Chapter Text
It started — as most questionable life decisions do — in the baking aisle of Carrefour.
Charles Leclerc knew chaos when he saw it.
And aisle six of Carrefour — the baking section — was absolute carnage.
Flour on the shelves.
Two elderly women were arguing over cinnamon.
A toddler was screaming because they weren't allowed to eat raw marzipan.
But the real disaster?
Oscar Piastri.
Standing frozen in front of the baking aisle like a man attempting a hostage negotiation.
He held:
- 1 bag of flour
- 1 jar of honey
- 1 packet of chocolate chips
- And something Charles prayed was not yeast.
Charles approached with the seriousness of an ER doctor.
“Oscar,” he said gently. “Mon ami. What is happening?”
Oscar sighed.
“I—” he gestured helplessly at the shelf. “I wanted to bake Christmas cookies. My mum always makes them this time of year and I’m… homesick, I guess.”
Charles’ heart did something embarrassing and soft.
“And?” he asked.
“I don’t know what kind,” Oscar admitted. “Or what I need. Or if this flour is right. Or why there are seventeen types of sugar. Brown sugar should just be brown.”
Charles placed a hand on his shoulder like a man accepting destiny.
“You need help.”
Oscar blinked. “…Are you offering help or judging me?”
“Both,” Charles said warmly. “Come.”
Oscar did not understand how they were suddenly in Charles’ Monaco apartment kitchen with an apron that said YES CHEF and a wooden spoon that looked like a family heirloom.
But now he was here.
And Charles was in full French baking mode.
“First rule,” Charles said, tying his own apron.
“I am in charge.”
Oscar saluted. “Oui, monsieur.”
Charles gave him a look that said: I will put you in time out.
They began with sugar cookies.
“Cream the butter and sugar,” Charles instructed.
Oscar confidently dumped the butter into the bowl.
Then looked at the mixer like it had wronged him.
“Uh… where’s the power button?”
Charles blinked.
“…Oscar.”
“What?”
“You race a Formula One car.”
“Yes.”
“And you cannot operate a kitchen appliance?”
Oscar crossed his arms.
“In my defense, the McLaren steering wheel does not have a whisk attachment.”
Charles laughed so hard he had to hold the counter.
Once the mixer incident (and one minor powdered sugar explosion) passed, things went smoother.
Charles rolled dough with practiced hands.
Oscar attempted.
Oscar failed.
Oscar created something shaped like Australia undergoing seismic trauma.
“C’est… creative,” Charles said carefully.
Oscar squinted.
“It’s a reindeer.”
“It is… abstract,” Charles corrected.
They moved on to gingerbread.
Oscar perked up.
“My mum makes gingerbread kangaroos.”
Charles froze mid–cookie–cutter placement.
“Kangaroos.”
“Yes.”
“Instead of men.”
“Yep.”
Charles whispered, aghast and awed, “This is chaos.”
“And yet,” Oscar said smugly, “Australians survive.”
Charles shook his head — and then, like some kind of Christmas miracle, handed him the kangaroo cutter.
“Show me.”
The kitchen became a disaster zone.
Flour on the floor.
Icing on the dog (who did not mind).
A gingerbread kangaroo that looked slightly feral.
Oscar was laughing — bright, warm, real — and Charles felt something soft settle in his chest.
When the final batch went into the oven, they paused.
Oscar leaned against the counter.
“You didn’t have to help,” he murmured.
Charles nudged him with his shoulder.
“I adopted you on Twitter,” he said gravely. “This was my parental duty.”
Oscar snorted. “You realize that means I get to call you Dad now?”
Charles went red.
“Absolument pas.”
The oven dinged.
Golden cookies, uneven but perfect in their own chaotic way, emerged.
Oscar took a bite — eyes closing.
“Tastes like home,” he whispered.
Charles smiled.
“Then,” he said softly, “we did it right.”
Oscar looked at him — really looked.
“Yeah,” he said. “We did.”
Later, as they decorated the final batch — one shaped vaguely like a kangaroo hugging a Ferrari prancing horse — Oscar nudged him.
“So… same time next year?”
Charles bumped him back.
“Oui. But next time, we start in aisle three. You are not allowed near yeast again.”
Oscar grinned.
“No promises.”