Archive of Our Own ^beta

If someone had told Max Verstappen that the most embarrassing moment of his life would come with a morphine drip and an audience of half the grid, he would’ve laughed.

If someone had told Charles that same night would become a legend — half tragedy, half comedy — he might never have let Max near solid food again.

It began like any perfect evening in Monaco should: music, wine, and the easy rhythm of laughter echoing off marble. Pierre was arguing about skincare (“It’s science, Lando, not vanity”), Lando was loudly explaining why cats were “basically toddlers with knives,” and Checo was in the middle of a tequila story that made even Fred choke on his drink.

Charles leaned into Max, one hand resting on his thigh beneath the table, a soft smile ghosting his lips. The restaurant’s lighting painted everything gold: the curve of Max’s jaw, the glint of his watch, the wedding band catching candlelight every time his hand moved.

Everything was easy. Everything was fine.

Until Max went quiet.

At first, Charles didn’t notice. He was halfway through a laugh, halfway through a sip of wine, when he felt Max stiffen beside him. His hand twitched once on the tablecloth — then went still.

“Max?” Charles murmured, leaning closer.

Max forced a smile. “Fine,” he muttered. “Just— stomach cramp. Ate too much.”

Pierre frowned. “Since when does Verstappen eat too much?”

“I’m fine,” Max said again, sharper this time. “Stop looking at me like that.”

But he wasn’t fine.

Color had drained from his face, a sheen of sweat breaking along his forehead. His jaw clenched. His hand moved — again and again — to the same spot low on his right side.

Checo’s smile faded. “Hermano, you don’t look so good.”

Charles’ voice dropped, soft but tense. “You’re pale.”

Max huffed. “It’s nothing.” He tried to laugh, but the sound broke into a wince.

Then the pain hit him hard enough to make his breath hitch — sharp, unsteady. He doubled slightly forward, clutching his side.

“Max.”

Now there was no humor left in Charles’ voice. He reached for him, panic rising. “Max, look at me.”

Max tried to straighten, tried to hide the tremor in his hands. “It’s just a cramp,” he said, words forced through clenched teeth. “Just give me a minute.”

“No,” Charles said, already standing. “We’re not waiting.”

Pierre had gone pale. “Do we call—”

“I’m calling,” Charles snapped, fumbling for his phone.

“Don’t,” Max hissed. “It’s embarrassing.”

Charles stared at him, incredulous. “Embarrassing?” His voice cracked with disbelief. “You can’t even stand up.”

Max’s chair scraped as he tried — stubbornly — to rise, but the motion sent a sharp, involuntary sound tearing from his throat. He froze, eyes squeezed shut.

“Sit,” Charles said, voice trembling now, half-order, half-plea.

“I don’t—” Max began, but the rest came out in a strangled gasp.

“Ambulance,” Charles told the operator the second they answered. “Severe abdominal pain, male, late twenties— yes, conscious but barely. Please hurry.”

He knelt beside Max, one hand steady at the back of his neck, the other gripping his own phone so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Stay with me, mon amour. It’s okay. They’re coming.”

Max gave a shaky breath — part defiance, part surrender — before leaning into him, exhausted.

Minutes stretched into a lifetime. The restaurant had gone silent except for the low hum of panic and the scrape of chairs being moved to make room. Pierre hovered nearby, useless but determined. Lando kept muttering “he’s fine, he’s fine,” like it might make it true.

When the paramedics finally burst in, it was all flashing lights and rapid voices.

Blood pressure. IV line. Questions Charles couldn’t answer fast enough.

One of them turned to him, clipboard in hand. “Relation to the patient?”

Charles didn’t hesitate. His voice cracked, but it didn’t falter.

“Je suis son mari.” I’m his husband.

The words left him trembling, heavier than any prayer.

---

The drive was a blur — sirens, asphalt, the blur of city lights through tears. Charles had been ushered into the back of the ambulance, clutching Max’s hand while the medic pressed a cool pack against his abdomen.

“He’s stable,” the medic said calmly. “Likely appendicitis, but we’ll confirm. He’s lucky you called fast.”

Charles nodded numbly. “He didn’t want me to.”

The medic smiled faintly. “They never do.”

When they arrived, Max was wheeled away before Charles could even finish signing the forms.

He stood frozen at the edge of the corridor, the word husband still echoing in his head, until a nurse guided him toward the waiting area.

“Doctor will speak to you soon,” she promised kindly.

So he waited.

The walls were sterile white, the air too clean. Every clock tick sounded like judgment.

He was still in his dinner jacket, wine-stained and wrinkled, the faint smell of garlic and champagne clinging to him. His phone buzzed nonstop — texts from Pierre, Lando, Carlos — but he couldn’t look.

When the double doors finally opened, a woman in scrubs stepped out, pulling off her mask.

“Mr. Leclerc?” she asked gently.

Charles jumped to his feet. “Yes. Please— tell me.”

“Your husband’s appendix ruptured,” she explained. “It was close, but the surgery went perfectly. We removed the appendix before infection spread. He’s in recovery now, still under anesthesia.”

The words ruptured and surgery made his stomach drop, even if everything that followed was fine.

“Can I see him?”

“Soon,” she assured him. “He’ll be groggy for a while. But he’s going to be just fine, Mr. Leclerc. You got him here in time.”

Charles nodded, too fast, trying to hold himself together. “Thank you.”

When she left, he sat back down in the empty waiting room. The adrenaline had drained away, leaving only the ache.

The coffee in his hand - given by one of the nurses when she saw his exhausted face - went cold before he realized he was even holding it.

And when the silence became too much, he whispered — to no one, to everything — “You’re fine. You’re fine. You’re coming back to me.”

---

By the time they let Charles in, dawn had softened Monaco into pastels.

The city outside was waking — waves glinting against the marina, gulls cutting through rose-colored clouds — but in the hospital, everything was still.

The recovery room smelled faintly of antiseptic and linen. Machines hummed quietly. A monitor blinked in slow rhythm — steady, sure.

Max lay reclined beneath crisp white sheets, hair flattened, IV taped carefully to his hand. The strong, confident man who had once stared down a rain-soaked Suzuka now looked impossibly small.

Peaceful, yes. But fragile in a way Charles wasn’t built to handle.

He sat beside the bed and reached for him — fingers brushing the back of Max’s hand like it was glass.

“Hey, mon amour,” he whispered, voice low and careful. “It’s me. You’re safe now.”

For a moment, nothing.

Then Max’s eyelids fluttered open, slow and disoriented.

His gaze found Charles through a blur, pupils wide. “...Heaven?” he croaked.

Charles exhaled shakily, smiling despite himself. “Non, mon amour. Hospital.”

Max frowned, squinting. “You speak French. That’s—” He blinked hard, like trying to focus on a dream. “That’s hot.”

Charles froze. “What?”

“You’re glowing,” Max murmured, head tipping slightly. “Do they just—assign angels to everyone here? Or am I special?”

“Oh, mon Dieu.”

Max’s eyes softened, a goofy, adoring smile spreading across his face. “Do angels get paid? Because I think you deserve a raise.”

Before Charles could bury himself under the nearest bed, the door swung open.

Because of course it did.

Pierre’s voice cut through first — too bright for dawn. “Guess who brought croissants and chaos!”

Checo followed, grinning with a bag of pastries. “We brought half the paddock, just in case.”

And behind them, Lando — eyes wide, camera already out.

Max perked up instantly. “Witnesses!” he announced with the fervor of a man about to deliver a TED Talk. “This angel’s flirting with me.”

Pierre froze mid-step, croissant halfway to his mouth. “Oh no.”

Checo blinked. “Perdón?”

“Look at him!” Max insisted, gesturing wildly at Charles. “Cheekbones. Halo lighting. Actual wings, probably. He’s glowing! What am I supposed to do? Not fall in love?”

Lando made an unholy sound and collapsed into the visitor chair. “Oh my GOD, he’s gone.”

Charles closed his eyes briefly, counting to three. “Max—”

“You have dimples when you’re annoyed,” Max interrupted dreamily. “That’s illegal.”

Pierre grinned, phone already in his hand as well. “Oh this is going straight to the chat.”

Charles’ voice sharpened. “Pierre—”

But it was too late. The camera clicked.

Max leaned closer to Charles, whispering conspiratorially: “Do you think the doctor will let me kiss you before my discharge?"

"Max..."

"Are you single?" Max interrupted. "'cause I'd love to take you out to dinner once I'm out of this place. Do angels eat regular food?"

Checo almost choked on his croissant.

“Max,” Charles hissed, scarlet. “You’re literally married to me.”

That gave Max pause. He blinked once. “...Wait. I’m married?”

“Yes,” Charles said firmly.

“To you?”

“Yes.”

Max’s jaw dropped, his expression a perfect blend of awe and heartbreak. “Oh my God,” he whispered. “You’re married. And it’s not to me.”

Pierre had to grip the wall. Checo was crying from laughter.

Charles pinched the bridge of his nose. “It is to you.”

Max blinked again. “No, that can’t be right,” he said solemnly. “You’re way too pretty for me.”

Lando wheezed audibly from the chair.

Charles stood, desperate. “Here—look.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out Max’s ring, the one the nurses had made him remove before surgery. “Recognize this? It’s yours. We’ve been married for two years.”

Max stared. Then, slowly, his lower lip trembled. “I’m married,” he whispered. “To the angel?”

“Yes,” Charles said, fighting a losing battle between tears and hysterical laughter.

Max’s eyes filled instantly. “Oh my God,” he sobbed. “I’m so happy.”

Pierre hit the wall. Checo wiped tears. Lando fell out of his chair.

“I may only have one functioning organ left,” Max declared dramatically, “but it’s full of love!”

That was it.

Everyone broke. Pierre howled. Checo nearly dropped his coffee. Lando actually screamed into his sleeve.

Charles, caught between fondness and secondhand humiliation, pressed his palm over his face. “Why do I love you,” he muttered.

“Because I’m brave,” Max mumbled, tears still streaking down his face. “And handsome.”

“Debatable,” Charles whispered, but his hand stayed in Max’s hair.

Max tilted his head, pupils huge from the medication, smile spreading lazily. “But seriously, are you my nurse, angel? Because if so, I think I just saw God and he has green eyes.”

“Max,” Charles tried carefully, “you’re on painkillers.”

“Good,” Max sighed dreamily. “Makes you even hotter.”

“Mon amour—”

“Your voice,” Max whispered, utterly sincere. “It’s— like honey on holy water.”

Charles blinked twice, then muttered under his breath, “You’ve lost your mind.”

“Are you flirting with me?” Max gasped suddenly, hand to his chest. “That’s so unprofessional.”

"Go to sleep, lover boy..."

“Can't sleep now. I'm in love,” Max sighed, dramatically touching his heart monitor wires. “Someone tell the Vatican.”

Charles rubbed his temples. “Max, please stop talking.”

“Don’t silence me, Angel Boy,” Max murmured, smiling like he’d just discovered sunlight. “I have feelings.”

Lando was wheezing now, tears streaming down his face. “He called him Angel Boy!”

Max lifted his taped hand and cupped Charles’ cheek with uncoordinated affection. “You’re so soft. Why are you soft? Are angels supposed to be this soft?”

Charles groaned into his palms. “Can someone sedate him again?”

“I think he’s already sedated,” Pierre said, filming shamelessly.

Max leaned forward suddenly, eyes sparkling with childlike awe. “Wait— are you gonna fall for me too? Because that’d be awkward.”

Pierre nearly fell over laughing.

“Max!” Charles hissed. “Enough!”

Max blinked innocently. “I can’t help it. Love just— radiates out of me. Like sunlight. Like Red Bull sponsorship.”

Lando made an ungodly noise.

Charles leaned close, lowering his voice. “If you don’t stop talking, I will smother you with your pillow.”

Max grinned, dazed and infatuated. “Kinky angel.”

“Mon Dieu.”

The nurse peeked in just in time to see Charles red as a Ferrari and Max smiling dopily up at him like he’d just fallen in love for the first time. “Everything alright here?” she asked, visibly fighting a smile.

“Define ‘alright,’” Charles muttered.

Max, still blissed out, smiled dreamily. “Heaven’s loud today.”

“Alright,” the nurse said kindly. “Time for more fluids.”

Max perked up. “If it’s holy water, I’ll take it. Or if it's the angel's tears."

Pierre choked again.

The nurse adjusted Max's medication and he finally started dozing off again — half-laughing, half-snoring — Charles leaned forward, exhausted and fond beyond repair. He brushed the hair off Max’s forehead and whispered, “You’re impossible.”

Max hummed sleepily. “Still yours.”

“I know,” Charles said softly. “Always.”

Max smiled, almost asleep. “Tell your husband I love him.”

Charles sighed, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “He loves you too, idiot.”

The room went quiet again, except for Pierre whispering reverently:
“Okay, but that was actually kind of romantic.”

Charles looked up slowly, deadly calm. “If any of you post that video…”

Pierre blinked innocently. “Too late.”

---

Pierre uploaded the clip before Charles even made it out of the hospital room.

Caption:

> “When your husband forgets you but flirts with you anyway 💍😭 #TheInchident”

The video was less than a minute long — shaky camera, bad lighting, pure cinematic gold.

It began with Max staring dreamily at Charles and whispering, “You’re glowing,” and ended with him clutching his chest, tearfully declaring, “I only have one functioning organ left, and it’s full of love!”

It was art. It was chaos. It was trending before the croissants went stale.

By the time Charles reached the cafeteria to bribe a nurse into confiscating Pierre’s phone, Twitter (or X, depending on who you asked) had already melted.

#TheInchident

#AngelBoy

#OneFunctioningOrgan

#ProposalPartTwo

They were all top ten worldwide.

Netflix clipped the moment within the hour.

ESPN added dramatic violin music.

Someone on TikTok slowed it down to 0.75x speed with Taylor Swift’s “You Are In Love” playing softly in the background.

Every edit had a million views.

---

Charles found Pierre, Checo, and Lando still in the waiting area — now fully scrolling through memes.

“Delete it,” Charles said, voice like a prayer and a threat.

Pierre didn’t even look up. “You’re famous, mon ami.”

“I’m already famous,” Charles hissed.

“Not like this,” Lando wheezed, shoving his phone into Charles’s face. “Look! Someone just made fan art of him proposing to you with a stethoscope.”

Charles blinked. “Why does he have wings?”

“Because you’re his angel,” Checo said, absolutely losing it.

Charles dropped his face into his hands. “I am living in hell.”

Pierre grinned. “No, hospital. He said so himself.”

---

By morning, the Internet was feral.

The words “Max Verstappen proposes under anesthesia” appeared in headlines across Europe.

Clips of Charles turning red while trying to calm him down had gone viral with captions like:

> “Find someone who looks at you the way Max looks at his husband post-surgery.”

Ferrari PR was reportedly on their second bottle of wine before 9 a.m.

Red Bull’s comms team was already drafting statements that began with, “While we cannot comment on the details of private medical procedures…”

Lando started selling “One Functioning Organ” shirts for charity. They sold out in two hours.

Pierre started a group chat.

---

Grid Chat — “The Inchident Survivors Club 🏥😇”

Pierre: [video link] iconic. legendary. medically confusing.

Lando: HE PRETTY MUCH PROPOSED AGAIN 😭😭😭

Lewis: oh my god he’s crying

Yuki: HE SAID ANGEL BOY 😭😭😭😭😭

Carlos: mon dieu, he tried to ELOPE

Oscar: watched it twelve times. still crying.

Seb: this is love in its purest and most unhinged form.

Alex: the “one functioning organ” line deserves an Oscar.

Fernando: embarrassing. but beautiful.

Lando: i want a sequel

Pierre: part two drops when he wakes up

---

Charles begged a nurse to confiscate every phone within a five-kilometer radius. "Please,” he whispered. “Before he wakes up.”

The nurse smiled gently. “Monsieur Leclerc, it’s already on ESPN.”

Charles stared at her. “Pardon?”

She shrugged. “And Netflix.”

“Mon Dieu.”

---

When Max finally woke up again, the room was quiet — sun high, sea glittering outside.

He blinked, confused but calmer, and found Charles sitting beside him, head in his hands.

“You look like you haven’t slept,” Max rasped.

Charles lifted his gaze slowly. “You’re awake.”

“Why do you sound like that’s bad news?”

“Because it is,” Charles muttered.

“What happened?” Max asked, frowning.

Charles hesitated. “You… might have said a few things earlier.”

“Like what?”

Before he could answer, Pierre burst through the door, waving his phone. “HELLO, ANGEL!”

Max froze. “…What?”

Lando followed, crying with laughter. “YOU BROKE THE INTERNET.”

Checo leaned in behind them, smirking. “#TheInchident merch drops tomorrow.”

Max blinked at Charles. “What inchident?”

Charles just exhaled. “Oh, mon amour, you don’t want to know.”

Pierre hit play.

The sound of Max’s own voice filled the room:

> “You’re glowing. I only have one functioning organ left, but it’s full of love.”

The look on Max’s face was slow, dawning horror.

“Oh no,” he whispered. “Oh no, no, no—”

Lando was already wheezing. “OH YES.”

Pierre was crying. “I’ve never seen romance and brain fog blend so perfectly.”

Max groaned, dragging the blanket over his head. “Delete me from existence.”

Charles smiled softly, tugging the blanket down just enough to kiss his forehead. “Too late. You’re trending.”

Max peeked up at him, mortified. “You’re still here?”

“Of course,” Charles said, amused. “I’m your angel, remember?”

Max groaned again, cheeks pink. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Charles murmured, brushing a thumb across his hair. “You proposed to me. Again.”

Max let out a weak laugh. “Best mistake of my life.”

Outside, the world was laughing, crying, editing, shipping.

Inside, Charles leaned against him, and for the first time in two days, both of them laughed too — soft, exhausted, and a little bit in love with the absurdity of it all.

---

Grid Chat — Final Chaos

Pierre: sold the clip to Netflix for 10 croissants

Lando: worth it

Yuki: i watch it every morning

Seb: true love. 10/10. would operate again.

Lewis: he proposed to the same man twice. that’s commitment.

Carlos: serious question: how many appendixes does Max think he has?

Oscar: he said “I only have one functioning organ left,” bro what happened to the rest??

Alex: F1: where anatomy is optional.

Checo: 😂😂😂

Pierre: don’t question it. he runs on vibes and Red Bull.

Charles: all of you are banned from visiting. permanently.

Yuki: but we bring snacks :(

Charles: fine. only if you bring painkillers too.

Max: wait WHAT VIDEO

Charles: …

Pierre: [sends link]

Max: oh no

Lando: oh yes 😭😭😭

Seb: cherish him, Max. some of us cry sober.

Max: i’m deleting all your numbers.

Yuki: can’t. we’re family now.

Lewis: once an inchident, always an inchident.

Checo: amen.

---

That night, back home in Monaco, the sea outside their window shimmered silver.

Max sighed against Charles’s shoulder, voice barely above a whisper.

“If I ever say anything that embarrassing again,” he murmured, “promise you’ll still love me?”

Charles smiled and pressed a kiss to his temple. “Always. Even if you think you have multiple appendixes.”

Max groaned, hiding his face in Charles’s chest. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Charles whispered, grinning. “You pretty much proposed to me twice.”

“Again, best mistake of my life.”

And just like that, somewhere between the hum of the sea and the quiet rhythm of their breathing, the world’s most dramatic appendectomy became the most beloved inchident in F1 history.