't a huge fan of night races in general, they were more tense and even though they looked like lots of fun from an outsider's point of view, they really weren't all that. Darwin always called him out on that, saying he's just a boring old man and that he should live a little. It never worked. 

“So, what is it then? You're that happy Niles is gonna tank in the standings even more now?” and there it was, the biggest reason behind their friendship. They both absolutely despised the American driver. 

They only got around to figuring that out about each other the third time they drank together. One of them (it was too long ago to remember) mentioned the guy and the other, encouraged by either a nice company or the drink in his hand, winced, which ended with them laughing hysterically at how purely unlikeable he was. 

Later, Darwin explained where his attitude towards Niles came from, although Erik would've been perfectly content with the answer being common sense. After all, he never told people his own story and hid behind the excuse of “he's just an entitled brat” to which most people nodded. Emma once tried getting the full reason out of him, with poor results.

“I thought Emma was the mind reader on this team, since when are you one?” he laughed, although the back of his throat felt bitter with it. He still needed to figure out what happened to Charles. Luckily, Darwin just kept giving him reasons to adore him.

“I talked to my sister last night. She's not supposed to be telling me this stuff, but you know how it is,” Darwin's sister, Angel, started working for McLaren a year before Darwin signed with Ferrari for the second seat. She rarely attended races, mostly working from the factory in Woking, assisting simulations and doing stuff way too complicated for either of them to understand. 

The first month she worked there, she bumped into Simon and dropped some of the documents she was carrying. He lashed out at her over it, and it was the first time she broke her NDA while complaining to her brother.

Ever since then, Darwin has been getting regular updates on the gossip within the team, although most of it clearly wasn't as interesting, as he rarely shared it with Erik to protect his sister. Which meant this time it must've been something he wanted to hear.

“What is it?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant. He always did it, and Darwin was merciful enough to never comment on it. After all, he was the one constantly telling him to live a little. Gossip counted as living, at least in Erik's book.

“Xavier told that kid you've probably already seen to replace his son tonight even though he's done practices and qualifying just fine. Plus, she heard him promise Niles he was gonna replace him. Permanently,” well, that was a little disappointing. It's not like he didn't already know that. 

Some of it must've showed in his face, because Darwin scoffed and then immediately followed it by: “She was asked to come here this time, and just texted me she saw Charles Xavier on his way to his father's office a while ago. Neither of them has come out.”

Now that was something. With only a couple of minutes before the drivers had to get into their cars in final preparation before the race, it was very unlikely for the team principal to just dip, instead of checking in with his team. Was… he couldn't really say, reprimanding Charles? begging him not to leave? really that important? The second one at least seemed reasonable, but why replace him in the first place then? 

Politics within the sport rarely concerned him and he was pretty content with it, yet now some knowledge of them would be useful. 

Unfortunately, before he got to ask Darwin (who was actually pretty into the scheming part of Formula 1, mostly thanks to his sister and her regular gossip updates) about it, Fred spotted them and in very Italian (well, at least for a Frenchman) fashion of expressing everything with your hands waved at them in some intricate way that could only be interpreted as “Get in your cars guys, before I kick both your asses.” So that had to wait.

— ◇ —

“You're gaining 0.2 on Howlett in the third sector, do you think you can keep it up for a few more laps before the pit stop?”, Emma's voice rang in his ears. 

The thing about team radios no one really tells you about is that at some point you start feeling like your engineer's voice comes straight from your own head. At least that's what Erik felt at the thirtieth lap of the Qatar Grand Prix, while desperately holding onto his first spot. 

He managed to overtake Summers's Red Bull in the first corner of the first lap, but then at some point Howlett started racing like he was driving a prime era Mercedes car, and not… their actual car this year. He immediately overtook people in front of him and was closing in on Erik, but he in no world intended to give in. 

“Sure can,” he replied quickly to Emma and as the third sector kept getting closer, made sure to push the hardest he could while still being mindful of his tires. Damaging them too much now would be a death sentence upon his chances of winning. And he couldn't have that. 

He was reluctant to admit it, but he had a race engineer to impress after all. Logan already pitted, so he had an advantage of new tires and whatever time his own pit stop would take. He could make up for most of it once he got fresh tires, but it would eventually come down to a couple of tenths of a second.

— ◇ —

“How is Darwin doing?” 

“Currently P5, defending from Niles.”

— ◇ —

“Box, box.”

“Copy that.”

— ◇ —

“Wagner out in turn 7.”

“Shit, is he okay?”

“I'm gonna let you know if we get an update.”

— ◇ —

“Three laps to go, keep the advantage.”

— ◇ —

“Great job Erik. Get in there!”

“Thanks team, you guys weren't so bad yourselves tonight.”

— ◇ —

The first couple of minutes after the race are always a blur, even more so if you happen to win. 

Getting out of the car, some time in the green room, getting weighted, and then suddenly you're on top of the podium listening to your country's anthem as hundreds of fans chant your name below. It is the best feeling in the world, and it simply never gets old. 

There is also something about driving for this particular team, the very spirit of it, that makes it even more remarkable. 

As Logan and Alex sprayed him with champagne, he could see it from the corner of his eye, the sea of red caps and t-shirts, German and Italian flags fluttering together, some with the iconic Ferrari symbol painted on them, like a herd of black horses galloping through a poppy field in bloom. 

He stood up on top of the podium the teenage boy he was all those years ago used to dream of and wondered if Charles would love this view just as much. And as the crowd roared when he lifted up his trophy, as the lights of the Qatar circuit reflected off it, he thought he couldn't wait to show him what it was like to be a part of this.

— ◇ —

“Another wonderful performance from you, Erik. Although Logan did give you a fight, didn't he?” the journalist in front of him asked after he got off the podium, smiling encouragingly. 

If Erik could get rid of one thing in the world, it would be post race interviews. Who would want to come up with PR answers while sweaty, sticky from the champagne, and still severely dehydrated after they've just left a piece of their soul on track? 

Actually, scratch that. Who would want to come up with PR answers, ever? Not him. Vettel of fewer words didn't come from nothing.

“He did,” he shrugged and considered fleeing, but then his brain provided him with an image of Emma looking severely disappointed with him. I give that British sweetheart a month before he gets admitted to a mental hospital because of you, he could almost hear her say. 

“It was definitely impressive, I hope he brings the same energy into Abu Dhabi so we can have some fun next week,” he said, eventually. As much as he loved complaining and couldn't wait for the winter break, it was always entertaining to do some actual racing, which was harder at certain circuits. 

“You've been really strong since the summer break, are you already looking at the Drivers’ Championship next year? With Nash's retirement and the way you've been performing lately, most people believe we're gonna see you and Howlett in a title fight,” hands down, the worst type of question. 

This was precisely why he hated doing this. Nash was indeed retiring and he and Logan were indeed the drivers most often mentioned as possible title contenders. Summers was also up there, although he still lived in the shadow of Red BulI's first driver. 

But did it mean anything? Not at all. 

For all Erik knew, a single person or decision made by them could completely change the outcome of a race or a season. He could end up with a car that's straight up undriveable, or Aston Martin could suddenly pop out with a rocketship and multiple cheating allegations. Each team had hundreds of people hired purely to analyse and predict, and still somehow journalists thought his personal opinion was of any value.

“I'd rather not speculate about that. I am always working towards a title, with or without Robert on the grid,” he smiled in what he thought was a polite manner and tilted his head, as if to ask Am I free to go now? Or are you gonna ask me any more stupid questions? At least he seemed to have got that point across since the interviewer shook his hand and said it was lovely talking to him, like Erik didn't see him wince at that last answer.

— ◇ —

“Hey, Fred!” he called out after the team principal, jogging to catch up to him. He told him he wouldn't be able to join him, Emma, Darwin and his race engineer, for some celebratory dinner, so Erik figured it'd be best to get him now, before he got to leave the paddock.

“What is it, Erik?” he raised an eyebrow at him expectantly. He probably thought Erik wanted a favour. He wouldn't be exactly wrong.

“Do you happen to have Charles’s number?” he already tried asking Darwin to get it from Angel, but she wasn't picking up and so Fred was obviously the best next choice.

“What, you wanna invite him too?” he laughed dryly. “Must I remind you we haven't even signed him yet and he's still working for your rival?” 

Erik was, unfortunately, very aware of that. He actually considered asking Charles if he would want to join them, but he came to a similar conclusion.

“No, I just wanted to text him. Darwin… heard some stuff and you know me, I'm curious,” he actually got to talk with Darwin about this for a bit more right after the race while Emma left them alone to sort out the dinner reservations. Angel messaged him right after the race to say Charles came into the garage about 20 minutes into the race and simply watched it, like he wasn’t involved with any of it.

“You kids and your gossip,” the Frenchman sighed. “Sure, I'll text it to you. But I better not see another headline about you two until we release the transfer statement.”

“Copy that.”

— ◇ —

“Hello?”

“Hello Charles, it's Erik, do you have a minute?”