Work Text:
The shrill beeping of the alarm clock tore through the stillness, a brutal assault on George’s half-asleep senses. He groaned, fumbling to silence the infernal noise. His hand hit the screen blindly, and with a satisfying thunk, the sound ceased.
Ugh can't have one good thing in this world, can I?
Still half-asleep, he rolled over to reach for his phone, his brows furrowing as his fingers brushed against something unexpected—the phone felt wrong. Lighter. Smaller. And the case...
George opened one eye reluctantly, and then the other immediately squinting at the harsh and ruthless sunlight that seeped through the curtains. Did Max not close it properly last night?! Anyways, back to the darn phone- He squinted at the device in his hand. Confusion lacing his features.
Wait a damn second.
This model...
Felt...
“No way,” he muttered groggily, flipping the phone over to inspect the back.
He hadn’t used this phone in years. It was an old model, one he’d retired long before Henry, before Belgium, before Max had kissed him for the first time on that ridiculous yacht...
What the hell was going on?
Pushing himself upright, George rubbed his eyes. The room around him was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the morning sun peeking through heavy curtains.
Something felt off—no wait, everything felt off.
Everything.
He blinked, trying to orient himself. His surroundings were a mix of familiar and strange. The bed was narrower than the one he shared with Max. The sheets were plain white, the pillows standard hotel-issue.
Hotel?
George sat bolt upright, his heart racing. This wasn’t his and Max’s house in Belgium.
The panic started to rise as he scanned the room. A suitcase sat in the corner—his suitcase, but older, its scuffed corners a testament to years of travel. The hotel room had the same generic decor as any he’d stayed in before, but that was the problem. He had stayed in a room like this before.
Likely 3? Or 5? Maybe 4 years ago...?
No.
His legs felt shaky as he swung them off the bed, planting his feet on the cold floor. The smell of the place hit him then—sterile air-conditioning, the faint scent of industrial cleaning products.
No.
He stumbled to the window, pulling back the heavy curtain with trembling hands. The blinding light of the desert sun poured in, illuminating the unmistakable skyline of Doha.
Oh no, no no no.
It was Qatar.
George staggered back from the window, his heart hammering against his ribs. His hands went to his stomach instinctively, a reflex born from months of carrying life. But when his fingers pressed against his abdomen, they found... nothing.
Flat.
“No,” he whispered, his voice cracking. He yanked up the hem of his shirt, his breath catching in his throat as he stared down.
His stomach was flat.
Gone was the bump that had grown with the life inside him. Gone was the warmth, the weight, the undeniable presence of the baby he and Max were expecting.
His hands trembled as they touched his sides, his chest heaving. “No, no, no,” he whispered, stumbling to the small bathroom attached to the room.
The mirror reflected his younger self—his face less lined, his hair shorter. His body looked like it had years ago.
The date. He needed to see the fucking date.
The small hotel desk held a planner, the kind hotels always left behind. George flipped it open, his hands shaking.
November, 2024.
The date leapt off the page, mocking him.
“No,” he said again, louder this time, as if sheer denial could change the facts.
His phone buzzed on the bedside table, the screen lighting up with a name he hadn’t seen in years.
Mercedes PR Team.
It hit him then—like a punch to the gut- wait the bab-there was no baby though, not anymore.
It's Qatar. The GP. Media days. This was the week when everything between him and Max had been at its absolute worst.
He remembered the tension, the pointless arguments, the way Max wouldn’t even look at him. He remembered the loneliness, the suffocating weight of his own anger and resentment.
George sank onto the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.
This couldn’t be happening.
Minutes passed in a blur. Or was it hours? George couldn’t tell. Every detail around him screamed a time and place he had left behind, a version of his life that had been messy and broken.
His hands kept drifting to his stomach, his mind unable to reconcile what he was seeing with what he was feeling. He could still feel the kicks, the way the baby had moved inside him just yesterday. He could still hear Henry’s laughter, see Max’s face, feel the weight of their shared history.
But none of it existed here.
The phone buzzed again.
This time, it was Toto.
George stared at the screen for a long moment before swiping to answer.
“George? Where are you?” Toto’s voice came through, clipped and impatient. “You were supposed to be downstairs ten minutes ago.”
George opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
“George?” Toto repeated, his tone softening. “Are you alright?”
“I...” George swallowed, his throat dry. “I... I’m fine. I’ll be down in a minute.”
He hung up before Toto could respond, his hand shaking as he set the phone down.
George sat there, staring at the blank wall in front of him. The weight of the truth was crushing.
Somehow, he had gone back in time. Back to a version of himself who didn’t know love the way he knew it now. Back to a time when Max was his enemy, not his everything.
And worst of all, he had no idea how—or if—he could get back.
As tears spilled down his cheeks, one thought repeated in his mind, over and over again:
How the hell was he going to fix this? What was even happening?!
I’m back. Back here. Back to this... this mess.
He clenched his hands into fists, the familiar coolness of the hotel room biting at his skin. His heart thudded painfully in his chest, each beat hammering home the reality: he was in Qatar, in 2024, and everything he’d built with Max—all the love, the family, the future—was gone.
George stood, pacing the room like a caged animal, his hands trembling as they pressed against his temples. He tried to steady his breathing, but his thoughts spiralled out of control.
Would he have to live it all again? The media duties, the unbearable tension with Max, the sharp sting of his words cutting him down? Oh, those words.
“I’ll put your head on the fucking wall!”
The memory hit him like a slap, his stomach twisting at the venom in Max’s voice. He had hated him back then—hadn’t he? That Max, at least. Cold, brash, distant. But George couldn’t hate him, no matter how much he wanted to.
Max had been his everything. Even when they fought. Even when the world seemed to conspire against them.
But that wasn’t all, was it?
The crash.
George sat back down heavily, his legs unable to hold him anymore. His breathing was shallow now, his chest tight with the weight of impending doom.
The crash. He could feel it even now, like a phantom pain. The violent impact, the jarring halt, the blinding agony. The months afterward, trapped in a haze of pain and helplessness, bed-bound and stripped of dignity.
It was all waiting for him.
And worse—what came after.
Max.
George’s heart clenched as his mind flashed to Max. Not the Max of 2024, but his Max. The Max who had stayed by his side through every excruciating moment of recovery, who had whispered apologies through tears, whose guilt had nearly destroyed him.
He could still see it—Max’s trembling hands clutching his, the raw pain in his voice as he blamed himself over and over. And that one night...
The blood, the gore.
George shuddered, his breath catching as he forced the memory down. He couldn’t bear to relive it. Max had hurt himself because of him. Because Max had convinced himself the crash was his fault.
The idea of it happening again—of Max spiralling into that same pit of guilt and self-hatred—made George want to scream.
George pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to think. His mind latched onto one desperate, terrifying idea.
What if he could stop it?
What if he could avoid the crash altogether? Change the sequence of events, rewrite history?
But then...
George’s breath hitched as another thought struck him.
What would that mean for the future?
What would it mean for Max and Henry and Belgium and their second baby?
If he changed the past—if he avoided the crash—he might never end up with Max.
George shook his head violently, tears blurring his vision.
He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t choose between saving himself from the pain of the crash and preserving the life he had built.
But if he didn’t change anything...
Would I even survive it again?
He swallowed hard, his throat dry. His hands instinctively moved to his stomach, but the absence of the baby made him want to scream. That life—Henry’s laughter, Max’s love, the warmth of their home—was a part of him now.
He couldn’t lose it. He wouldn’t lose it.
George stood again abruptly, his jaw tightening.
If he had to endure it all again—if he had to suffer the crash, the pain, the months of recovery—then so be it. He would do it for Max, for Henry, for their unborn child.
But he wouldn’t let Max spiral into guilt this time. He’d find a way to protect him, to stop him from blaming himself.
And maybe, just maybe, he’d find a way to get back to the life they’d built together.
As he stared out the hotel window at the harsh desert sun, a single tear slipped down his cheek.
He would endure whatever it took to keep his family safe.
He could, right?
Even if it meant losing himself in the process?
📼
George tugged at his collar, the stifling heat of the Qatari sun seeping into the pristine white of his media day shirt. The hum of journalists, the glare of cameras, and the murmurs of his fellow drivers formed a distant haze, muted and far away. None of it felt real.
He sat at the long table, a microphone inches from his face, fingers twitching with the restless energy of someone trapped in a waking nightmare. His eyes drifted over the crowd, unseeing, until— there he was.
Max.
Laughing with Lando, Charles, and Checo, his face alight with the kind of warmth George hadn’t seen in many hours. No, years.
No, stop it. It’s not years— it’s...? I don’t know anymore. God, I don’t even know how long it’s been since Belgium...
His mind was chaos, spiralling faster than he could anchor himself.
George clenched his fists under the table, nails digging into his palms. He tried to focus on the words being spoken around him, but they slipped through his mind like water through a sieve.
“George, your thoughts on the upcoming race?”
The question snapped him out of his trance, and he blinked at the journalist. What could he even say?
“I, uh... it’s... the heat will make it challenging,” he mumbled, his voice mechanical, devoid of emotion. He stared at the table instead of at the expectant crowd, feeling the eyes of the room pressing down on him.
Across the room, Max laughed again, and the sound struck George like a dagger. He glanced up, heart lurching in his chest. Max wasn’t looking at him.
Of course, he wasn’t. Why would he?
To Max, George was just another driver. A rival. Maybe worse. Nothing more.
He forced himself to breathe, to sit upright and look composed, but inside he was crumbling. Every moment he spent here, trapped in the past, felt like a slow, painful death.
Why?
The question screamed through his head, tearing at his sanity.
Why, God?
He had prayed for his family’s safety, for Max’s happiness, for Henry’s bright future. For their new baby. He had prayed for everything they’d built together to be protected.
Why would you do this to me?
His hands tightened into fists, trembling as his anger grew.
Did we get lost in the translation, God?
He wanted to scream it aloud, to shake the heavens for answers. But instead, he sat in silence, head bowed, swallowed by despair.
His mind kept flashing forward to what was coming.
The fight. The venom in Max’s words. The crushing weight of their mutual hatred.
The crash.
Lap 42.
He swallowed hard, bile rising in his throat at the thought of reliving it. The pain. The chaos. The months of recovery that had felt more like a slow death.
What if this time I don’t survive?
The question tore through him, sharp and unyielding. He couldn’t bear to live through it again. But more than that, he couldn’t bear the thought of losing Max—of losing everything they had become.
His eyes drifted back to Max. For a fleeting moment, their gazes met.
George froze.
Max’s expression was unreadable, a flicker of something cold and distant in his eyes before he turned away. The warmth George longed for, the connection they’d once shared, wasn’t there.
His chest tightened, and he bit back the sting of tears.
He doesn’t love me here. He hates me.
George’s mind spiralled again, the memories of the future intermingling with the stark reality of the present.
“Georgie!”
The voice startled him, and he turned to see Alex bounding toward him, a grin on his face. George blinked, momentarily confused.
“Alex,” he murmured, forcing a smile.
Alex plopped into the seat next to him, radiating an energy that George couldn’t muster. “What’s up with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I am the ghost, George thought bitterly.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he muttered instead.
Alex chuckled, clearly taking it as a joke. “Well, guess what? I’ve got a confession. I like Charles. This time I'm certain its not matey!”
George nearly choked. Right.
Alex leaned closer, grinning conspiratorially. “I mean, look at him. He’s gorgeous, isn’t he? I kept trying to ignore but I can't ahhh.”
George fought the urge to tell Alex the truth—that in just a few short years, he’d be married to that gorgeous Monegasque.
“Yeah,” George said instead, his voice distant. “He’s something.”
As Alex rambled on about Charles, George’s mind wandered again, back to the crash, back to the pain, back to Max.
He couldn’t change anything. He couldn’t risk losing the future they’d built together.
But the weight of knowing what was coming—of knowing the agony he would have to endure to get there—was suffocating.
George closed his eyes, his breath shaky.
I’ll survive it, he told himself for the nth time that day. For Max. For Henry. For our baby. I’ll survive it.
But deep down, he wasn’t sure he believed it. Like... how was this even happen happening? If he is here... where is the younger George? Did he get lost? Or... was he...
Was he?
Shit. That would be... interesting.
If someone told his young self he would have a family with Max Verstappen... he would laugh in their face and gave them the finger.
Blame it all on Charles.
He had eaten half his brain last couple days- or... future couple days- how do I even phrase it? Charles had given a long, never ending speech on... time travel. He had laughed and made fun of Charles. Good entertainment- he had thought.
Maybe God punished him for making fun of the Monegasque.
📼
George sat in the silence of his motorhome, knees pulled up to his chest as he stared blankly at the wall. The hum of the air conditioner droned on, a monotonous rhythm that matched the chaos in his mind.
His thoughts were a hurricane, each one slamming into the next with relentless force.
He couldn't stop thinking about what he could do.
He had the chance.
The chance to stop it all. The crash. Mercedes' spiralling losses. Max’s pain—the pain.
And yet, as the thought lingered, it twisted into something darker. If he altered the past, the future he cherished—their home, the laughter of his little man, Henry, the soft anticipation of their unborn child—One wrong move and-it might all disappear.
Could I even breathe right? Or would my breathing pattern also change-
George buried his face in his hands, his breathing uneven.
Selfish.
The word echoed like a curse. Ugly. He was selfish. Cowardly. Because he couldn’t bring himself to risk it.
But how could he live with himself if he let the crash happen again? If he stood by and let it unfold?
He tightened his fists, the nails digging into his palms.
His mind played out the scenario, again and again in excruciating detail. Like he had been doing the entire time since he opened these two eyes of his.
He could see it. Qatar. Lap 42. The blinding lights, the sharp screech of tires, the violent impact.
The aftermath.
The hollow look in Max’s eyes, the way his voice broke when he apologised over and over for words said in anger, words neither of them meant.
The guilt that consumed Max. The nights George spent bed-bound, awake with pain while Max sat silently by his side, shoulders heavy with the burden of blame.
He couldn’t do it again. He couldn’t put Max through that again.
But what was the alternative?
George lifted his head, staring at the ceiling.
“God,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I prayed for him. I prayed for him in every life. I prayed for us. I prayed for my family.”
His voice grew louder, shaking with desperation.
“But I didn’t mean this. I didn’t mean for you to send me back!”
Tears welled in his eyes, blurring his vision.
“This is cruel. You’re cruel.” His voice broke on the last word. “I have beef with you, God. I really do.”
He couldn’t hurt himself.
The thought lingered, a dark shadow in his mind. But no—he couldn’t. What if he made it worse? What if he changed something so drastically that the future he loved—their future—was wiped away entirely?
Henry’s laughter. Max’s touch. The baby growing inside him.
What if, instead of a beautiful life, this altered timeline led to nothing at all?
He shuddered, pulling himself tighter into a ball. He had to endure it. He had to live through it, no matter how much it hurt.
---
The next morning, George was a shell of himself.
He walked through the paddock in a daze, the noise and chaos of the day pressing in on him like a suffocating blanket. Cameras flashed, journalists shouted questions, but it was all a blur.
He turned a corner too quickly, colliding with a solid frame.
“Oh, sorry, I—” George froze.
It was Max.
Max frowned, stepping back slightly to adjust the sunglasses perched on his nose.
“Careful,” Max said, his voice sharp, the irritation clear. He didn’t recognise George—not the way George recognised him.
George’s heart clenched painfully. His eyes brimmed with tears he couldn’t hold back.
“Max,” he whispered, his voice breaking.
Max tilted his head, confusion flashing across his face before it was replaced with something colder, more detached.
“You’re alright?” Max asked, his tone distant, polite but uninterested.
George blinked rapidly, trying to rein in his emotions. “I’m fine,” he croaked. “I’m... sorry.”
Max nodded curtly, brushing past him.
“Yeah, okay. Take care,” Max said over his shoulder, his tone flat, as though George were just another person in the crowd.
George stood there, rooted to the spot, his chest aching with a pain that felt physical.
To Max, he was a nobody. Just another face in the paddock.
He clenched his fists, willing himself not to turn and run after him, not to plead for a connection that didn’t yet exist.
Instead, he wiped at his eyes and whispered to himself, “I’ll make it through this. For you, Max. For us. Even if it kills me.”