summary: new team. new color. new drivers. what could go wrong?
pairing: formula one + female!driver!reader
warnings/tags: smau + irl, poor kimi in this chap he's just living his dream :(, merc shade but thats honestly just a taste of it, luca and y/n r lowkey gp and max coded, sky sports cameos
notes: first chapter, hello ?!?!?! so overwhelmed w the love you gave driver!yn and i'm more than happy to introduce you to her new era :) all my love to u all reading and supporting xx
mercedesamgf1
liked by georgerussell63, lewishamilton, and 4,972,439 others
mercedesamgf1 Mercedes-AMG PETRONAS F1 Team is pleased to confirmed that Kimi Antonelli will race alongside George Russell for the 2026 FIA Formula One World Championship.
Welcome to the Silver Arrows, Kimi.
#MercedesAMGF1 #KimiAntonelli #F1
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kimi.antonelli Dreams really do come true. Let's get to work!
user8 yall are pissing me tf OFFFFF
lewishamilton Huge congrats mate
user29 truly think kimi's gonna do wonders but this feels so wrong for y/n...
georgerussell63 Welcome, mate 👊 Can't wait to get started
user72 Remember when mercedes said they were "building around y/n?" where tf is that energy now
user12 everyone's blaming kimi when he's literally done nothing lol
user90 why did they let admin post this knowing the comments are going to be MESSY
user53 laurent mekies refreshing the comments like 😋
redbullracing
liked by maxverstappen1, redbull, and 6,329,340 others
redbullracing Oracle Red Bull Racing is delighted to announce the signing of Y/N L/N on a multi-year agreement ahead of the 2026 FIA Formula One World Championship.
A proven race winner with exceptional pace and determination. Welcome to the family.
#RedBullRacing #YNLN #F1
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yourinstagram new beginnings babyyy
user63 TOTO YOU FUMBLED SO BAD
user5 merc basically spoon fed redbull
lando LETS GOOOOOO
lewishamilton Proud of you.
user72 other drivers interacting here more than the other side is kinda...
danielricciardo oh? OH?
user21 how do you even explain horner getting fired then the new tp hiring y/n l/n to a normal person
user4 imagine dropping your race winner only for your rivals to sign her IMMEDIATELY.
user10 admin was READY to post this
Your phone vibrated against your bedside table at exactly 8 AM.
You ignored it, pulling the duvet tighter around your shoulders, trying to cling to the final moments of sleep. Then it buzzed again. And again.
By the time you finally rolled over and blindly reached into the cold air to grab it, the bright light of the screen illuminated the room. It displayed an overwhelming amount of notification.
Your eyes adjusted to the glare, and the first major headline locked into focus.
BREAKING: Mercedes-AMG PETRONAS F1 Team confirms Kimi Antonelli as race driver for the 2026 FIA Formula One World Championship.
For a long second, you forgot to breathe. You didn't like the post. You didn't read the caption. You didn't need to.
Deep down, in the quietest part of your mind, you had known this day was coming for months. But seeing it written out officially still felt like a punch to the face.
Before you could even fully process the quiet sink in your chest, the screen lit up with another notification, overriding the first.
Oracle Red Bull Racing is delighted to announce the signing of Y/N L/N on a multi-year agreement.
For the last six months, your stomach had been in a permanent, tight knot. You had spent half a year waiting for the axe to fall. There had been endless, grueling meetings behind closed doors, hushed conversations in the back of the units, and polite but entirely empty smiles from Toto whenever you passed him.
You had been living in a state of constantly performing while knowing your seat was actively being shopped around.
Mercedes had chosen their teenage prodigy, Kimi.
But Red Bull, the ruthless giants of the grid, had chosen you.
You unlocked your phone, knowing immediately that it was a terrible mistake to do so on a morning like this. Within half a second, your social media feed refreshed itself, instantly descending into madness.
RED BULL SNATCHES MERCEDES STAR Y/N L/N
ANTONELLI PROMOTED. L/N DEPARTS IN SHOCK MULTI-YEAR DEAL.
WOLFF'S BIGGEST GAMBLE?
You scrolled down, your eyes catching the comment sections, which were updating so rapidly that the text literally blurred.
"Mercedes absolutely bottled it. How do you let a proven race winner walk away just to gamble on a kid? Toto has lost his mind."
"Kimi is the future, it's the right move. Mercedes is playing the long game. People said the same thing about Lewis back in the day."
"This is going to age horribly for Mercedes. Y/N is going to have the biggest advantage on her shoulders now."
"Max is going to absolutely destroy her. No one survives the second seat. It's a career killer."
The official announcements had been live for less than five minutes, and the internet had already mapped out the entire trajectory of your career, predicting either your ultimate downfall or your greatest revenge.
Before you could read any further, an incoming call came. You swiped the screen to answer, immediately putting him on speaker and placing the phone back down on the bed as you sat up, wrapping your arms around your knees.
"You've seen it?" Luca's voice slightly muffled, the low hum of morning traffic in the background suggesting he was already driving to work.
You let out a dry laugh. "I mean it's kind of impossible to miss. I think my phone is about to explode."
"I've had six different journalist call my personal number already," Luca said, his tone in sheer disbelief. "Half of them didn't even say hello! They just started asking if I was going with you."
"Only six?" you teased, trying to put some lightheartedness into the morning. "You're losing your touch. Usually, you're the most popular guy in the paddock."
"Just give it ten minutes," he sighed.
Luca had been your race engineer since the very first weekend you had ever turned the wheel. He was the calm, steady voice in your ear through the highest highs of your first podium and the absolute, miserable lows of failures and bad pit stops.
You two had spent countless late nights locked inside cramped rooms, arguing over strategy, upgrades, and degradation until the security guards had to physically knock on the door and tell you to leave.
He wasn't just your engineer. He was your anchor in a sport that constantly tried to pull you under.
"You okay?" Luca's voice softened, dropping his usual tone.
"I'm relieved, honestly. I didn't think I would be, but the moment they released it, it felt like a massive weight was lifted off my chest."
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. "I was hoping you'd say that."
"And you?" you asked. "How are you feeling about it all?"
"I'm furious," Luca admitted frankly. "You deserved a hell of a lot better than finding out once they've made their decision. They dragged their feet for months, keeping you on the hook while they finalized Kimi's contract. It's straight up disrespectful."
You didn't argue. Because he was entirely right.
Losing the opportunity to continue with Mercedes hurt. But the coldness of how they had handled it, making you play the role of the loyal team player while they secretly prepared your replacement, hurt a lot deeper.
"You know, I'm going to miss working with you," Luca said quietly, his voice cracking just a fraction.
Your throat tightened suddenly. "I'm going to miss yelling at you over the radio."
He laughed. "You mean ignoring my perfectly calculated strategy calls?"
"Luca, I love you, but they were usually terrible strategy calls."
"Hey, they won you races!"
lucaromano
liked by lewishamilton, yourinstagram, and 423,749 others
lucaromano I've been lucky enough to be there for the highs, the lows, the podiums, the celebrations, the frustrating sundays, and the little moments nobody sees.
Wherever you go next, I'll always be cheering.
P.S. Lucky misses you already. 🐶
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user16 oh i know LUCA HATES THEM
user47 race engineer subtweet is crazy
yourinstagram don't make me CRY
yourinstagram i don't think i'll ever find anyone who puts up with me like u do
yourinstagram im cryifn couldn't have asked for a better person next to me through all of this
user82 the fact everyone knows luca and y/n are a package deal 😭
user3 luca being the first person she looks for after getting out of the car will always be my roman empire
user29 they really broke up the best engineer-driver pairing for WHAT
user44 the fact that he NEVER posts and THIS is what he chooses to post
Three hundred miles away, in the heart of London, the cameras were already rolling in the Sky Sports studio.
Naomi Schiff leaned forward in her chair, her expression serious as she looked into the camera.
"I think Mercedes made the biggest gamble of the decade," Naomi said, gesturing with her pen toward the graphics on the screen.
"And let me clarify, this is not a criticism of Kimi. We all know he is an incredibly fast, generational talent. But Mercedes has allowed Y/N L/N, a driver who already knows exactly how to handle the immense pressure of a top-tier team, to walk straight out of their building and into their biggest rival's garage."
Nico Rosberg, sitting directly next to her with his arms crossed, nodded in agreement.
"If I was Red Bull," Nico said, a sharp, knowing smirk on his face, "I'm absolutely popping champagne today. You're getting a driver who's hungry, highly experienced, and massively motivated by how she was treated. Mercedes didn't just lose potential today, they lost guaranteed points to their rivals."
Jenson Button folded his arms, playing devil's advocate to keep the debate going.
"But you have to look at the long-term future here, Nico. Kimi represents the next decade for Mercedes. Sometimes you have to take a massive risk in the present to build the next era."
"The future doesn't score points in the constructors' today, Jenson," Naomi countered. "Red Bull just got significantly stronger, and Mercedes just handed them the perfect match."
By the early afternoon, you were walking through the doors of the Red Bull building in Milton Keynes.
As you walked through the main lobby, mechanics and engineers looked at you. Instead of the polite, formal nods you were used to, you were greeted with broad smiles and enthusiastic waves.
"About time you got here!" a voice shouted.
Another mechanic, dressed in team kit, held up a can of Red Bull, grinning widely. "Welcome to the dark side! I assure you that we have the better parties."
You couldn't help the genuine smile that spread across your face. It felt incredibly warm. It didn't feel like a PR stunt, and it didn't feel forced for the sake of the cameras.
For the first time in over a year, you felt like a driver who was actively wanted, rather than a driver who was simply being tolerated.
Mekies walked beside you, keeping his hands casual in his pockets as he guided you toward the simulator building.
"I told you," Mekies said in a reassuring voice, looking over at you with a small smile. "We wanted you here. We don't sign drivers just to fill a seat or to make up the numbers. We sign them because we believe they can help us win. Remember that."
Before you could reply, the doors of the simulator bay slid open with a soft hiss. Max stepped out, a towel draped over his shoulders, his hair slightly damp from a grueling simulator run.
He spotted you immediately. He didn't wait for his manager to introduce you, he didn't look around to see if any cameras were watching.
He just walked straight over to you and stopped, towering slightly over you.
"So," Max said, wiping his face with the towel.
"So," you replied, tilting you head up slightly and matching his tone.
"It's official, then."
"I guess. No turning back now."
He nodded once, his eyes analyzing your face, looking for any sign of hesitation. "You ready for this?"
"I think so," you said, keeping your voice steady.
Max shrugged, amusement appearing in his eyes. "I hope not. If you already think you're completely ready, this place gets boring very quickly. You have to keep pushing."
"Is that your way of a motivational welcome speech, Max?"
"Yeah," he said simply. "Pretty good, right?"
"Did you practice that in the mirror this morning?"
"No. I don't waste time on that."
"You probably should have," you retorted. "It needs a bit of work."
A grin broke across Max's face. He reached out, shaking your hand with a firm grip. "Welcome to the team, future champ."
yourinstagram via instagram story!
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user86 damn seeing her in any other color is giving me jumpscares honestly
user42 SHE LOOKS GOOD WITH IT IM SORRY YALL
user5 i just stared at this for 5 minutes in silence
lando finally got u in the right color
user21 and to think she was just mercedes' rookie
mercedesamgf1
liked by kimi.antonelli, yourinstagram, and 3,213,300 others
mercedesamgf1 Join us live from the Mercedes-AMG PETRONAS Formula One Team headquarters as we welcome Kimi Antonelli to the race team!
Kimi and George Russell will sit down with the media to discuss the new season, the challenges ahead, and the future of the Silver Arrows.
#F1 #Mercedes #KimiAntonelli #GeorgeRussell
Kimi stood in the main lobby, nervously adjusting the stiff collar of his brand-new team shirt. He looked incredibly younger under the lights that had been set up for the press day, his eyes wide and slightly overwhelmed as he took everyone crammed into the space.
George walked past the media pen, noticing the visible tension in the teenager's shoulders. He reached out, clapping a hand firmly on Kimi's shoulder with an encouraging smile.
"You'll be fine, mate. Just breathe and stick to the talking points."
"Yeah, I'm trying," Kimi muttered, offering a weak smile in return. "But there's so many people."
The moment Kimi sat down, a dozen microphones were instantly thrust into his face.
"Kimi! Do you feel any personal guilt taking Y/N L/N's seat, especially considering how much she has contributed to the development of the cars?"
Kimi blinked, the carefully memorized, media-trained answers completely evaporating from his mind. He looked down, swallowed hard, and tried his absolute best to find words that wouldn't cause a massive headline.
"Look... I don't think any driver ever wants to see another driver lose their seat," Kimi said, his voice quiet. "We all know how hard it is to get to this level. This was a dream opportunity for me and my family, and it was an opportunity I simply couldn't say no to."
Down in Italy, Lewis was sitting in the Ferrari lounge, dressed in his striking new team gear. He was quietly sipping a cup of espresso, watching the live coverage of the Mercedes press day on the screen.
Charles walked past, stopping to look at the screen before glancing at Lewis. "So? What do you think of the big swap?"
Lewis didn't take his eyes off the screen. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, checking his watch with a knowing smile. "I give it exactly an hour before they invent a rivalry between them. They love a good villain story."
He tapped his screen, scrolling through his contacts until he found your name, and hit dial. You answered on the second ring, your voice sounding a bit breathless.
"Congratulations," Lewis said immediately, his familiar voice instantly cutting through the noise in your head.
"Thanks?" you replied. "Congratulations to you, too. I have to say, seeing you in red is still going to take some getting used to."
Lewis chuckled softly. "They're acting like like the championship's starting today. The press is going absolutely crazy."
"It definitely feels chaotic," you admitted. "I haven't even sat in the car yet."
"It's all just noise," Lewis said, his tone turning serious and protective. "You have the whole year to write your story. Don't let them get inside your head."
"I'm trying not to. But it's hard when every second post is comparing my stats to his."
"And they're going to keep doing that," Lewis warned gently. "Every single weekend."
"I know."
"Don't play their game. Show them exactly why you belong in that seat."
f1
liked by redbullracing, mercedesamgf1, and 5,290,401 others
f1 The FIA has officially confirmed the media schedule for the upcoming Formula 1 Pre-Season Testing at the Bahrain International Circuit.
Teams and drivers will take to the track for the first time ahead of the new season, with media sessions, press conferences, and testing programmes scheduled throughout the week.
Full driver appearances and press conference timings are now available.
#F1 #Formula1
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user61 THISLL BE THE FIRST TIME WE SEE Y/N IN A RED BULL GARAGE AND KIMI IN A MERCEDES GARAGE
user3 i love how everyone already knows that the first conference is going to be the most watched non-race event in f1 history
user78 MAX AND Y/N IN MATCHING TEAM GEAR IM READY
By the late afternoon, the FIA officially released the media schedule for the upcoming pre-season testing in Bahrain.
Your phone buzzed again in your hand. It was your personal PR manager, who had been managing your media presence since your MotoGP career.
"Hey, do you have a quick second? I have a slight update regarding the media run."
"Please tell me it's actually a simple update, Ryland," you groaned, leaning your head back. "My brain is completely fried."
"Well... the media delegate just sent over a last-minute change to the seating arrangements for the main stage." Ryland paused, clearing his throat.
"Instead of seating us by teams like they usually do, they've decided to mix the order to create a more 'dynamic visual.' Their words not mine."
You sat up. "What do you mean? How are they mixing it?"
"It means... you'll be sitting directly between Max..."
He hesitated, letting the silence stretch for a beat.
"...and Kimi."
You closed your eyes, letting out a long, slow breath as you rubbed your temples. "You have got to be kidding me."
"I wish I was joking," Ryland said. "Everyone's throwing a party online. They know exactly what they're going to get."
After you hung up, you stared at your blank phone screen for a long moment. You locked your phone, tossed it onto the sofa, and looked out at the rainy night.
Tomorrow, the talking would finally stop. Tomorrow, you'd see them all again. And tomorrow, the real fight would begin.
summary: MotoGP legend joins Formula 1 with Mercedes, entering a season of extreme scrutiny, media pressure, and divided public opinion as she fights to prove she belongs on the grid.
pairing: formula one + female!driver!reader
warnings/tags: smau + irl, mentions about misogyny, cursing here and there
notes: this is my old series also named more than a driver, but reimagined because the original series just could not get out of my privates no matter what i tried. so i thought that rewriting the whole thing is the best thing i could do, and i can explain driver!yn and her experiences in more detail than i did in the original. thank you !!!
reblogs, likes, and comments are so so appreciated! if you want to read more from me, kindly submit in my inbox !!! xoxo
SERIES
MORE THAN A DRIVER — PART ONE
chapter one — unpleasant welcomes
chapter two — private testing
chapter three — tension rises in melbourne
chapter four — will luck run out in shanghai?
chapter five — internal interference
chapter six — culprits in paddocks
chapter seven — it was who?!
chapter eight — attempted closure
chapter nine — kept secret
chapter ten — gives you wings
MORE THAN A DRIVER — PART TWO
chapter one — new kid on the block
DRIVER!YN BLURBS
older brother/younger sister dynamic + lh44
— that dynamic where he constantly protects her from media pressure
mentor + sv5
— sebastian vettel as her mentor
protective!toto wolff
— remake from this blurb
chaotic livestreams + ln4
— driver!yn and lando constantly getting caught in livestreams together
motogp!yn era
— everyone wonders where the happy, smiley version of her is. then they see her past self during her motogp days
mercedes' special guest (ft. jude bellingham)
— there's a good looking guest in this week's paddock, who could it be?
golden appearance (ft. harry styles)
— she makes an appearance in harry styles' music video
cornered by the oldies + jb22, nr6, mw2, sv5
— driver!yn who's the retired drivers' princess
media training's worst nightmare
lh44 seeing driver!yn after signing with ferrari
keeps me grounded + lh44
redbull!yn with mv3
susie wolff's girl
playing live onstream + ln4
still number 1 + lh44
— lewis gets lowkey upset that she's getting comfy with her new teammate after he signs with ferrari
top 3 most handsome drivers
landoyn moments
first grand prix win (and an involuntary appearance at a party)
— what happened after her first grand prix win
you're leaving mercedes?
— her reaction to lewis leaving mercedes and finding out from the media
hot laps with Y/N L/N
an embarassing crush + sv5
deuxmoi posts about driver!yn
chicken shop date
cancelled podcast
bring back iconic podiums!
driver!yn's youtube videos
driver!yn with WAGs | part two
paparazzi shots and gossip sessions + lh44 (and roscoe)
romantic moments at the paddock
— she'd never date any of them, but everyone thinks and wants her to be
crashing out + ln4
the broski report
driver!yn's own WAG
— she’s never really had official public relationships during her career—while she keeps her love life private, it’s widely known that she’s had a few discrete relationships
driver!yn viral moments
driver!yn with the rookies
gossip queens + lh44
driver dynamics
driver!yn with fans
driver!yn’s relationship with her family
lando's lucky charm
— how can an accidental visit to the mclaren garage lead to her being a lucky charm?
victory blues
— after a well deserving first win in ferrari, lewis faces driver!yn on the steps of the podium again. but this time, they're no longer in the same team
i dont consider myself a 'fashion guru' by any means but one thing i will say is guys you dont need to know the specific brand an item you like is - you need to know what the item is called. very rarely does a brand matter, but knowing that pair of pants is called 'cargo' vs 'boot cut' or the names of dress styles is going to help you find clothes you like WAAAYYYY faster than brand shopping
this also goes for aesthetic or -core titles. 'y2k tank top' is going to get you resellers and fast fashion brands advertising to people looking to meet a current trend. 'thin strap crop tank top' is going to get you a diverse group of results and not upcharge you to hell and back
additionally, shop second hand when you can, second hand and thrift sites typically organize clothes by the cut and color. theyll be more affordable than a depop seller curating you a style to sell you
Max Verstappen x driver!reader
Toto Wolff x driver!reader (complicated dynamic)
Summary: After Monaco, you stop answering Toto’s calls and start accepting the truth: Mercedes has found its future, and it is no longer you. Two days later, an argument in Brackley changes the way you look at him. Barcelona should give you something back — pole position, your hundredth race for Mercedes, a podium. Instead, it shows you exactly how alone you have become.
Warnings: angst, swearing, team favouritism, fear of replacement, secret Max Verstappen relationship, implied sex, emotional breakdown, physical confrontation, boss/driver tension, jealousy, painful Toto and reader dynamic.
Word count: 7.5k
You leave Max’s hotel room shortly after midnight.
Your body still carries him. Your lips feel tender. Your thighs ache in that pleasant, distracting way you needed after Monaco. His cologne clings faintly to your skin beneath your hoodie.
For once, the guilt does not follow you into the lift.
It usually does.
Every time you leave Max, some small, loyal part of you remembers Toto. Remembers Mercedes. Remembers how spectacularly furious your team principal would become if he discovered one of his drivers was secretly sleeping with Max Verstappen.
His favourite enemy. His long-term target. The man Toto has apparently been trying to place in a Mercedes while looking you in the eye and calling the team your family.
Tonight, guilt can go fuck itself.
Your phone vibrates before the lift reaches the lobby.
Toto: We need to speak again. Properly this time.
You read it. Then lock the screen. It vibrates again as you step outside into the warm Monaco night.
Toto: Please answer me.
You stare at the word please longer than you should.
Toto rarely uses it when he can issue an order instead.
A black car waits near the entrance, arranged by Max with the kind of efficiency that makes you suspect his assistant knows far more about your secret than either of you wants to discuss.
Your phone begins to ring.
Toto Wolff
You watch his name glow across the screen.
Once, you would have answered before the second ring.
Toto could call you at three in the morning and you would pick up. He had done exactly that after Lewis announced his move to Ferrari. You had been asleep in your apartment, disoriented and half convinced someone had died.
Instead, Toto had said, “I need you to understand that this changes nothing about your place here.”
You had believed him. You had sat on your kitchen counter in the dark while he told you Mercedes trusted you. That you were ready. That the team would be built around your experience, your speed, your leadership.
He had made you feel chosen.
Your phone continues ringing. You decline the call. Then you switch it off.
The silence feels viciously satisfying.
Your Monaco apartment overlooks the harbour.
Usually, you love the view. Tonight, every yacht looks smug.
You throw your keys onto the kitchen island and walk barefoot through the dark apartment. Your clothes land in a trail behind you. Hoodie on the sofa. Shirt near the bedroom door. Jeans somewhere beside the ridiculous decorative chair nobody has ever used.
You stand beneath the shower until Max’s scent disappears.
The water is too hot. You keep it that way. Anger lives better in heat.
You lean your forehead against the tiles and think about Toto’s face in his office.
Still wet with Kimi’s champagne. Still trying to calm you down like you were a difficult child throwing a tantrum instead of a driver who had watched her race get handed to her teammate.
You think about the podium. Toto’s hand on Kimi’s shoulder. The hug. The pride in his face.
You think about Max saying there had been discussions. A framework. A generous, multi-year offer.
Mercedes would need a free seat. There are only two. Kimi is leading the championship. Kimi is young. Kimi is marketable. Kimi is the future Toto cannot stop smiling about.
You close your eyes. It will be you. Of course it will be you.
For months, you have watched the team slowly rotate toward Kimi like a flower following the sun.
At first, you tried to ignore it. He was a rookie. A teenager dropped into one of the most brutal environments in sport. He needed support. Guidance. Protection from the media.
You gave him all three.
You taught him how Mercedes worked. You explained which engineers needed direct answers and which ones needed coffee before direct answers. You warned him never to touch Bradley’s emergency biscuits unless he was prepared for a full public relations crisis.
You helped him. You liked him. He was supposed to learn beside you.
Somewhere along the way, Toto stopped looking at him like a student. He started looking at him like the answer.
And you became the difficult problem left over from the previous equation.
You turn the shower off and stand dripping in the silence.
Your phone remains switched off on the kitchen island.
Good. Let Toto call. Let him wonder. Let him experience the radical concept of wanting something from you and receiving nothing.
You wrap yourself in a robe and walk to the bedroom. Sleep refuses to come.
Instead, memories arrive.
Your first Mercedes test. You had been young, defensive, full of talent and certain the entire world was waiting for you to fail. Most of the paddock had treated you like a marketing experiment.
Toto had watched you climb from the car after fifty brutal laps and asked one question.
“Can you go faster?”
You had stared at him. “Yes.”
He had smiled. “Good. Again.”
He never asked whether you could cope as a woman. He asked whether you could win.
Mercedes gave you a seat when other teams gave you compliments and excuses. Toto fought the board. Susie stood beside you through the media storm. The engineers learned your language, your rhythms, your temper.
You repaid them with everything.
When the car was dominant, you won. When the car became difficult, you dragged the thing onto podiums through pure spite.
You drove a machine Toto once called “diva” or “an aerodynamic misunderstanding” to second place because Max suffered a puncture and both McLarens destroyed their tyres.
You took wins whenever luck cracked a door open.
You bled for this team. You defended them in interviews after strategy mistakes. You protected young engineers from blame. You stayed late in the simulator. You turned up sick, bruised, exhausted, furious.
Mercedes had your complete loyalty.
Toto had more. You trusted him. He had become something dangerously close to a father in a life where that position had never been occupied properly.
You went to him when the pressure became unbearable. He listened when you admitted you were frightened. He stood between you and every person who tried to turn your gender into a weakness.
Around Toto, you felt safe. That was rare. That was sacred. And now he was trying to replace you...
You lie in bed and stare at the ceiling until dawn.
Your anger survives the sunrise.
Two days later, you arrive at Brackley on your motorcycle.
It is petty. It is childish. It is perfect.
Toto hates the bike. He has hated every motorcycle you have owned, including the one he attempted to buy from you through an anonymous collector after you crashed it during a private track day.
You discovered his plan within twelve hours. He still denies it.
You wear black leather and pull into the factory car park with enough noise to wake every engineer in three departments.
Toto’s office overlooks this side of the building.
Pure coincidence.
You stop directly beneath his windows and rev the engine hard. Once. Twice. The sound bounces off the glass.
You look up. A tall, dark figure stands near the window.
You smile beneath your helmet.
Good morning, boss.
You kill the engine, swing your leg over the bike, and remove your helmet. Your hair falls loose around your shoulders. A few employees walking toward the entrance pretend they have not just witnessed the beginning of a workplace war.
One of them gives you a discreet thumbs-up.
Mercedes loyalty has limits. Entertainment does not.
You are barely through reception when Bradley appears from one corridor and Toto’s assistant emerges from another. It feels coordinated.
You stop.
Bradley smiles with the strained patience of a man approaching an unexploded device. “Morning.”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”
“I know, Toto wants to see me.”
His smile weakens. “Toto wants to see you.”
“I’m busy.”
His assistant glances at the motorcycle helmet under your arm. “He said immediately.”
“Tell him I died in Monaco.”
Bradley sighs. “He saw you revving the bike under his office.”
“Then tell him I died and came back louder.”
“Please.”
You look at Bradley. He looks tired.
It is unfair. Bradley did not ruin Monaco. Bradley only has to clean up the emotional debris whenever you and Toto occupy the same building.
You hand him your helmet. “Hold this.”
His eyes widen. “Why?”
“So I don’t hit him with it.”
“That is not reassuring.”
You walk toward Toto’s office.
Behind you, Bradley mutters, “I should have taken a job in tennis.”
Toto is standing behind his desk when you enter.
His jacket hangs over the back of his chair. His white shirt sleeves are rolled to his forearms. His expression informs you that the motorcycle performance was fully appreciated.
You close the door.
He looks at you. You look at him. Neither speaks. The silence becomes a contest. You have more practice being stubborn.
Toto breaks first. “You ignored my messages.”
“You noticed.”
“I called you.”
“I noticed.”
“And?”
“I didn’t want to speak to you.”
His eyes narrow. “You still don’t.”
“Very perceptive. Should we alert the board?”
He places both hands on his desk. “You cannot disappear after a race weekend.”
“I did media. I attended the debrief. I fulfilled every contractual obligation.”
“This is not about your contract.”
“Everything with you is about contracts.”
Something shifts in his face.
You hit the target. Good.
Toto straightens. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You’re the businessman. Work it out.”
“I have spent two days trying to understand what is going through your head.”
“That sounds difficult. Perhaps Kimi can help. He seems to be your solution for everything.”
His jaw tightens. “This again.”
“Yes, Toto. This again. Monaco did not magically stop happening because the champagne dried.”
“We reviewed the strategy.”
“Wonderful. Did the review return my victory?”
“No.”
“Then I remain unimpressed.”
He walks around the desk.
You hate the way your body reacts. Toto has always been physically imposing. Tall. Broad. Controlled. He fills a room without trying, and when he steps closer, the air changes around him.
Usually, it makes you feel protected. Today, it makes you want to fight.
“You need to stop directing your anger at Kimi,” he says.
“I am directing it at you.”
“You refused to congratulate him properly.”
“I congratulated him.”
“You called him your royal highness during the debrief.”
“He laughed.”
“That is irrelevant.”
“He also won Monaco. I assume he survived.”
Toto stops in front of you. “You are behaving recklessly.”
You look down at yourself. “Because I rode a motorcycle?”
“Because you are furious, exhausted, and deliberately trying to provoke me.”
You smile. “It worked.”
His eyes darken. “You think this is funny?”
“I think watching the mighty Toto Wolff lose his temper is one of the few joys Mercedes has left me.”
“You know nothing about what I am trying to do.”
“I know enough.”
“What do you know?”
The question is sharp. Dangerous.
You hear Max’s voice in your mind.
A framework. Multi-year. Very generous.
You lift your chin. “I know Mercedes is planning its future.”
“Every team plans its future.”
“And apparently I am not part of yours.”
Toto goes very still. “You think I want to remove you?”
You laugh. “Want has nothing to do with it. You’ll do whatever the numbers tell you.”
“That is insulting.”
“It is accurate.”
“I fought to bring you into this team.”
“And now you’ve found something newer.”
“Kimi is your teammate, not your replacement.”
“For now.”
His gaze sharpens.
You should stop. You do not.
“You lost your mind over that boy,” you say. “One polite teenager arrives, wins a few races, and suddenly you’re acting like you personally invented him.”
Toto’s nostrils flare. “He deserves support.”
“So did I.”
“You had it.”
“Had.”
The word lands hard.
Toto takes another step. “You still have it.”
“Do I? Because from where I’m standing, I have a team that sacrifices my strategy, a boss celebrating my teammate like his son, and a contract that is probably already being measured for a coffin.”
“You are being ridiculous.”
“And you’re being a blind, stubborn old idiot.”
Silence.
You know instantly. That was too far.
Toto’s eyes narrow dangerously. “What did you call me?”
You should apologize. Instead, you lift your chin. “You heard me.”
He moves before you expect it. His hands close around your wrists.
Your back hits the edge of his desk. A startled breath leaves you.
Toto presses forward, trapping your hands against the polished surface on either side of your hips.
He is everywhere. Tall enough that you have to tip your head back. Broad enough to block the room. His face is close, brown eyes burning into yours.
Your heart slams against your ribs.
“Enough,” he says.
His voice is low. Rougher than you have ever heard it directed at you.
You pull once against his grip. He holds firm.
“Let go.”
“You will calm down.”
“Make me.”
The words leave your mouth before your brain approves them.
Toto freezes. So do you. The anger shifts. Heat moves through it. Sudden. Sharp. Wrong.
Your breathing changes. His does too.
You feel the weight of him against you, the strength in his hands around your wrists, the edge of the desk pressing into your lower back.
You have been close to Toto before. Hugs after races. His hands adjusting your collar before media. His arm around you while you limped away from a crash.
This is different.
His gaze drops to your mouth. Only for a second but long enough.
Your pulse jumps.
Toto draws in a sharp breath, and the sound travels straight through you.
For one reckless moment, neither of you moves. You forget Monaco. You forget Kimi. You forget Max’s hands on you two nights ago.
There is only Toto’s body pressing close and the terrifying realization that this does not feel fatherly. It has never felt less fatherly.
A knock strikes the door.
“Toto?” Bradley’s voice comes through the wood. “Sorry, but the board call starts in three minutes.”
Toto releases you as though your skin has burned him.
He steps back. The distance feels cold.
You rub one wrist, staring at him.
His chest rises and falls beneath his shirt. He looks furious. At you. At himself. At the room.
“Come in,” he calls, voice suddenly controlled.
You snatch your helmet from the chair before Bradley can enter.
The door opens.
Bradley looks from Toto to you. Then to your hands. Then back to Toto. His survival instincts tell him to understand nothing.
“The board,” he says carefully.
“I know.”
You walk toward the door.
Toto says your name. You stop without turning.
“We are not finished.” Toto says.
Your fingers tighten around the helmet.
“Yes,” you say quietly. “We are.”
You leave. Your hands shake all the way to the simulator.
The simulator does not help.
It usually does. Usually, the moment you slide into the seat and wrap your hands around the wheel, your brain becomes useful again. Numbers. Braking points. Entry speed. Exit rotation. Tyre surface temperatures. Clean things. Safe things.
Today, the car loads into Barcelona on the screens, and all you can think about is Toto’s hands around your wrists. The pressure of his body against yours. The way his breath changed. The way yours did too.
You miss the first braking point by enough to make the virtual Mercedes go straight into the gravel.
Marcus, standing behind the console, says nothing. Smart man.
You reverse out with murder in your heart and try again. The second lap is worse. The rear snaps through Turn Nine, you overcorrect, and the car spins so violently the motion platform jerks beneath you.
Marcus finally exhales. “You want a break?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“You just tried to enter Turn Ten sideways.”
“It looked boring from the normal angle.”
He gives you a look. You ignore him and reset the lap. It does not improve.
Your hands are too tight on the wheel. Your inputs are late. Your mind keeps slipping out of the sim and back into Toto’s office, to the edge of his desk digging into your lower back, to the sound Bradley’s knock made when it broke whatever the hell had been happening between you.
Nothing. Nothing had been happening.
You are furious with yourself for thinking about it. You are furious with Toto for making you think about it. You are furious with your body for apparently choosing this week to discover new and professionally catastrophic information.
The door opens behind you.
You know before anyone speaks. Kimi. Ah, of course. Because the universe enjoys timing.
“Hi,” he says carefully.
You keep your eyes on the screen. “Busy.”
“I can see that.”
On the monitor, your car touches the gravel again.
Kimi says nothing. You hate him a little for being polite about it.
Marcus clears his throat. “We’re working through Barcelona long-run prep.”
Kimi steps closer, holding his tablet against his chest. “I was told to compare some data with you.”
“Send it to Marcus.”
“It’s mostly driving style.”
“Then send it to Bono.”
Kimi pauses.
You feel him looking at you. You grip the wheel harder.
“I just wanted to say,” he starts, voice softer, “about Monaco—”
“No.”
He stops. You finally look at him.
Kimi stands there in his Mercedes kit, young and awkward and genuinely kind, which makes everything more unbearable. He is not smug. He is not cruel. He is not trying to steal your place with a grin.
He is simply fast. And Toto loves fast things that arrive wrapped in potential.
“Don’t,” you say.
His face falls a little. “I was going to say I’m sorry.”
“That’s exactly why I said don’t.”
“I didn’t want to—”
“You won Monaco. Enjoy it.”
“I did not mean—”
“Kimi.”
Your voice cuts sharper than you intend.
He goes quiet.
You swallow. The anger in you shifts, looking for a place to land. It is not his fault. You know that. You hate that too.
“I can’t do this today,” you say, quieter. “Not with you.”
Kimi nods. For a moment, he looks like he might say something else.
Then he steps back. “Okay.”
You turn to the screen again.
The door closes behind him.
Marcus waits exactly three seconds. “That was harsh.”
“I know.”
“You like him.”
“I know.”
“You’re angry at Toto.”
You glare at the monitor. “Marcus.”
“Right. Telemetry.”
“Excellent survival instincts.”
He sighs and resets the programme.
You last another twenty minutes before both of you admit defeat without saying the words out loud.
Your lap times are useless. Your head is worse. So you leave.
Your Brackley apartment is small, quiet, and close enough to the factory that you can pretend it is practical rather than lonely.
You always stay there during factory days. No hotel corridors. No team dinners. No Toto waiting outside your room with his jaw clenched and eyes too sharp. Just one bedroom, one kitchen, one sofa, and a tiny sim racing setup in the corner because apparently your idea of relaxing from driving is more driving.
You drop your bag near the door and kick off your boots.
Your phone starts ringing before you reach the kitchen.
Max
You stare at the screen. No. Absolutely not. You are not in the mood for Max’s directness, his annoying honesty, or the way he sees through things you have not even admitted to yourself.
The phone stops. You breathe out. Then it rings again.
“Persistent bastard,” you mutter.
You answer. “What?”
Max’s voice comes through immediately. “Bad day?”
“No, I always answer like a hostage negotiator.”
“That means bad day.”
You open the fridge and stare inside. There is yogurt, water, and a questionable box of takeaway noodles.
You close it.
“What do you want?”
“To check if you killed Toto.”
“Not yet.”
“Progress.”
You lean against the counter despite yourself.
For a few seconds, neither of you speaks.
Then Max says, “You sound tired.”
You close your eyes. That is the problem with him. Sometimes he is too blunt to be comforting. Sometimes he is comforting because he is blunt.
“I’m fine.”
“You are lying.”
“You are annoying.”
“Yes.”
A small laugh escapes you before you can stop it.
Max catches it. “There she is.”
“Don’t sound so pleased.”
“I worked hard for that.”
“You called me twice.”
“Emotional labour.”
“You poor thing.”
He hums. “Come race me.”
You look toward the sim rig in the corner. “No.”
“You afraid?”
“Of you? Cute.”
“Then prove it.”
“I spent half the day in the simulator.”
“And were you terrible?”
You say nothing.
Max laughs. “Oh, you were terrible.”
“I hate you.”
“Race me.”
You should refuse. You should shower, eat something that does not come from a plastic container, and sleep for twelve hours.
Instead, you walk toward the rig. “You’re going to regret this.”
“I already regret many things. Be specific.”
You sit down and put on your headset.
Ten minutes later, you are both loaded into an online lobby, choosing GT cars because Max claims Formula cars are too much like work, which is rich coming from a man who turns grocery shopping into qualifying.
He hits you into Turn One on lap two.
“Max!”
“That was racing.”
“That was attempted murder.”
“You left space.”
“I left oxygen.”
“Same thing.”
You hunt him down over the next five laps with more focus than you managed in the factory all afternoon.
He defends like a demon. You attack like you have personal legal rights to the racing line.
On the final lap, you send it down the inside with absolutely no dignity.
Max shouts in your headset. You laugh so hard you almost miss the exit.
You win by two tenths.
“Say it,” you demand.
“No.”
“Say I am better.”
“You are more desperate.”
“Say it.”
“You cheated.”
“How?”
“With violence.”
“That is literally your brand.”
Max goes quiet for a second.
Then he laughs. A real laugh. Warm and rough in your ear. And for the first time since Toto pinned you against his desk, your chest loosens.
Only a little but enough to breathe. Enough to forget the shape of Toto’s hands. Enough to pretend the world is nothing more than a screen, a wheel, and Max Verstappen complaining because you beat him at his own game.
You settle deeper into the seat.
“Again?” he asks.
You smile. “Obviously.”
For the next hour, you race him until your eyes sting and your cheeks hurt from smiling.
Toto does not disappear. Not really. He lingers somewhere at the edge of every quiet moment. But Max fills the noise. And for tonight, that is enough.
Few days later, Barcelona arrives with heat, noise, and your hundredth race for Mercedes.
The team prepares a small celebration on Thursday. A cake. A framed photograph of your first race. A video featuring mechanics, engineers, Susie, Jack, Lewis, and several humiliating clips from your early years.
Jack appears wearing one of your old helmets, which slides down over his entire face.
“You’re my favourite driver,” he announces from beneath it. “Even when your car goes sleepy.”
The room laughs. You nearly cry.
Toto stands near the back. He watches you instead of the screen.
You feel his eyes on you and refuse to look at him. The moment in Brackley has followed you to Spain. His hands around your wrists. His body against yours. The way he looked at your mouth.
Every time he enters a room, your skin remembers before your brain can stop it.
You hate him for that too.
Since the argument, Toto has become painfully professional. No teasing. No dry comments about your motorcycle. No quiet words before you climb into the car.
He speaks to you about performance, tyres, strategy, and media obligations. Nothing else.
You match him. If he wants distance, you give him an entire continent.
Marcus notices. Marcus has been your race engineer for five years and possesses the emotional sensitivity of a brick fitted with excellent telemetry. Even he notices.
“You and Toto fighting?” he asks on Friday morning.
You adjust your gloves. “Toto and I are always fighting.”
“This one feels murdery.”
“He’s alive.”
“For now?”
You glance toward the pit wall, where Toto is speaking with Bono and Kimi. “For now.”
Marcus nods like this answers everything. “Good. Car balance?”
“Rear is nervous in Turn Nine.”
“Like team principal, like car.”
You look at him.
Marcus studies his screen. “I said nothing.”
You almost smile.
The car is fast. For the first time in weeks, everything listens to you.
Through practice, you build confidence. The balance improves. The tyres stay alive. Marcus sounds happier with every run.
By qualifying, you know. Pole is yours if you take it.
Q3 becomes a fight between you, Lewis, Lando, and Kimi. Your first lap is good. Lewis goes faster. Kimi comes within two hundredths.
Then you begin the final run. The world narrows. Braking point. Apex. Throttle.
You throw the Mercedes through every corner with the anger you have carried since Monaco. It gives you everything back.
You cross the line. Pole position.
Marcus screams in your ear. “P1! That was fucking beautiful!”
You laugh for the first time all weekend. A real laugh.
Your hands shake as you slow the car. “Tell the old idiot I can still drive.”
Marcus goes silent. Then, quietly, “Radio is live.”
“Good.”
The garage will hear it. Toto will hear it.
Oh, you hope he does.
Max catches you after qualifying.
You have finished the press conference and escaped the media pen. The corridor behind the hospitality units is quiet, hidden from the main paddock route.
A hand catches your waist and pulls you between two temporary buildings.
You react on instinct, elbow lifting.
Max catches it. “Relax.”
“You could announce yourself.”
“Where is the fun in that?”
Before you can answer, his mouth finds yours.
The kiss is hard and quick. Your back meets the wall. His hand slides to the back of your neck. Adrenaline spikes through you because the paddock is metres away.
Anyone could turn the corner. A mechanic. A journalist. Bradley. Toto.
Especially Toto.
The thought heats your blood in a way you refuse to examine.
Max pulls back just enough to look at you. “Good lap.”
You lift a brow. “Good?”
“Very good.”
“Careful. Compliments might damage your reputation.”
His thumb brushes your lower lip. “You were angry.”
“I’m always angry.”
“You drive faster when you want to kill someone.”
“That sounds scientifically questionable.”
“I have watched you.”
The words settle between you.
You glance toward the open end of the alley.
“We’ll get caught.”
Max kisses the corner of your mouth. “Then stop standing here.”
“You pulled me here.”
“And you stayed.”
Fair.
Annoying. Very Max.
He gives you one last kiss, slower this time. “Win tomorrow.”
You look at him. “Planning to let me?”
“No.”
You smile. “Good.”
You walk away before either of you makes a worse decision.
When you reach the Mercedes hospitality, Toto stands inside the glass doors. His eyes move from your flushed face toward the corridor behind you.
Your stomach tightens. For one horrible second, you think he knows. Then he turns away.
You tell yourself the disappointment in your chest is relief.
Sunday begins perfectly.
Your hundredth start for Mercedes. Pole position. A clean launch.
Lewis attacks into Turn One, but you hold him off. Kimi stays behind you. Lando follows.
For the first stint, you control the race. Marcus feeds you gaps. Your tyres behave. The car feels alive beneath you.
This is what you wanted. This is what you were promised.
Then the strategy begins. Lewis pits first. Mercedes keeps you out.
You question it immediately. “Why are we not covering?”
“We are extending.”
“What about Kimi?”
“Kimi boxes this lap.”
Your jaw tightens. Again. Always him first when it matters.
You stay out three more laps. By the time you pit, Lewis has undercut you. You rejoin behind him.
“What the fuck was that?”
“We believed the tyre offset—”
“You believed wrong.”
Marcus stays calm. He always does.
“We can still fight.”
You try.
You close the gap to Lewis after the safety car. You push through every high-speed corner until the tyres begin to fade.
The Mercedes no longer has the pace. Lewis controls the race from the front.
Behind you, Kimi is coming. His tyres are fresher. You hear the gap falling. Four seconds. Three. Two.
Soon, he fills your mirrors. You defend. Hard. Clean enough to avoid a penalty. Aggressive enough to make the team nervous.
“Kimi has the tyre advantage,” Marcus warns.
“Then he can use it.”
Toto’s voice comes over the radio. “Keep it clean.”
Your hands tighten on the wheel. “Tell him.”
A pause.
“I am telling both of you.” Toto says.
“Funny. I only hear you in my ear.”
Kimi attacks into Turn One. You hold the outside.
He tries again at Turn Ten. You close the door.
The fight costs both of you time, but you refuse to move aside.
You have spent the entire season moving aside for decisions made above your head. This time, Kimi can earn it.
Then his Mercedes slows. You see it in the mirror. A puff of smoke. A sudden loss of speed. Kimi drops away.
His radio is not yours, but you know the feeling. Engine. He pulls to the side of the track.
For half a second, satisfaction rises. Then shame crushes it. You like him. You know exactly how it feels to sit inside a dead car and watch the race leave without you.
Still, the championship table shifts in your mind. You will gain points. You will close the gap.
Formula 1 does not leave space for clean emotions.
You finish second. Lewis wins his first race for Ferrari. Lando comes third.
As you cross the line, Marcus sounds relieved. “P2. Great drive. That was a strong recovery.”
You breathe out. Not the win. Still a podium. Eighteen points. Your hundredth race for Mercedes.
After Monaco, after the failures, after the strategy, you gave them something.
“Thank you,” you say.
Then Toto’s voice comes through. “Good recovery. Well managed.”
It's professional, lean, cold.
You wait. Nothing else comes. No congratulations on one hundred races. No pride. No warmth.
You switch off the radio.
The podium should feel good.
Lewis is glowing.
You are genuinely happy for him. He left Mercedes to chase something new, endured the criticism, and now stands in red while the British anthem plays for Ferrari.
He catches your eye and smiles. You smile back.
Lando nudges your elbow before the trophies are handed out. “You look like you want to stab someone with yours.”
“I’m considering options.”
“Please wait until after the champagne.”
“No promises.”
The anthem begins. You stand on the second step and look down.
Ferrari gathers below. Red shirts everywhere. Cheering. Flags. Lewis’s engineers pressed against the barrier.
McLaren gathers for Lando. Orange. Smiles. Arms raised.
You search for black and silver. There is nobody. No mechanics beneath the podium. No Marcus. No Bradley. No Toto.
Your smile falters.
You scan the crowd again. Maybe you missed them. Maybe they are farther back. Maybe someone stayed with Kimi while the rest are coming. Nothing.
Your hundredth race for Mercedes. Pole position. A difficult strategy. A hard-fought second place. And beneath your podium step, there is empty space where your team should be.
The music continues. Cameras move across your face.
You lift your chin.
A week ago, Toto stood on the podium for Kimi.
Toto, who almost never attended podium ceremonies, climbed those steps in Monaco. He let Kimi soak him in champagne. Hugged him in front of the world. Looked proud enough to burst.
Today, your hundredth race, he cannot even stand beneath the podium.
Something closes around your chest. Tight and painful.
You struggle to breathe through it.
The trophy is placed into your hands.
You smile. You have spent years learning how to smile while men discuss whether you deserve to exist in their sport.
You can survive this too.
Lewis looks at you for a moment longer than necessary. He notices. Lewis always notices.
His celebration softens when he meets your eyes. You shake your head slightly. Do not ask. Please.
The champagne begins. You spray Lewis first. He laughs and chases you across the podium. Lando joins in, soaking both of you.
For the cameras, it looks joyful. You lift the bottle. You grin. You play your role.
Inside, you are standing alone.
The Mercedes garage cheers when you return. Mechanics clap. A few pull you into hugs.
Marcus reaches you first. “One hundred,” he says, squeezing your shoulder. “You did good.”
“Strategy didn’t.”
His mouth twists. “We’ll discuss that.”
“Will we change anything?”
He does not answer. You already know.
Toto appears when the cameras move closer. Of course. He steps into frame, places one arm around you, and congratulates you.
His hand rests against your upper back.
A week ago, that touch would have calmed you. Now you feel only the performance.
“Strong drive,” he says.
You look into his eyes. “Shame nobody saw the podium.”
His hand stills. The cameras remain.
His expression stays controlled. “We were dealing with Kimi’s retirement.”
There it is. Kimi. Again.
You nod. “Of course.”
Toto’s gaze sharpens at your tone.
Then, you hear him speaking to another reporter minutes later. His face is grim. His voice carries genuine frustration.
You have just taken a podium. Second place. Your hundredth race for Mercedes.
And Toto does not mention it once. Not the milestone. Not the points. Not the way you dragged that car back onto the podium after another strategy call left you fighting from a worse position than you should have been in.
Instead, he talks about Kimi. That the failure hurt. That Kimi lost important points. That they needed to understand what happened. And it was unacceptable.
You stand twenty meters away and remember your own engine failure a week ago. Toto had called it unfortunate. He had spoken about recovery. He had moved on before you climbed out of the medical car.
Today, Kimi’s retirement looks like personal grief.
You cannot stay. You walk away without telling anyone.
You cry beneath the shower in your motorhome room. The water hides the sound.
Your fist presses against your mouth anyway.
You hate this. You hate feeling weak. You hate that a missing man beneath a podium can hurt more than a lost victory.
You should be proud. One hundred races with Mercedes. Six wins. Dozens of podiums. Years spent dragging flawed cars into places they did not deserve.
You survived everything the sport threw at you.
And now Toto Wolff has reduced you to tears by failing to show up. Because he used to show up everywhere else. At the medical centre. At your apartment after your first bad crash. At the factory late at night when you could not sleep before the title decider.
He showed up in every place that mattered.
Until Kimi.
You turn your face into the water and let yourself break. Only for a few minutes. Then you shut it off.
Your phone waits on the counter. Three messages.
One from Lewis.
Lewis: Proud of you, girl! I saw you looking for them.
Your throat tightens.
One from Susie.
Susie: One hundred races. Jack and I are so proud of you. Call us later.
Then Max.
Max: You okay?
You stare at it.
Another message appears.
Max: Stupid question. Want me to come over?
You type before thinking.
You: Yes.
His answer arrives immediately.
Max: Give me twenty minutes.
You close your eyes. You need to forget. Max is very good at helping you forget.
You dress quickly. Black jeans. Team shirt. Hoodie. Your hair remains damp.
When you open the door, Toto is waiting in the corridor.
Your entire body goes cold.
He leans against the opposite wall, arms folded, expression unreadable.
You step out and lock the door. Then you walk past him.
He moves into your path. “We need to talk.”
“You need to move.”
“You vanished from the garage.”
“I was finished.”
“You did not attend the post-race review.”
“I will read the report. I already know the ending. Strategy protected Kimi, I lost the lead, his engine died, and suddenly the whole team entered mourning.”
Toto’s eyes narrow. “This attitude stops now.”
You laugh. “No.”
He takes a breath. “You are angry.”
“You remain a genius.”
“You are hurt.”
That stops you. You look at him.
His voice softens. “I know you looked for us beneath the podium.”
The humiliation burns fresh. You hate that he saw. You hate that Lewis saw. You hate that the entire world may have seen.
You step closer. “Then where were you?”
“Kimi had just suffered a failure.”
“So did I in Monaco.”
“This was different.”
The words land before he can pull them back.
Your face goes still.
Toto closes his eyes for one second. “That is not what I meant.”
“No. I think it is.”
“You know it isn’t.”
“I know you stood on Kimi’s podium in Monaco.”
His jaw tightens.
“I know today was my hundredth race for your team, and you could not even stand below mine.”
“We had an issue to manage.”
“You always have an issue to manage when it comes to me.”
“That is unfair.”
“Everything about this season has been unfair!”
Your voice echoes through the corridor.
Toto glances toward the far end, checking for cameras or staff. That makes you laugh bitterly.
“Relax. Bradley can write a statement if anyone hears me developing a personality.”
“Stop.”
“No.”
You try to move past him again. His hand closes around your forearm. You spin.
“Let go.”
“You will listen to me.”
“I listened for years.”
“And now?”
“Now you’re air to me.”
His face changes. Pain. Real pain.
You should feel guilty. You feel powerful for half a second. Then worse. Toto’s grip loosens, but he does not release you.
“I am air,” he repeats.
“You wanted distance. Congratulations.”
“I never wanted distance.”
“You want Kimi.”
“He is my driver.”
“So am I!”
Your voice breaks. Silence follows. You hate yourself for it.
Toto’s expression softens, and you cannot bear his kindness now.
You yank your arm free.
“Go check his engine,” you say. “Tell him how devastated you are. Hug him. Find another podium to stand on. I have somewhere to be.”
“With whom?”
The question comes too quickly.
You freeze. Toto notices.
His eyes sharpen. “Who are you meeting?”
“None of your business.”
“You are still representing Mercedes.”
“I’m off duty.”
“You are never fully off duty during a race weekend.”
You lift your hand. The urge to slap him arrives hot and sudden. Your palm barely moves before Toto catches your wrist. His fingers close firmly.
You both freeze. Again. The same position as Brackley. Your hand trapped between you. His body close. His breath warm across your face.
Your heart pounds.
“Do not,” he says quietly.
You stare into his eyes. “Let me go.”
“Calm down.”
“Stop telling me to calm down.”
“You are shaking.”
“Because I hate you.”
The lie hurts as it leaves.
Toto’s face tightens. His hand remains around your wrist.
You feel his thumb against your pulse. He feels how fast it is beating. His gaze drops there. Then returns to your face.
The air shifts. Heat rises between you, ugly and undeniable. You think about his hands pinning you to the desk. You think about Max waiting. You think about how badly you want Toto to know.
Maybe you want to hurt him. Maybe you want proof that he still cares enough to be hurt.
You lean closer. “You know what... take Max,” you say. “I don’t care anymore.”
Toto stops breathing. “What?”
“You heard me. Take him. Give him my seat. Give him the whole fucking team. I don’t want to drive for this broken, miserable excuse for a family anyway.”
His grip tightens slightly. “How do you know about Max?”
There it is. No denial. No confusion. Straight to the source.
Your anger turns cold. You smile. Toto sees the trap one second too late.
“You didn’t deny it.”
His eyes harden. “Who told you?”
“You just did.”
“We have conversations with many drivers.”
“Do those conversations usually include generous multi-year frameworks?”
Toto goes completely still.
Shit. Too specific.
You almost close your eyes.
His gaze changes. Calculating now.
“Who told you that?”
You pull against his hold. He does not release you.
“Maybe the paddock talks.”
“The paddock does not know those details.”
“You would be surprised.”
“No.” Toto steps closer. “I would not.”
You have to tilt your head back.
His voice drops. “Was it Max?”
Your pulse jumps beneath his thumb. Toto feels it. His eyes narrow.
You laugh, forcing the sound. “Look at you. So clever when it isn’t strategy.”
“Answer me.”
“You are not entitled to every answer.”
“I am asking you directly.”
“And I am directly telling you to go fuck yourself!”
Something flashes through his eyes. Anger. Jealousy. Fear. You cannot separate them.
“You have been speaking to him,” Toto says.
“I speak to many drivers.”
“Do you discuss confidential Mercedes negotiations with all of them?”
“Maybe they trust me more than you do.”
His face tightens. “I have always trusted you.”
“No. You trusted what I could give Mercedes.”
“That is bullshit.”
You blink. Toto almost never swears like that. Not at you, not with that much heat. Good. Maybe he is finally angry enough to be honest.
“You gave Kimi my race in Monaco. You disappeared when his car failed today. You are offering Max a contract behind my back. Tell me which part I misunderstood.”
“All of it.”
“Then explain.”
Toto opens his mouth. Nothing comes.
You laugh softly. Broken.
“There. That silence again.”
“It is complicated.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Yes, it is.”
“You want Max. Kimi is winning. You need a seat. I can count to two.”
“You are making assumptions.”
“Tell me my seat is safe.”
Toto looks at you. The corridor becomes silent.
Your eyes burn. “Say it,” you whisper.
His hand loosens around your wrist. He still does not let go.
“I cannot promise what the board will decide years from now.”
The answer crushes something final inside you.
You nod. Slowly. “There it is.”
“That does not mean—”
“It means everything.”
“You are under contract.”
“For now.”
“You are one of the best drivers in the world.”
“One of.”
His face twists with frustration. “Stop reducing every word I say into a weapon.”
“You handed me the ammunition.”
Toto finally releases your wrist. The absence of his hand feels colder than it should.
You step back. He looks at you like he wants to reach for you again. He does not.
“You think I would simply throw you away?” he asks.
His voice is quiet now.
You look at him.
This is the man who believed in you when nobody else did. The man who built your career. The man who once sat on a hospital floor beside your bed because every chair was occupied and he refused to leave. The man who taught you that loyalty could feel like safety.
The man who stood beneath Kimi’s champagne and left your podium empty.
“I think,” you say, forcing the words through the ache in your throat, “you would be sorry while doing it.”
Toto’s face falls. You almost break.
Your phone vibrates inside your pocket. Max.
Toto hears it. His eyes drop toward the sound.
You take out the phone.
Max: Outside. Same place as last night?
You lock the screen before Toto can see it. Too late. He has seen your expression.
“Who is waiting for you?” he asks.
You slide the phone back into your pocket. “Someone who tells me the truth.”
You walk past him. This time, Toto does not stop you. You reach the end of the corridor before he speaks.
“I was proud of you today.”
You stop. Every part of you wants to turn around. You remain facing away.
“Then you should have shown up.”
You keep walking. Toto stays behind you in the empty corridor. And you realize the worst part is not that Mercedes may no longer want you.
It is that some broken, loyal piece of your heart still wants him to come after you.
Max Verstappen x driver!reader
Toto Wolff x driver!reader (complicated dynamic)
You were supposed to be Mercedes title hope. Instead, Kimi becomes Toto’s golden boy, your place in the team starts slipping, and your secret affair with Max Verstappen becomes the only place where you can breathe. But when Mercedes begins circling Max, everything gets messy — loyalty, desire, rivalry, and the dangerous line between being protected by Toto and being controlled by him.
series warnings: angst, team politics, emotional manipulation, fear of being replaced, secret relationship, morally grey/darker!Toto, possessive and jealous!Toto, jealous!Max, power imbalance, sexual tension, implied smut or smut in some parts, betrayal, toxic loyalty, messy feelings.
The Seat Between Us
Part 1: champagne for the other car
Monaco leaves you heartbroken and furious when Kimi gets the win, Toto takes the podium, and you turn to Max as the only person willing to tell you the truth.
Part 2: the empty podium
to be published soon
more parts are currently in progress and will be posted when they will be finished
Max Verstappen x mercedes!driver!reader
Toto Wolff & driver!reader (boss/driver dynamic)
Summary: You were supposed to be Mercedes title hope. Instead, Monaco gives the win to Kimi, the podium to Toto, and the heartbreak to you. Furious, overlooked, and terrified of losing your seat, you turn to the only person who tells you the truth – Max.
Warnings: angst, team politics, driver rivalry, emotional breakdown, secret relationship, suggestive smut (no smut description), Toto being ruthless.
Word count: 6k
a/n: I wanted to write something more angsty this time, inspired by how George might feel this year — talented, frustrated, overlooked, and scared of being replaced. In this AU, George drives for Red Bull with Max, while Kimi is the reader’s Mercedes teammate and Toto’s golden boy. And yes, Max is here too, because I enjoy adding spice, tension, and emotional chaos.
Monaco is supposed to love you. That is the lie you tell yourself when you wake up on Sunday morning.
Monaco loves precision. Monaco loves courage. Monaco loves drivers with enough arrogance to put a car between walls and pretend fear is something that happens to other people.
You are very good at that. Fear has never looked good on you.
But anger does.
So does a black leather jacket, combat boots, tattoos on display, and a motorbike helmet tucked under your arm while Toto Wolff stands in the Mercedes hospitality with the expression of a man regretting every life choice that led to managing you.
“You rode here?” he asked that morning.
You gave him your sweetest smile. “No, Toto. I teleported in leather.”
His jaw tightened. “We discussed this.”
“You discussed. I listened artistically.”
“I forbade it.”
“You forbid many things. I collect them.”
He looked at you over his coffee. “One day you will give me a heart attack.”
“One day I will win you a world championship.”
“That was the agreement,” he said.
And for a second, you believed it again. Because this season was meant to be yours. After Lewis left for Ferrari, Mercedes became your team. Your garage. Your fight. Toto told you that himself. He stood in his office after the announcement, one hand on the back of his chair, serious and calm, and said you were ready to lead.
You believed him.
Then came Kimi. Young. Fast. Polite. Annoyingly talented. Mercedes new wonder boy with a smile like he still asked permission before taking the last biscuit.
You like him. That is the worst part.
Kimi is impossible to hate. He brings Susie coffee when she visits. He let Jack climb into the simulator and pretend to drive. He calls you “bossy” once and then immediately apologize because your stare nearly ends his career.
He is sweet. He is also your teammate. And this year, he is winning. From the first race, everything had started going wrong for you.
You were supposed to be the title favourite. Instead, Kimi leads the championship.
You are third. Still close enough to fight. Still fast enough to scare everyone. Still angry enough to burn the whole paddock down if somebody handed you matches.
Monaco was meant to reset the story. Pole position. Your pole position.
Kimi second. Max third in the Red Bull, already furious because George had outqualified him the previous race and they were currently communicating through hostile silence, aggressive overtakes, and media quotes so fake polite they should have come with warning labels.
The lights went out. You launched perfectly.
For forty laps, you controlled everything. The car was sharp. The tyres behaved. The walls stayed exactly where you expected them. Kimi followed, close enough to pressure you, too far to touch you.
You breathed with the circuit. Turn 1. Massenet. Casino Square. Mirabeau. Hairpin. Tunnel.
Monaco loved you.
Then Stroll crashed at the Swimming Pool. The safety car came out.
Your radio exploded with voices. You drove slowly past the debris and already felt it, the cold little twist in your stomach.
“Box me,” you said.
Silence. Then your engineer: “Stand by.”
You nearly laughed. Stand by. At Monaco. Where track position was oxygen.
“Kimi is boxing,” your engineer said.
Your hands tightened on the wheel. “What?”
“Kimi boxes this lap. You stay out. We are covering—”
“Covering what?” you snapped. “A ghost?”
“Toto says stay out.”
There it was.
Toto says.
The magic phrase. The final commandment. The holy law from the pit wall.
You stayed out. Kimi pitted. Kimi came out with fresh tyres.
You waited one lap. Two. By the time they called you in, you already knew. You knew from the tone. You knew from the quiet. You knew from the way the garage stopped sounding like a racing team and started sounding like people trying very hard to avoid responsibility.
You came out behind him. In Monaco. Behind Kimi. Your teammate. Toto’s golden boy.
The restart came, and you drove like fury itself had borrowed your gloves.
You filled Kimi’s mirrors. You attacked every corner where logic said there was no space. You made space with the kind of audacity that made commentators raise their voices and engineers stop breathing.
Kimi defended cleanly. Too cleanly. Too well. Of course he did. The kid was brilliant. You hated him for five laps.
Then your engine coughed. Once.
Your stomach dropped. “No,” you said.
The dashboard lit up.
“No, no, no, no—”
The car lost power exiting the tunnel. Kimi vanished ahead. The walls closed in.
Your radio filled with instructions that meant nothing because you already knew the feeling of a dying Mercedes.
You coasted toward the Nouvelle Chicane, steering heavy, pulse roaring louder than the crowd.
“Engine is gone,” you said, voice flat.
“We are checking.”
“Check faster. I’m parked.”
You stopped the car. Five laps from the end. Again.
The marshals moved toward you. You sat still for one second longer than necessary, gloved hands resting on the wheel.
There was no screaming, no dramatic gesture. The rage was too big for that. It settled inside you like something ancient.
Then you climbed out. You did not wave. You did not look at the cameras. You did not touch the barrier with some tragic little farewell gesture for the Netflix edit.
You walked. Helmet still on. Visor down. Because if the world wanted a woman in Formula 1 to cry, it could pay for therapy and earn the privilege.
By the time you reached the Mercedes garage, Kimi was crossing the line. The entire place erupted. Mechanics shouted. Engineers hugged. Someone cried.
You stood at the back, helmet in one hand, sweat cooling under your fireproofs, and watched your teammate win the Monaco Grand Prix.
The Monaco Grand Prix. The one race every driver wanted to win.
And then you looked up at the screen. Toto was going to the podium. For him. For Kimi.
Your whole body went cold.
Toto hated podium theatrics. He avoided them whenever he could. He always sent someone else. Technical director. Sponsor. Board member. A smiling Mercedes person with good hair and no emotional complications.
You had won six races for this team. Six. Toto had never stood on the podium with you.
Kimi won Monaco, and Toto walked up there.
The cameras loved it. Of course they did. Toto Wolff, tall and proud, standing beside the teenage Mercedes winner while the anthem played. Kimi soaked in champagne, laughing like he had just been handed the moon. Toto clapped him on the back, smiled at him, pulled him into a hug.
A real hug. Warm. Proud. Fatherly. The kind Toto gave you in private corridors after hard races. The kind he never gave you where the world could see.
Your hands curled around your helmet. Someone said your name carefully. You did not answer.
On screen, Kimi sprayed champagne over Toto’s shoulder.
Toto laughed. You felt something inside you tear.
Then Toto looked down from the podium. For one tiny second, through the camera angle, it almost seemed like he was looking toward the Mercedes garage. Toward you.
You turned away first.
He finds you twenty minutes later. Toto has always known where to find you. Empty corridors. Quiet corners. Garages after everyone else leaves. Places where you can breathe without cameras licking at your wounds.
This time you are in his office.
You are standing by the table, still in your race suit, half unzipped, hair damp with sweat, helmet on the chair beside you.
You should be in debrief. You should be in media. You should be congratulating Kimi with the grace of a mature professional athlete.
Instead, you are staring at the wall and imagining how satisfying it would feel to throw Toto’s laptop into the harbour.
The door opens.
He steps inside. Still wet from champagne. His black Mercedes shirt clings slightly to his shoulders. His hair is damp. There are golden drops on his collar. He smells like victory.
Kimi’s victory.
You smile before he speaks. It is not a nice smile.
“Congratulations,” you say.
Toto closes the door behind him. The click sounds too final.
He looks tired. Careful. Angry too, somewhere under the control.
“You left the garage.”
“I had a dead car and a living temper. Seemed safer.”
“You missed the team celebration.”
You laugh once, sharp and joyless. “Celebration? I had nothing to celebrate. A funeral, maybe.”
His jaw tightens. “Do not start.”
You laugh. “Oh, darling, I started around lap forty-one.”
His eyes sharpen at the word.
You use it sometimes to irritate him. Usually he rolls his eyes and tells you to behave. Today, he does not.
Today he looks at you like you are a problem with too many variables. You hate that.
“You smell like champagne,” you say.
His face shifts. A direct hit. Good.
“I came straight from the podium.”
“Yes. I saw.”
Silence.
You turn away and pick up a towel from the table. You twist it once between your hands.
Toto steps closer. “I know you are angry.”
The towel hits the wall before you fully realize you have thrown it. Soft and pathetic.
You stare at it in disgust. “Everything in this office is useless for violence.”
Toto exhales through his nose. “That is comforting.”
“Don’t joke with me.”
“I am trying to keep you from doing something you regret.”
You turn on him. “Too late.”
His expression hardens. “Careful.”
There it is. The boss voice. The voice sponsors obey. The voice engineers fear. The voice that once made you feel safe because it meant someone powerful was standing between you and the wolves.
Today, it only reminds you that Toto owns the door. The contracts. The seat. Maybe your future.
“No,” you say. “You don’t get to ‘careful’ me today.”
“I am still your team principal.”
“And I am still the driver you left out while you saved his race.”
His eyes flash. “That is not what happened.”
“Funny. Because I watched it happen from inside the car.”
“The safety car created a split-second decision.”
“And you chose Kimi.”
“We covered the highest probability outcome.”
“You covered him.”
Toto’s face goes still.
You step closer. The anger is clean now. Sharp enough to cut your own hands open.
“Say it,” you demand.
“Say what?”
“That the team is shifting.”
His brows draw together. “This is not a conversation to have while you are emotional.”
You laugh. “Oh, there it is. The classic. The woman is emotional. Somebody bring a blanket and a sedative.”
“You know that is not what I meant.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
You hate that he says it like a fact. Because he knows you. Too well. He knows when you are performing. He knows when you are hurt. He knows when your rage is a shield, and your pride is bleeding behind it.
That used to matter. That used to make him feel like home.
Toto’s voice lowers. “I have defended you from that kind of talk for years.”
You flinch. Tiny. He sees it. Of course he sees it.
“You have,” you say.
The words come out quieter.
And that is the problem. Toto has defended you. When reporters asked if you were too aggressive. When sponsors wanted you softer. When a former driver said women lacked the instinct for Formula 1 and Toto nearly dismantled him on live television with a smile.
Susie supported you too. Always. She hugged you after your first podium, gave you advice before your first rookie season, sent you messages after bad qualifying sessions, and let Jack run into your arms every race weekend like you were his favourite chaos aunt.
Jack loved you. You loved him too.
You loved that family in dangerous little ways.
Maybe that was your first mistake. You thought being loved by people near Mercedes meant Mercedes could love you back.
Toto moves closer. “Look at me.”
You do. Bad decision.
His brown eyes are tired, still warm despite everything. His face has champagne drying on it. There is a small sticky mark near his jaw, and some absurd part of your brain remembers Jack once getting ice cream on Toto’s shirt and Toto pretending to be furious while letting the boy climb into his lap.
Your chest hurts.
“I know today was bad,” he says.
You stare at him. “Bad?”
His mouth tightens.
“Bad is missing a braking point,” you say. “Bad is a slow pit stop. Bad is a puncture. This was Monaco, Toto. I was leading Monaco.”
“I know.”
“I was leading, and you gave Kimi the pit priority.”
“It was the call.”
“It was his call.”
“It was the team’s call.”
“You are the team.”
The words land between you. Toto does not answer quickly enough.
You smile, bitter and bright. “At least the silence is honest.”
His eyes narrow. “Do not confuse silence with guilt.”
“Then explain it.”
“We had to protect against Lewis.”
You laugh so sharply it almost hurts. “Lewis? Lewis was stuck behind us with a car that looked like it wanted to retire itself out of shame.”
“Track position mattered.”
“Yes, and you gave it to Kimi.”
Toto’s voice hardens. “He won.”
You freeze. For one second, even he seems to regret saying it. Too late. The words go through you like a knife.
He won.
Simple. Brutal. The only thing Formula 1 really respects.
You nod once. “Right.”
Toto says your name.
You lift a hand. “No. I understand.”
“You are twisting this.”
“No, I am finally hearing you clearly.”
He takes another step. “You are one of the strongest drivers I have ever worked with.”
“One of,” you repeat.
His jaw tightens. “Stop doing that.”
“I used to be the driver here.”
“You still are.”
“No.” You shake your head. “I am the difficult one. The stubborn one. The one who rides bikes too fast and tells sponsors their questions are stupid when they are stupid.”
“They often are.”
“Do not make me laugh. I am trying to hate you.”
His face softens for half a second. That makes it worse.
You turn away.
“I was supposed to fight for the title this year,” you say. “That was the plan. That was what you told me.”
“And you still can.”
“Kimi is leading the championship.”
“There are many races left.”
“I am third because this car keeps breaking, the pit wall keeps gambling with my race, and I keep driving like I have something to prove because every single weekend I do.”
Toto’s voice lowers. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”
You spin back around. “Yes, I do.”
“No.”
“Yes, Toto!” Your voice cracks. “Every single day. Because Kimi walks into this team and gets treated like the future. I walk in and get told to control my temper.”
“You threw a towel at the wall.”
“I wanted to throw your laptop.”
“That would have been expensive.”
“I am expensive.”
For one insane second, his mouth almost twitches. Then your face changes, and the almost-smile disappears.
“You stood on the podium with him.”
The room goes quiet. Toto looks at you.
You hate yourself immediately. That was too honest. Too small. Too wounded.
He takes a breath. “Is that what this is about?”
Your eyes burn. “No,” you lie.
He says your name again, softer this time.
You hate that too.
“You have never stood there with me,” you say. “Six wins. Not once.”
His expression shifts. There is something like pain there.
Good. Let him have some.
“I didn’t know that mattered to you,” he says.
You laugh, but it comes out broken.
“Of course you didn’t.”
“I should have.”
“Yes.”
Another silence.
He looks at the champagne on his sleeve like he has only now remembered it is there.
“You are important to this team,” he says.
You look at him. “Don’t.”
“It is true.”
“Don’t give me the family speech.”
His eyes hold yours. “Mercedes is your home.”
There it is. Your chest closes around it. Home.
Again.
You step back as though the word touched you.
“My home put him on fresh tyres and left me out to die.”
His face hardens. “Enough.”
“No, Toto. It isn’t enough. It hasn’t been enough all season. Every time something goes wrong, I am told to be patient. Every time Kimi wins, I am told to be happy for the team. Every time I ask what the hell is happening with my side of the garage, I get numbers and excuses.”
“You think I would push you out?”
The question is quiet. Too quiet.
You stare at him. And the truth is awful. Because you do not know.
A year ago, you would have laughed in his face. Toto? Push you out? The same Toto who threatened to lock your motorbike away? The same Toto who let Jack put stickers on your helmet? The same Toto who once stayed in the medical centre with you after a crash until Susie arrived with coffee and a look that said both of you were idiots?
That Toto protected you.
This Toto just held Kimi on a Monaco podium.
“I think,” you say slowly, “you are capable of anything if you believe it will make Mercedes win.”
His face goes still.
There.
You both know it. You have said the one thing he cannot deny.
Toto Wolff loves people. He protects them. He remembers birthdays, notices exhaustion, sends doctors, blocks journalists, and looks at Jack like the world begins and ends with his son’s laugh.
He is also ruthless.
Mercedes first.
Always.
Even love must wait outside the strategy room.
“I need drivers who deliver,” he says.
Quiet. Controlled. Professional.
You feel the sentence wrap around your throat.
“I was delivering before the engine died.”
“I know.”
“Before your strategy put me behind him.”
“I know.”
“Then what do you need from me?”
He does not answer.
That silence is the loudest thing in Monaco.
You nod. “Right.”
You grab your helmet.
Toto moves toward the door, blocking it without meaning to. Or perhaps meaning to. With him, the difference is often paperwork.
“We are not finished.”
“Yes, we are.”
“You will attend the debrief.”
“I will attend because my contract says I have to.”
His eyes sharpen. “Do not speak to me like I am your enemy.”
You look up at him. You wish he had shouted. It would have been easier.
“I don’t know what you are anymore.”
His face changes. For one second, Toto looks genuinely hurt.
You open the door and walk out before that hurt can become yours too.
You do the debrief. Barely.
You sit there with your hair still damp from a rushed shower, face clean, expression deadly calm. Kimi keeps glancing at you from across the room like a puppy standing beside a broken vase.
He is sweet enough to look guilty. That almost makes you angrier.
He did nothing wrong. He drove well. He won Monaco.
You should congratulate him. You do, eventually. After the data. After the technical excuses. After Toto speaks in that measured tone and everyone pretends this room does not smell like burned trust.
You walk up to Kimi near the door.
He straightens. “I’m sorry,” he says before you can speak.
Your anger slips for half a second.
“Don’t be stupid.”
His eyes widen.
You sigh. “You drove well.”
“I know the strategy—”
“You drove well,” you repeat. “Take the win.”
He looks at you, uncertain.
You force a smile. It costs you something.
“And stop looking like I kicked your dog.”
He smiles faintly. “I don’t have a dog.”
“Then stop looking like I kicked George. Same energy.”
That gets a real laugh from him. Small. Nervous.
You squeeze his shoulder once. Then you leave before you start crying in front of the boy everyone thinks will replace you.
Media is worse. The questions come dressed as sympathy.
“Difficult day for you.”
“How frustrating was it to see Kimi win after the strategy split?”
“Do you feel the team could have done more?”
“Is Kimi now the number one contender for Mercedes?”
That one makes your PR officer’s soul leave her body.
You smile.
It feels sharp enough to draw blood.
“Kimi drove a strong race,” you say. “I had a car issue. The team will investigate. Monaco is cruel. That’s racing.”
That’s racing.
The most useless sentence in the world. It means everything and explains nothing.
By the time you reach your driver room, your phone is already full.
Susie texts first.
Susie: I know today hurt. Call me when you can. Jack says you are still his favourite and Kimi only won because your car “went sleepy.”
That breaks something in you.
You sit on the floor with your back against the sofa and press the phone to your chest.
Jack. Sweet, loyal Jack.
You can picture him perfectly, little serious face, convinced Mercedes cars have personalities and yours simply needed a nap.
You laugh once. Then you cry. Quietly. Angrily. For exactly two minutes.
Then you wipe your face, stand up, and text Max.
You: Where are you?
His reply comes fast.
Max: My apartment. You coming?
You stare at the screen.
You should say no. You should sleep. You should apologize to Toto. You should take the mature route, which sounds horrible and involves herbal tea.
Instead, you grab your bag.
You: Lock the door.
Max opens before you knock twice.
His Red Bull shirt is wrinkled. His hair is messy. His face has the same dark post-race fury you feel in your bones.
His race had been bad too. In fact, his race barely even started. The engine died right at the start, and that was his race over. George on the other side of the garage pretending not to enjoy his misery, which meant absolutely enjoying it.
Max looks at you once. “Monaco loves drama.”
You push inside. “Monaco can choke.”
He shuts the door. You throw your bag down.
For a moment, neither of you moves. Then he says, “You watched the podium.”
You look at him. That is all it takes.
Max crosses the room and kisses you hard. No careful hello. No sympathy. No soft little question about whether you are okay.
Good.
You are not okay. You want heat, not pity.
You shove him back against the wall, fingers in his hair, mouth fierce on his. He gives you three seconds of control because he is generous in the way predators are generous.
Then he turns you, pins you there, and kisses you like he has been waiting to ruin your composure all day.
“Angry?” he asks against your mouth.
You laugh, breathless. “Inspired.”
His eyes darken. “Dangerous.”
“You like dangerous.”
“I like winning.”
“Rough day for you too, then.”
He bites your lower lip lightly. You gasp. He smiles. “Careful.”
You drag your nails down his chest. “You first.”
That is the thing about Max. He never treats your anger like a problem to solve. He treats it like fuel.
His hands are firm on your waist. Yours are impatient at his belt. Clothes become obstacles, and both of you have always hated obstacles. His shirt goes first. Your hoodie follows. You kiss him like a fight. He holds you like he knows exactly how much pressure your body needs before your thoughts finally shut up.
The room turns into heat. Breath. Skin. Hands pulling, gripping, demanding.
Max moves with that same brutal confidence he has in a car, direct and relentless, except here you can answer back. You do. With nails, teeth, sharp little orders against his mouth. He laughs once, low and rough, then makes you forget the sentence you were trying to throw at him.
You hate how well he knows you.
You love it too.
He knows when to slow down until you swear at him. He knows when to push until your head falls back.
He knows how to hold your wrists and make you look at him when you try to disappear into your own anger.
“There,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Stay here.”
You want to mock him. You want to say something cutting.
Instead, your breath breaks. Because for a few minutes, there is no Mercedes. No podium. No Kimi. No Toto wet with champagne, looking at you like he wants to protect you and replace you in the same breath.
There is only Max. His mouth. His hands. His weight. The heat of him dragging you out of your head and back into your body.
Afterward, you lie tangled in the wreckage of the bed, breathing hard.
Your hoodie is on the floor. Max’s watch is under a chair. One of the pillows has given up and fallen sideways like it also had a difficult Grand Prix.
You stare at the ceiling. Max lies beside you, one hand moving slowly along your stomach.
For a while, the silence is almost kind. Then he says, “They fucked you.”
You close your eyes. “How romantic.”
“I am serious.”
“I know.”
“They chose Kimi.”
You swallow.
The sentence hurts more because Max says it with no pleasure. No rivalry. No paddock politics. Just truth.
“Yes,” you whisper.
His hand keeps moving.
“I hate that I like him,” you say.
“Kimi?”
“Yes.”
“He is hard to hate.”
“He apologizes when I insult him. It is extremely inconvenient.”
Max huffs a small laugh.
You turn onto your side, facing him. He looks tired now. Still sharp, still Max, but without the armour he wears in the paddock.
Your secret with him began as a mistake. A post-race drink. A bad mood. A kiss that should have stopped. A night that should have stayed singular.
Then it became easier to go to him after races than to go back to your room and stare at the ceiling. Max never asked you to be softer. He never asked you to explain your ambition in a way that sounded less threatening. He never told you to smile.
That alone was almost love language. Almost.
You study his face. “Be honest with me.”
His hand stops. He already knows the question. You hate that.
“Has Toto spoken to you?”
Max looks away. Your stomach drops.
You sit up. “Max.”
He exhales. “Yes.”
The room goes cold.
“About Mercedes.”
“Yes.”
You grip the sheet in your fist. “When?”
“Earlier this year.”
“How serious?”
He sits up too, running a hand through his hair. “Preliminary at first.”
Your laugh is sharp and empty. “At first.”
His mouth tightens.
You stare at him. “How serious now?”
“There is a framework.”
“A framework,” you repeat.
The words taste expensive.
“A multi-year offer,” he says.
You stand so fast the sheet slips from your lap.
Max does not look away, because Max has never pretended you are something delicate.
“How generous?”
His silence answers.
You nod, slow and furious. “Of course.”
“It is not signed.”
“Oh, thank God. My career is only being measured for the coffin.”
He gets up. “That is not what I said.”
“No, you said framework. Multi-year. Generous.”
“I should not have told you.”
“Then why did you?”
He looks at you. The room quiets.
“Because you asked.”
Simple. Too simple.
Your throat tightens. You grab your shirt from the floor and pull it on with shaking hands.
“Toto told me today Mercedes was my home.”
Max’s jaw tightens.
“He stood there,” you continue, voice rising, “still smelling like Kimi’s champagne, and told me I belonged. He looked me in the eye and said I was important to the team.”
“You are.”
“Am I?” You laugh. “Because it sounds like he is shopping for my replacement.”
“It could be Kimi.”
You stop. Then you laugh properly. Ugly. Disbelieving.
“Please. Kimi?”
Max says nothing.
“Toto’s miracle child? The boy he just hugged on the Monaco podium like proud papa Wolff presenting the future of motorsport, like Simba being presented to the kingdom?”
Max winces slightly.
You point at him. “Exactly.”
“He is leading the championship.”
“Yes. Thank you for the emotional support.”
“I am saying Mercedes could build around him and still keep you.”
“And bring you in where? As team mascot?”
Max’s eyes sharpen. “You know what I mean.”
You do. That is the problem. Mercedes has two seats. Kimi is winning. Max is Max.
And you are the woman who was supposed to win the title this year and instead keeps losing races to bad luck, team calls, reliability, and the teenage teammate everyone wants to crown.
You sit down on the edge of the bed. The anger drains fast. Too fast. It leaves something worse behind. Fear.
You hate fear. It makes you feel nineteen again. Too young, too watched, too aware that every mistake you make becomes proof for men who never wanted you on the grid at all.
Your tattoos. Your bikes. Your sharp mouth. Your refusal to be grateful for scraps.
They loved calling you difficult.
Toto used to call you extraordinary. Maybe extraordinary had an expiry date.
Max crouches in front of you. “Any team would take you.”
You look at him. “Do not do that.”
“What?”
“Say comforting bullshit because we just had sex.”
His mouth curves faintly. “I am not comforting.”
“True. You have the emotional range of a tyre blanket.”
“And you are still one of the best drivers on the grid.”
You look away. “One of.”
Max’s hand touches your knee. “You are scared.”
You glare at him. “I am calculating.”
“You are scared.”
“Say that again and I’ll throw your watch out the window.”
“It is already under the chair.”
Despite yourself, a broken little laugh leaves you.
Then your eyes fill again. You turn your face away quickly.
Max sees. He stands and pulls you into him.
You resist for half a heartbeat, because resistance is your native language. Then you fold against his chest.
His arms close around you. No big speech. No useless promise. Just Max, warm and steady, one hand at the back of your head.
“I was meant to fight for it,” you whisper.
“I know.”
“This was supposed to be my year.”
“I know.”
“I worked for this. I stayed when Lewis left. I trusted Toto.”
Max says nothing.
You close your eyes. That is what hurts most.
You trusted Toto. With your career. With your anger. With the ugly parts of being the only woman on the grid. With the soft parts too.
You let him become family.
Susie. Jack. The Mercedes garage. The mechanics who knew your coffee order. Toto’s hand on your shoulder after bad sessions. The way he said your name when he wanted you to stop pretending.
And all along, maybe he was already planning the future without you.
Maybe that is Formula 1. Maybe family is only a word people use until the data says otherwise.
Your phone buzzes. You freeze.
Max’s arms loosen.
You already know. You pick up the phone from the floor.
Toto.
Toto: We need to speak again.
Toto: Properly this time.
You stare at the screen. Another message appears.
Toto: I know today I hurt you. I should have understood sooner.
Your chest aches. For one second, you want to believe him. That is the most humiliating part. You want Toto to explain it. To say Max misunderstood. To say the offer means nothing. To say your seat is safe, your place is safe, your home is safe.
You want him to be the man who protected you.
You are terrified he is only the man who will fire you gently.
Max watches your face. “You going to him?” he asks.
You lock the phone. “No.”
His brows lift slightly.
You wipe your face with the heel of your hand.
“I cannot hear him call Mercedes my family tonight.”
Max stands quietly beside you.
You sit back down on the bed, phone in your hand, staring at nothing.
For the first time all day, you are completely still. No rage. No shouting. No throwing towels at walls.
Just the awful weight of understanding.
Toto may care about you. He may even love you in his careful, protective, almost-fatherly way. He may worry when you ride too fast, smile when Jack runs to you, defend you when the paddock gets cruel, and look at you like he sees the fire under your skin.
And still, if Mercedes needs Max Verstappen, if Kimi keeps winning, if the board wants the future wrapped in a cleaner story, Toto will sit across from you in some glass office and tell you it is business.
He will say he is sorry. He will mean it. Then he will take your seat anyway.
That is what breaks you. Not Kimi’s win. Not the dead engine. Not the champagne. The realization that Toto can care and still choose against you.
Your phone buzzes again. You do not look.
Max sits beside you, close enough that his shoulder touches yours.
Outside, Monaco celebrates Kimi’s victory. The harbour glows. Champagne flows. Cameras flash. Somewhere, Toto Wolff waits for an answer.
You breathe in. Slow. Shaking. Then you place the phone face down on the bed.
“I need to win again,” you say.
Max looks at you.
Your voice is quiet now. That makes it colder. “I need to win so hard he regrets even thinking about it.”
Max’s mouth tightens. “He already will.”
You stare at the wall. “No,” you whisper. “He won’t.”
Because Toto Wolff does not regret decisions that make Mercedes stronger. He only regrets the people they hurt.
And tonight, finally, you understand the difference.
You sit there until your tears stop. Then you stand, pull on your jeans, find your hoodie, and pick your Mercedes cap up from the floor.
For a moment, you look at the silver star on it. Home. Family. Seat. Weapon.
You put it on.
Max watches you from the bed. “Where are you going?”
You sling your bag over your shoulder. “To sleep.”
He gives you a look.
You almost smile. “To try,” you correct.
At the door, you pause. Your hand rests on the handle. You do not turn around when you speak.
“Thank you for telling me.”
Max is quiet for a second. “You deserved the truth.”
You close your eyes. That sentence hurts too. Because somewhere in another apartment, the man you once trusted most is still asking to explain.
And maybe he has reasons. Maybe he has guilt. Maybe he has a version of the truth wrapped in careful words and strategy documents.
But tonight, you do not need Toto’s reasons. You need the pain to stay sharp. Sharp enough to drive with. Sharp enough to survive with. Sharp enough to remember that Formula 1 has never given you anything because you were loved.
You had to take every inch. Every corner. Every win. Every breath.
So if Toto wants to replace you, he will have to look you in the eye while you make it the hardest decision of his life.
You open the door. Monaco waits outside, bright and cruel. You walk into it with your head high. And for the first time this season, you stop wondering whether Mercedes still wants you.
Pairing: Bad!Michael x Insecure!Black Reader
Summary: After Tatiana kisses Michael, your insecurity gives way to anger, and you commit an act you can't come back from.
Warnings: Violence? You slap Michael babes...yeah...
Word Count: 1.4k
A/N: Been thinking about making the reader in the wrong for so long...feels real good making us be the ones to fuck up...
The kiss was not supposed to happen.
You watched with your heart in your chest as Tatiana brought Michael in for a chaste kiss. You were so focused on her that you completely missed the way Michael stiffened at her touch. By the time you shifted your focus, Michael was pulling away with a smile on his face, his hand slipping from her waist.
You stood there watching as he continued to perform; not a single ounce of discomfort showed on his face, and a rage unlike anything you'd ever felt rose and settled heavily in your chest.
When that song was over, Tatiana swept backstage, a smile still plastered to her face as she squealed about their onstage kiss. You watched as the blush overcame her face and hoped her skin would rip apart from how much she smiled. She didn't bother looking at you; she did what she always did when Michael wasn't around. She ignored your existence, as if she could pretend that she and Michael truly had something special and that you were a passing fancy.
Soon but not soon enough, she finally left when Frank called her to him, and they disappeared behind his office for the night. From the look on his face, you hoped he ruined her high, just as she ruined your night.
The entire show, you watched with a blank face, your eyes completely unreadable. Backstage, people stared at you with wariness, but you didn't bother soothing their fears. You were pissed that Michael would allow that kiss to happen without informing you.
Who did he think he was?
Because of his popularity, your insecurity had a tendency to get the better of you. It was something you tried to work on, especially when the media learned of your relationship. Rumors, speculations, and insults were a normal occurrence with journalists who couldn't fathom why Michael Jackson had chosen such a normal girl instead of the multiple powerhouses they believed would better fit his fame. It had worn you out in the beginning, but eventually, you learned to ignore what the tabloids said about you.
No, the real problem came from those powerhouses that the media believed fit better with your boyfriend.
You put up with a lot of women thinking they had a chance with your boyfriend because of who he was. It didn't help that many of those women were famous, and so they didn't think twice about making you feel as if you should be grateful that Michael chose you.
It took you nearly breaking up with him for him to finally see the twisted way Diana liked to play with his feelings and emotions. It took so long for him to see how she strung him along and how that affected you.
Once he did, he promised that he'd never make you feel as if you weren't worthy enough for him. He swore that he'd never let another woman get in between you again. He was so earnest in his promises that you believed him, and for years, he held up that promise.
You thought that your relationship was stronger after that...but apparently...it wasn't.
The minute the show was over, Michael headed backstage, accepting congratulations on a job well done. He was high on the concert and the screams of his fans. He was exhausted, but it was the type of exhaustion that he thrived on. You stood a few feet away, carefully tucked away as you watched him. You were expecting him to seek you out immediately and explain himself, and when he didn't, the anger you were trying to carefully keep under wraps became harder to hold onto. Your arms were crossed over your chest, and the longer he stayed there, the angrier you became.
You couldn't stand another minute of him acting as if he didn't just humiliate you in front of the entire world. Marching over to him, you pulled him away from the group he was talking to and slapped him across the face.
Silence.
That's what took over the area as everyone stopped what they were doing. They knew you were upset, but no one, no one was expecting you to do what you just did.
Michael's face was still turned away from you, shock and something carefully hidden behind that shock evident even though you couldn't see his full expression.
"What the fuck was that, Michael?” You asked him, bending over slightly to try and look him in the eyes. Your rage grew when he avoided eye contact, furthering your belief that he was guilty.
“How could you kiss her on stage in front of the entire world without even talking to me about it and then acting like everything was okay?! Did you expect me to just watch you smile and laugh as if you didn’t kiss someone who isn’t your girlfriend?"
Michael stayed silent, one hand coming up slowly to place itself on his cheek as if he needed to make sure what had happened.
When he heard the commotion, Frank ran out of his office, Tatiana trailing slowly after him, tear tracks still on her face. For a single moment, you felt vindicated that someone else saw how utterly fucked up things were.
"What the hell is going on?" Frank's voice boomed into the silence.
"She slapped Mike for the kiss,” a voice piped up. “She thought it was planned."
Your head whipped to one of his backup dancers, who stared back at you with a completely blank expression. What did she mean you thought it was planned? You saw what you saw. How could it not be planned when Michael showed nothing except a smile in the immediate aftermath?
Frank looked stunned at what he heard. He looked at Michael, where he still stood, his head now faced down with one hand placed on the cheek you hit. Slowly, he brought his eyes back to you, and something in your stomach dropped at the expression he wore.
"Tatiana kissed Michael without his permission...it wasn't planned," Frank finally explained, his voice hoarse as if your actions took his voice away.
"What?" You croaked, unable to understand what Frank said. Your mind was a swirling mess of emotions and thoughts. Your eyes widened, and they swept the room, bouncing back from Michael to Tatiana to Frank, and back to Michael.
You gasped and placed your hands over your mouth as the reality of what you did and what you assumed set in. Your mind replayed the moment you slapped Michael, the way his head snapped to the side, and the devastation hidden behind the shock in his eyes. The devastation that you could not clearly see because your anger blinded you to everything that mattered.
"Mikey..." you reached out to him, but faltered when he took several steps back from you. He didn't look at you. He only shook his head and turned to walk to his dressing room, hand still pressed to his cheek. Frank looked disappointedly at you before he hurriedly followed Michael down the hallway, his backup dancers not far behind.
You were left standing alone even when surrounded by a crowd of people. Your earlier vindication rotting your insides as guilt and shame rapidly took over.
No one said a single thing to you as they went about their business. Sound took over the previously silent area, but you heard nothing except for Frank’s words as they replayed in your mind over and over again.
“What have I done?” You whispered as your legs gave out on you and you crumbled into a heap on the floor.
No one helped you up; they merely walked past you or over you as if you were a mere obstacle in their path.
Soon enough, you gathered energy to pick yourself up off the floor and head to your hotel suite, hoping that Michael had already arrived so you could apologize, but when you arrived at your room, you found all of his stuff was gone.
On the bed was a single plane ticket.
A single one-way ticket back to Los Angeles, and you knew then that the possibility of ever apologizing wasn’t going to happen tonight…or within the next few months… or ever.
All you could do was sit on the edge of the bed—the one you shared early morning kisses with Michael as you both were cuddled together in warm sheets—and cry.
summary: It takes a few years and a few near death experiences, but somehow you finally end up on Elena Gilbert's radar.
warning: !Vomiting/Gagging!, violence and gore, smut, extreme angst (like to the max), language, underage drinking, lots of pop culture references, very slow burn, smart Reader, Reader is a popular girl
(warnings will be included through chapters)
───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────────
Series Masterlist
1. Introduction to Nighmares
2. Sacrifices Galore
3. Working For the Knife
4. Vampire Girlfriend
5. Welcome to Cambridge
6. Epiphany* (smut)
7. Epilogue
summary: You come into F1 as the first woman in a long time, show everyone what you're capable of and humble your brothers ex best friend all in one year..
warnings: swearing, misogyny?
a/n: im not even sure how to finish this series 😂
Part one | series masterlist | main masterlist
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f1gossip
92k likes
f1gossip Lewis Hamilton attended the press conference ahead of the austria grand prix this weekend! He was asked about his penalty in barcelona, which he replied to that he came to terms with it because he can’t change it now and will just keep his head down.
Later on he commented without saying anyone’s name that “Some people apparently try to get themselves a bad reputation here. They need to mind their business and stop being childish” Was it a dig at rosberg?
user he’s the one who keeps bringing her up so…
user my god, can he just shut up
user he didn’t deserve the penalty
user GOAT
-
ynrosberg
🎵 Bad Reputation - Joan Jett & the Blackhearts
liked by nicorosberg, mercedesamgf1, susiewolff and 263 others
ynrosberg 🏎️🇦🇹
user NAHHHH
nicorosberg ❤️❤️
user she’s so petty i love it
sebastianvettel hope you have fun kleine!!
ynrosberg always with you watchinggg
user so unhinged
user I feel like she’s the more evil version of Nico😭😂
vivianrosberg 🩷🩷
-
f1gossip
56k likes
f1gossip Nico Rosberg commented on the current situation between his sister and his former teammate:
“I keep my nose out of her business. She knows she can come to me whenever she needs something, but I won’t tell her off or anything. She’s old enough to know where she stands, and what she stands for.”
Rosberg was also asked if he thinks the current situation is based on what happened between him and Hamilton, and if his sister is “avenging” him.
“Like I said, none of my business. If she wants to do that, it’s her choice. I didnt tell her to go here and do all this. I know she hasn’t particularly liked him when he became my teammate, for good reasons.”
what do we think?
user he definitely knows more than he says
user OH PLEASE
user “for good reasons” Mate???
user I don’t even know what to say
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ynrosberg
liked by mercedesamgf1, maxverstappen1, susiewolff and 815k others
ynrosberg P3 FOR AUSTRIAAAA
user her and lewis almost taking each other out was..my my
user they’re gonna kill each other by the end of the season
user did we ever find out why she doesn’t like lewis?
user the theory is based on the whole thing with nico 🤷♀️
user mh
nicolescherzinger missed you so muchhhh
ynrosberg same 🩷
user she did not pull out nicole 💀
carmenmundt need to do this more often 🤍
ynrosberg yes pls, but without..that thing
carmenmundt 100%
georgerussell63 😐
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f1gossip
82k likes
f1gossip Yn Rosberg finally spoke about her and Lewis relationship! Or more where isn’t one..
user damn
user so it is based on what happened back then
user technically she is avenging nico?
user no, herself
user why is she so petty about it all?
user would you be friend with someone who pushed your brother to the brink of insanity?
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f1gossip
72k likes
f1gossip And we‘re going even further! Lewis Hamilron and Yn Rosberg have unfollowed each other! Yn unfollowed Lewis shortly after her interview yesterday and Lewis followed this evening.
୨ৎ summary .ᐟ.ᐟ dr. brendon park had earned the notorious title ‘park the shark’ for reasons besides his chiseled facial structure and razor sharp eye contact. his bites aimed to make his victims bleed without warning or apology. everyone awaited his retribution to come. the last person he expected to humble him was his do-good third-year resident.
୨ৎ tags/warnings .ᐟ.ᐟ female reader, no use of y/n, no physical descriptions, grumpy x sunshine trope, hurt/comfort, slowburn, work-place tension, park being a bully & ass (but he's hot), park being territorial/possesive (if you squint hard enough), night shift (because I love them!!), competence kink, blood/gore & other reoccurring medical topics in 'the pitt', medical inaccuracies (i've only graduated from google med school),
୨ৎ authors note .ᐟ.ᐟ y’all i genuinely foam at the mouth every time a shark fic on this app. there’s nothing that brings me more joy than fantasizing about dr. brendon park, so here’s my interpretation of this sexy man. also this is inspired by the song 'kill me' by hayley williams !! (i love that woman soooo much y'all)
୨ৎ word count .ᐟ.ᐟ 13.6 K
If you were in the comfort of your own apartment and bed, wrapped in the sheets you had personally endeavored yourself to splurge on, you would probably be in a better mood. Even though you had racked up enough student loan debt to achieve the satisfaction of ‘following your dreams’ to the point of living scraping by, you’d consider your bed a prized possession.
If they had warned you about the lack of commodities as a resident while working an overnight shift, you may have reconsidered your career choices.
While this wasn’t your first night shift, it was definitely the roughest one yet. Lack of energy, constant back pain, and absolute discomfort in the resident on-call room did nothing to satiate your grumpiness.
You no longer could count the times you had tossed and turned on the bed. At the end, you had resorted to sitting on the office chair, with your head thrown back. It did nothing for your back, but it was less annoying than attempting to lay on the sad excuse of a bed. You caught a couple of hours of sleep, with your sweatshirt providing some comfort, but not enough to pass as high functioning.
Right as you had fluttered your eyes close; there was a ping from a phone. You shook awake, flustered and alarmed from the noise.
Shit. You stared down at the watch. 7:23 AM.
You immediately jumped from the chair, tripping over your own feet to your backpack placed by the corner of the bed. Your hands fished for the phone in the side pocket, and when the screen illuminated your face, your blood pressure dropped.
SULLY 1 min ag0
The shark is looking for his next meal.
Where the fuck are you?
There was no hesitation. Your hands moved like lightning. Backpack, water bottle, random protein bar you scavenged from the resident lounge. Slipping out of the on-call room, everyone saw you jogging down the hallways, towards the resident lounge where no doubt, Dr. Park was expecting you to hand-off the night shift.
Your futile attempt to reverse the dark spot under your eyes landed you right in the middle of the ocean. The ‘Jaws’ theme song played in your mind, and you knew he could smell your blood pumping from across the hospital. It was a sixth sense of his, able to detect a puny resident from a mile away.
The thumping of your heart rose to your throat, like a boulder you couldn't swallow down. Your breathing was caught each time you tried to pull it down to your lungs. You were a dead man walking. That much was certain when you saw the wide eye stare from Sully, your senior resident. The two of you had bonded from being your attending’s personal meals.
‘Park the Shark’ was how you all had met him when onboarding the PTMC’s orthopedic surgery program. It didn’t make sense to you how the simple mention of a name could make everyone’s back shiver, until you tried to introduce yourself, hand out a stretched and wide smile to the hunk of muscle of your attending.
“This isn’t kindergarten. Don’t waste your breath on first impressions. To be clear, there’s nothing you can do to impress me.” Park deadpanned, staring down at you as he brushed past, leaving your hand floating.
The same frown must have crossed your face as you halted, fixing your badge into the waistband of your plum scrub pants. Holding your breath, you tossed your backpack to the nearest available chair, dragging your hands down your face. Time to face the music.
Your senior resident sat at one of the workstations, eyebrows raised as recognized the unease of your shortcomings. Sully leaned forward, arms crossed as he stared at you. “Where the hell were you?”
“Trying to catch some sleep so I don’t snore my way through the rest of my shift.” You gritted back, tucking your stray hairs away. There wasn’t time to doll yourself up in a mirror and you were praying that you didn't appear as restless as you were.
This was the second double shift you were pulling, and your third year had just started. If you were being honest, you didn’t understand why you were the one doing it.
Park had come up to you during one of your lunch breaks a couple of weeks ago, and dropped a physical copy of the newly printed schedule. In the colored blocks, you found your name under two of the 12-hour blocks. You had stopped chewing the sandwich in your mouth, looking up at your attending with wide eyes.
“There’s been some changes. Your cooperation is assumed, so memorize the changes.”
You barely uttered a word until he stalked off as if this was scutwork he was dreading to get done. Safe to say, you weren’t pleased with the sudden change of schedule for the month.
Right now, you are suffering the repercussions of it.
“You should be glad Dr. Park got distracted by Walsh’s morning jabs.” Sully scoffed, standing up with a smug slump. “He’s feeling particularly hungry this morning and Walsh is only going to make it worse for the rest of us.”
You shrugged menially, rushing over to the fridge in the room, digging for the collective energy drink collection. The crack of the seal echoed in the room. “It’s about time Park dishes what he eats.”
Earnestly, you got along with Walsh—and most of the other surgical attendings and residents. You had worked around enough of them to garner a likable reputation, but working under Dr. Park worked against your favor socially.
It was different in the night shift without Park. There wasn’t a certain tension when answering consultations or in the operating rooms. Albeit, everyone was a bit looser during the nights, but it opened a space where you could take charge more freely without worry of consequence or doubt in your decisions.
“And you think Walsh is the one to do that?”
The bass in the voice was unique to one person only in which everyone in the surgical department recognized from the other end of a call or down the hallways. Unamused in his tone that never changed while his lips remained stiff and straight.
You almost choked on the acidic liquid you had started gulping down. Whipping your head to the point of stabbing into your muscles from the speed, Dr. Park stood at the doorway with his arms crossed. If you were a bigger idiot than you were now, you would’ve pretended he didn’t hear what you said.
To try to spare yourself, you quickly shook your head. “Dr. Park—“
“Save it, pipsqueak.” Park dismissed, barely paying you any mind as he stared down at his watch. With his head bowed the reflection of the gel-cast over his light brown hair shined right in your eye. Perfectly combed back, chiseling his piercing bone structure. “You missed pass over. I had to hear from a second year resident.”
Glancing at Sully, he shrugged his shoulders, eyebrows down turned. Quickly recovering, your hand gripped onto the can tighter. “Jones? He’s a bit overzealous—“
“Which in your case, wouldn’t hurt.” Park dryly interrupted, staring at you with hooded eyes. The ‘clean shaven’ look he typically had pronounced every twitch in his mandible and the other parts of his jaw. It was a good way of telling when Dr. Park had lost his patience.
You blubbered, your fingers numbing from the cold can as you refused to let it go. “I don’t want to see you dragging your feet.”
“Of course not—“
“Don’t tell me.” Park dismissed, stalking passed you over to the fridge. He occasionally stole from the resident stock; everyone assumed it was a test to see who would stop him.
No one dared.
He didn’t have to finish the saying for you to get the message. He needs to see it. As of now, you weren’t helping your case as you tried coming up with deflections of your mistake. If there was something Park hated more than mere incompetence, it was weaponizing it with the false hope it worked on someone as sharp as him. Acting a fool and being a fool were two different things, and regardless of what angle you chose to play, it was always a lose-lose situation for yourself.
And you still needed to survive another 12 hours around him.
You should’ve known you weren’t going to last the day. If accidentally sleeping through your alarms and missing hand off told you anything, it should’ve been a sign things were going to go astray.
While pushing through a pair of double doors, having scrubbed out of an open tibia-fibula fracture surgery, a yawn escaped you. Shaking your head and rubbing your eyes, you hardly noticed what was coming ahead. Head bowed and senses incoherent, you only lifted your head once you ran into a form of mass, sending you tripping backwards.
When you looked up, the heavy stare of Park shadowing over your entire body, you shrank into yourself more than you already had earlier. It was a miracle that Sully roped you into the surgery, long enough to endure half your shift and to avoid Park the Sharks current disfavor of you.
Sully did not intend to stay once his residency was up. He knew he didn't have the courage to battle up against Park over executive decisions, even if Park carried the ‘Chief’ title. He had other goals to look forward to that didn't include staying at PTMC.
You, on the other hand, were yearning for an attending spot. Upon matching into Orthopedic Surgery, especially at a trauma-1 hospital like PTMC, you knew you would fight vigorously to outperform the others. What you didn't expect was to be soul-crushed by an attending like Dr. Brendon Park.
In the three years you had worked under him, you had seen enough residents fizzle out with time. Half of them moved across the country for fellowships and attending positions, while the other stayed just far enough to refrain from having to mutually work with him again. No one dared curse his name, but he was the type of person you only wanted to meet once in your life.
Your plans of moving into a lively city like Pittsburgh and settling into the comfortable life of an orthopedic surgeon no longer felt like an achievable dream, and you were falling into the conveyor-like cycle as the rest of his former residents.
When you finally closed your slack mouth, you registered something clattered against the linoleum floor. Your eyes darted to the ground noticing his phone had fallen from his grasp. Immediately, your body bent down, examining the phone with anxious precision before holding it out again.
“I am so sorry, Dr–”
“ER needs an ortho consult.”
His words clipped your sentence again, the apology ignored. He brushed past you, and the cold brush of his arm brought shivers to your exposed skin. You stood dumbfounded, unsure how to interpret his stoic statement. Spinning in your heels, you watched his taunt, muscular back walk further from you.
He pushed the double doors with his back, sticking his phone in his pocket. The subtle sigh he let out didn’t go amiss. “What did I say about dragging your feet?”
You dashed over in his direction, pushing the door back as Park let it fall toward you.
The elevator ride down was nothing short of awkward. Park was never one for small talk. He found it a waste of air, especially when he considered most pleasantries as disingenuous. While standing behind him, your hands fiddled in front of you; grasping and releasing your fingers with easy rhythm, you chewed the inside of your cheek. You weren’t a talkative person necessarily, but you were now silently reminding yourself to request for some elevator music for ambiance later.
As soon as the elevator halted, Park wasted no time, briskly exiting the elevator once the sleek doors split open. You followed in his suit to Trauma 1 in the ED, slipping in behind Park.
When you first walked in, you saw the small bustling group of nurses and ED staff surround a gray-haired African-American woman. You could make out that much from the corner of the room as you stood back and watched. Although you had been in this room many times, you didn't always make yourself known while Park was around. Why would anyone trust a thing to slip out your mouth with someone like Dr. Park present?
With the fogginess of the lack of sleep and the last surgery you barely made out of, you hardly noticed the debrief occurring anyways. Words about the patient's vitals and chief complaints were being tossed from a resident off to the side. You were internally imploring Park to not dismiss him as he had you practically the entire morning.
Your hands fell in their customary position in front of you, folding into a ball as a form of self-soothing. Briefly closing your eyes, taking in a deep breath, you tried to call upon some energy to hit you like a wave. You still had the second half of your morning shift to go, and you barely got through half the energy drink you cracked open to sustain you. Don’t get in his way, and maybe he won’t sink his teeth into you–
“I see you dragged one of your pups, Park.” A deep voice ribbed from the opposite end of the room.
Dr. Robby stood with his arms crossed at the foot of the gurney, staring back at you with no shame. He cocked his head to one side, glazing at you with amusement, hiding in the corner like some meek fish. Some of the other doctors had finally noticed you, sparing you a smile that came off more like a grimace.
Your attention drifted to your attending, who glanced over his shoulder, back at you. So much for not being noticed. Your entire body tensed up, and the bored expression from Park secured another stamp of his disapproval.
“What does the X-ray show?” Park questioned, his tone even and bass-y while echoing in the sterile room.
Eyebrows lifted with a quick hum coming from you was the only sound that came from anyone breathing in the room. His piercing blue eyes didn't move from you, and you weren't sure whether to keep looking or to turn to somebody else he might have referred to.
Someone called your name in the distance. As if on a swivel, your head moved toward the direction of the call. Dr. Langdon scratched the side of his head, subtly nodding his head to the X-ray machine.
Suddenly aware the question was directed to you, a cold chill ran down your spine. Embarrassment and fear of reprimand for acting like an idiot while being a third-year resident clouded your mind as your feet shuffled to the machine. Peering down at the screen, your eyes distinctly measure every inch of the image.
Lifting your head, you looked to the side. A front-view of the patient, an older patient dressed in khaki capri pants and a blue, flowery blouse. She sat uncomfortable, and you noticed her left leg, shortened and externally rotated. Based on the current needles poked in her, she was sedated from feeling most of the pain she should be experiencing.
“What’s your name ma’am?” You asked politely, with a soft smile.
She let out a shaky breath, mustering up a quivering smile. “Mrs. Perry.”
“It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs. Perry.” You mused, straightening your posture and walking over to Dr. Park’s side, leaving enough space to not brush against one another. From up close, you could see Park pressing the hip area on the left side of her body, arms flexing with the movement. She’d visibly flinch, but withheld from yelping. “How did this happen?”
“I tripped over my living room carpet.” She scoffed, annoyed from the incident while shaking her head. Park removed his hands, reaching down to hyper-extend her leg. The reaction then was a hiss. “I should’ve listened to my daughter when she told me that old things might kill me.”
There was a slight grumble released beside you. When peering from the corner of your eye, Park was stretching his neck uncomfortably after finishing a physical examination he’d typically have his resident perform. His words ringed in your ear. Don’t tell me.
Turning your body to face him, you awkwardly avoided his pointed stare. “X-ray shows a displaced femoral neck fracture. Based on the pattern, a Hemiarthroplasty might be necessary.”
You saw the slight twitch in his face. Moving around you, he advanced towards the machine, needing to see the images himself. You filled the void he left as Mrs. Perry bedside. Smiling down at her shaken expression glued onto Dr. Park, you leaned forward to capture her attention. “The surgery is a very common one. Mostly recommended in cases like this. You’ll have a greater likelihood of being able to stand and move after 48-hours.”
“What is the healing process like?” She asked, the slight tremor in her voice resonating too deeply within you.
Carefully reaching over the gurney, you grabbed her cold frigid hand resting on the edge. She sucked in a breath, staring at your eyes as if they held in some precious jewel for her to find. “You’ll probably need physical therapy afterward, possibly at an inpatient rehab facility. Mrs. Perry, many patients before have recovered beautifully from this, with mobility returning to their standard before this injury.”
You noticed the brimming of tears in her eyes, nodding her head vigorously along with your words. Her frail hands found strength to squeeze yours, and you couldn't help but beam wider at her. You could hear Park speak with Robby and the other doctors, but you didn’t pay them much mind.
“Thank you.” She whispered, the air hitting your face. She lifted her other hand to grasp at her chest, as if you lifted a weight from her. “Bless your soul, sweet girl.”
“We will book the OR for the procedure.” Dr. Park spoke louder, stopping at the foot of the bed. When you turned your head in his direction, he nodded to Robby. “We’ll need blood work and an EKG done to plan accordingly.”
“Already on it.” Robby nodded, he glanced from Park to you. He tried to hide the subtle skeptical look in his eye after listening to you speak with Mrs. Perry with tenderness.
You certainly didn’t learn that from Park the Shark.
Park didn't utter anything more as he sauntered behind you. The snapping of his gloves as he pulled them off concluding your business in the ED. You spared Mrs. Perry one last look, before ushering yourself out of the trauma room. When the door sealed shut, Park had already pressed the up arrow for the elevator. You halted a couple of feet behind him, standing to the side like some kid in trouble.
Clearing your throat, you rocked on the balls of your feet. “Was I right about the Hemiarthroplasty?”
If you were Sully, or any other resident with much more confidence in their diagnosing skills, you’d assume you made the right observation. But you weren’t—especially with Park present—and with a patient's life on the line, you didn’t pretend to be either.
The elevator dinged, doors opening wide for the two of you. Park who settled himself in the center of the elevator box while you slipped around him. Once the button lit up for the surgical floor, the box rattled to move up, forcing you to grasp onto the railing.
“Do you really have to ask?” He asked, not concerned to see your reaction. His voice seemed almost annoyed by the need to ask.
You fumbled on words, mouth agape as you considered how to redeem yourself without sounding overtly desperate for his approval. He slightly shook his head, squaring his shoulders. “Next time I ask for you to do your job, I assume you won’t dally like you did now.”
You weren’t dallying.
If anything, you were trying to comprehend what injury Mrs. Perry had. Apart from the X-ray, there were still elements you could learn talking to the patient. Maybe your teachers in med-school were too ‘soft’ for Dr. Park's animalistic taste, but you found the traditional-method worked.
You furrowed your brows. “It’s all for the sake of patient-care.”
“Reacting promptly and avoiding delay is patient-care.” Park corrected, you saw the slight maneuver of his chisel jaw, now able to see your figure from over his shoulder. “I shouldn’t have to teach my third year residents this.”
If you were paid every time he threw that insult, you’d have your student debt paid two-times over. There weren't enough fingers on your hands to count the amount of times he directed those words to you. It was profoundly glued into every fold of your brain, haunting you even in your sleep. The utter lack of gratification you gave him as his resident didn’t need words with the way he’d dismiss you like a prey not worth the hunt.
It wasn’t like you didn’t try. You’d be wasting your time and his if you sat around lulling, but sometimes the insults bordered on cruel.
“It’s his teaching methods. Be glad he even addresses you by name.” Sully painfully attempted to remedy the slight heartache you had a couple of months ago—sulking over the fact Park had ripped you a new one.
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, or whatever Nietzsche said.
Except, you weren’t sure that philosophy helped anyone who worked under the control of Dr. Park.
That much was assured once Mrs. Perry was moved into an OR after her necessary tests were conducted almost three hours later. You were half hoping you wouldn’t have to perform the surgery, finally running to your wits end after the double shift. There wasn’t anything to liven the zombie-like shuffle of your feet down the halls through consultations and pages. Your body was running on autopilot, and the connectivity with your brain no longer attached.
You hadn’t realized you fell asleep while supposedly “resting your eyes” from documenting patient charts. Without much thought, your brainpower fizzled and shut off at the first taste of silence and peace. You were only thankful there wasn't anyone else trying to cram in charting time.
With your body succumbing to the small grace, you hadn’t a clue of your surroundings and the last thing you expected to disrupt your REM cycle was the booming sound of a door slam shut. You shook awake, turning your head in either direction to find the source of the noise. When your eyes shot open in the direction of the door to the dictation room, you saw a grouchy Dr. Park standing at the doorway with his hands on his hips.
You tried to act like you hadn’t been sleeping, blinking reverently to shake off the drowsiness. Dr. Park wasn’t convinced. Humming you braced one hand on the desk, spinning the chair slightly. “Were you looking for me?”
“You’d know that if you’d answer your pages.” His stolid stare of your face was aware of exactly the position he caught you.
Your hands wandered to the pager on your belt. When you saw all the unanswered responses, you groaned, too aware of the fact you had managed to fail your attending, again. Refusing to lift your head, you shut your eyes in defeat. “I’ve been trying to catch up on—“
“Sleep?” Park interrupted, bracing his arms over his chest.
Blinking at him like a dog with its tail between its legs, you could see something beyond general annoyance over you sleeping on company time. You hadn’t exactly expected him to handle it nicely, but a pit was forming in your stomach. It felt like awaiting a death sentence.
Park ticked his head to the side, snarling like a shark tempted by insatiable fury. Too wild and ferocious to wait for his next meal to come. That didn’t make him forget his control, staring at you with the starching glare. “Mrs. Perry is ready for surgery.”
His hand gripped open the door, stalking out as quickly as he came in. You sat there frozen, unsure what to make out of the reaction. He wasn’t the type to yell. His icy demeanor and hooded stare said enough without an elevation in vocal volume. Yet, he didn’t elaborate more on the obvious inappropriate state he found you in.
Could it be a dream? Maybe your brain hasn't fully booted to life. There was no way Dr. Brendon Park would let your mishap slide, right?
After surgery, you walked around with less eagerness than you did before (if you had any). You downed half a pot of coffee you found in the break room before scrubbing in. It was no shocker Dr. Park had led the entire operation up until the end, where he left you alone to finish up the entire procedure after he removed the hip-ball to replace it with something durable,
When you left the surgical wing, you noticed you put in over an hour of overtime. Sully was more than likely settled at your shared apartment. When you glanced at the lock screen of your phone, you noted the missed message.
SULLY 1 hr ago
Bought thai and dessert. I know you’re going to need it after tonight.
The exhale that left you might’ve sounded like you had received the best news of your life. In hindsight, it was as luxurious as your life got.
You were mostly grateful you had managed to avoid Park since finishing the surgery. Some part of you dreaded that he’d be waiting out the double doors to hand you the list of all your faults within the one shift. When you found the halls empty, you thanked whatever higher authority there was that it wasn’t the case.
As you stood in the desolate, quiet elevator, your hands hovered over the buttons. You were desperate to run out of the hospital and forget the shift like a bad nightmare. Instead, your finger reached for the post-op floor.
Maybe it was in everyone’s nature to linger instead of pulling away without turning back.
You didn’t think the hospital could get any colder. You tugged your fleece jacket to wrap over your body as you walked over to where most of the patients were sedated and asleep. The nurse at the desk recognized you, waving her hand at you before turning back to the paperwork she was attending to.
Mrs. Perry's room was diagonal from the desk, even with her face turned away, you knew her from afar. Quietly pulling the door open, you slipped in, gauging her body for any sudden movements of her shifting awake. When you saw the soft fall and rise of her chest continued without lapse, you grabbed the marker on her patient-board.
She was a lovely lady overall, resembling a grandmother from childhood. You scribbled a small note to tell her surgery went well and wishing her a speedy recovery, finalizing with your name. When you slipped out, you made no more delay, hurrying to the directions of the elevators, typing away in response to Sully’s message.
You didn’t lift your head up when the door slid open, side stepping to the panel to click to the floor to the hospital parking garage. Too busy staring at your phone, awaiting a response from your roommate; you didn’t acknowledge the presence lingering behind you. Just another hospital staff trying to make it home.
The buzz of the elevator filled the silent atmosphere. You hummed lightly to a song you had stuck in your head, watching the three dots light up the opened message.
“How’s the patient?”
You jumped back, your head turning ninety degrees in an impossible speed that would leave a kink in your neck no doubt. The grip on your phone was ironclad as you stared wide-eyed at Park, leaning against the railing with one arm. Staring at him with a frightened look, no doubt the same look of surprise from earlier, your mouth clamped shut.
He raised his eyebrows at you, and with a careful step, back you nodded. “Mrs. Perry is resting in post-op. I’m sure she’ll make a nice recovery with some therapy.”
Park only gave you a firm nod. He didn’t need you to reaffirm that thought. He had looked at all the pre-op tests and results. She was an ideal patient for her age, low-risk of infections and complications. He knew everything about his patients. Therefore, his nonchalant and dispirited expression reminded you of that.
You peeled your eyes away, hoping the elevator would somehow move faster, so you didn’t die of shame. As the elevator continued to descend, you grimaced, choosing your next words carefully, “I’m sorry about missing the pages. There is no excusing my ignorance of my responsibilities. I just—“
Your words fell flat. How were you supposed to excuse the fact you fell asleep while charting, especially to an attending like Dr. Park? Anyone would have a better time wrestling an actual shark then to be forgiven by Dr. Park.
“All residents should be able to adapt to their schedules.” Park reminded you, like you were an intern who had yet to learn to struggle on a shift. You had worked double and overnight shifts before. Today just happened to be one of the tiring ones yet. “Do you think a patient wants you drooling over them while in surgery?”
He shook his head, which was the most you had seen him emote. After the face you had made some mistakes you should've grown out of. “I gave you one task today, and somehow you were incapable of managing that.”
You shrunk within yourself, hands clamming around your phone. The sharp inhale must have caught in your throat from the constricting chords. It was as if the air had thickened with the rising density of Park’s sudden reprimand. Of course, you couldn’t save yourself from drowning into the depths of the ocean, where most of the curious sharks lived. You were bound to be another fallen soldier in Park the Shark’s list of students who fell too short of the expectation.
“I need competent third-year residents on my staff. Ones who don’t need me to hold their hands and coddle them their entire way through this program.” He took one-step closer, and you wondered what was taking the elevator so long. “I won’t risk my patient’s life for your irresponsibility.”
The elevator dinged and the metal doors slid open. You held your breath the entire time Park stared down at you, like scum under his shoe. Without uttering another word, he walked out the doors, placid and unfazed by the confrontation, compared to you. Feet glued to your stationary position and blood running cold over your entire body.
Was that how Park saw you? Some liability he tried to tolerate, even when he preferred you separated from the patient with a ten-foot pole. The shaky breath you finally let out shook your core. Maybe all he saw you was the ‘pipsqueak’ of the group. Too mousy and self-deprecating unlike the rest.
God, you were a fool thinking you could impress anyone with your confident persona, impersonating a skilled ortho-surgeon instead of training to be one.
You stuck your hand through the sliver between the closing doors, activating the sensor once more. Stepping out into the fresh breeze, you caught the headlights of some luxury car flash in your direction. With one hand hovering over your eyes, you traveled to the side, remaining close to the edge away from the pathway. Right as the car passed by, you caught a glimpse of Park speeding away without turning back.
It sounded naïve to hope you could change his opinion of you. Didn’t mean you’d stop trying. He could stir the waters into a whirlpool, but you made your travel home planning to fight against it. If there was something you wanted Dr. Park to recognize most was you weren’t going to stand for the tyranny—even if he was the living impersonation of an apex predator in your habitat.
Some animals were made to be preyed on, and you’d climb the food-chain if you had too.
The animosity from Dr. Park had stopped in the shifts after. You made an effort to be assertive. Taking charge of consultations while instructing the interns. You weren’t doing it just to earn Park’s respect, but to also prove to yourself what you wanted to be capable of. If he happened to change what objective opinion he had settled on about you, then that was just a plus.
Thankfully, it had worked well enough to have Park only mutter the tame sarcastic remarks, which announced to everyone he wasn’t a fan of redundancy. He nodded at you when he ‘liked’ what you had to say about a patient and their diagnosis. Never cracking a smile, but whenever he'd examine you up and down once exiting a patients room, you knew he had no critiques.
It was nearing the end of the day shift. You had paid your farewells with most of your closest colleagues. Sifting through the fridge in the break room, you heard the door click open. Lifting and peeking around curiously, you assumed other residents were packing to leave.
Instead, Dr. Emmick, the night shift attending that relieves Park, greeted you with a casual smile. You had worked with her previously, enjoying her calm, playful nature. She had her black hair tied in a braid, framing her face. You always admired her youthful look, tanned color and clear skin.
She smiled at you while holding her packed lunch. The sweet ring of your name followed as she approached, “it’s nice seeing you around.”
“Likewise,” You mused, extending a hand out as you politely put the container into the fridge. She gratefully handed it to you, mouthing a small ‘thank you.’ Before closing the fridge, you grabbed the last of your energy drink, tapping the seal.
“I hope Dr. ‘Shark’ is treating you well.” She joked, and you caught the playful chaste in her words. She flashed a grin as she spun around towards the kitchenette.
You scoffed, shaking your head with a nervous smile. “As well as he treats all of his residents.”
She laughed at that, her cheeks swelling as her smile widened. She moved around, grabbing a mug from the cabinet. She rustled around the sweeteners and sugar for a minute. “I find it hard to believe you haven’t charmed your way into his cold heart.”
Squinting your eyes at her, you chuckled awkwardly, gripping the can tighter. “What do you mean?”
You froze as she poured the warm liquid in her mug. She moved around casually as if what she said hadn’t been news to you. While she shook her head, you continued to stare at her back with a crinkled nose. “I haven’t met a single person who didn’t have a single good thing to say about you.”
She shortly paused to take a brief sip of the coffee before she rustled with more of the sugar packets. “You have been monikered the most liked resident of the entire hospital.”
“That’s a lie.” You countered. When the tone came out more combative than intended, you retracted your head a bit, pressing your lips together.
“Don’t believe me?” she mused, glancing over her shoulder as she mixed the coffee with a stirrer. The grin on her face made you feel like you shouldn’t have doubted the observation.
‘Most liked’ must have been an exaggeration. Of the entire hospital? Impossible. Sure, you played nice with the surgical attendings and the doctors down in the Pitt, but they couldn’t have all thought that way. Not when Park found a way to rip up your efforts every shift. It is unbelievable that any of the attendings could like you if Park found flaws.
“Which begs the question as to why you stay on the day shift.”
When you lifted your eyes to level at her face, she was leaning back onto the counter cradling the mug. One foot crossed over the other and she smiled sincerely. “I know many here on the night shift who would appreciate you a little more. I know I would.”
“I could use a resident with your maturity.” She shrugged, pushing off the counter. You continued fiddling with the can, trying to ground yourself as she continued finding new ways to praise you. “Would take a lot off my plate.”
You hadn’t realized how silent you were until she raised her eyebrows at you expectantly. Shaking your head, you waved one hand in dismissal. “I’m sure you’re just saying that. I know most of my co-residents are moving once they finish residency and the hospital is in need of some positive turnover.”
She narrowed her eyes at you, like your observation was a point-of-view she hadn't been exposed to. With the slight shake of her head, she blew out a sigh, eyebrows raised. “Truth is it’s a lot harder to stay than it is to get in. It’s definitely not for lack of trying. But, I think if anyone has a solid chance, it's you.”
Before you could politely disagree, the sound of a phone ringing bounced off the wall. Reaching into her scrub pocket, Dr. Emmick pulled out her on-call phone, skimming the ID. She lifted her head, offering an apologetic smile. “Just consider it, at least.”
She swiftly answered the call, announcing her name. You waved her a small goodbye, which she returned, before you excused yourself out. Dr. Emmick was a good mentor from the times you had worked the night shift. She was swift with an edge of personality people felt Park lacked with all his glaring. She played music roulette while doing surgery, remaining the champion of the ongoing ‘guess that tune’ game.
It was hard to deny her forwardly when she charmed everyone with such ease.
You walked down the halls, towards the elevator where Sully stood by waiting, scrolling through his phone. He glanced up when he heard the footsteps, “What took you so long?”
“I was talking with Dr. Emmick,” You sighed out, leaning over to press the down arrow button. He stared at you skeptically, noticing the small shrug of your shoulders. “She tried to convince me to move to the night shift.”
He scoffed, stuffing his phone and hands in his pockets. He bounced on his feet, staring up at the ceiling. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea.”
Your head spun to stare at him with down turned eyebrows and pursed lips. He stared down at you with a puzzled expression, “What? You’re not a morning person, whatsoever, and you hate working with Park.”
“I don’t hate working with Dr. Park.” You neglected, offended by the insinuation. ‘Hate’ was a strong four-letter word you disliked using.
‘Hating’ Dr. Park insinuated the one thing you didn’t want to relent to: that he was under your skin. If he was able to obliterate the part of you that made up the person enduring his personality, then you’d have to resign. There was no way you could objectively work with him—or anyone similar—without it affecting patient care. It wasn’t a justifiable means to an end; it was a disservice to the patients.
Sully mockingly nodded his head, pretending to believe your words. You noted the small eye roll as he scoffed, “Either way, I won’t be here to cover for you next year, and you could use someone like Dr. Emmick in your corner.”
When the doors opened to the elevators, Sully slipped in first, holding the door open for you to follow. You bowed your head, still fiddling with the tab of your energy drink, no longer needing to satiate the craving. All you felt was the small shake of the elevator as it began its descent. Sully stood diagonally, watching you stare at your feet.
His small huff caught your distracted attention, “If you're so determined on staying here, you better learn to play offensive with Park. Don’t the big sharks always dominate the small ones?”
You refrained from laughing, dropping your gaze to hide the crack in your expression. Once Sully got over the shark-induced fear, he played around a lot more than he should’ve. The others thought it was like dropping his blood in a tank of sharks. Sully had read up on all the shark facts he could, and during every hand-off while Park was present, he’d share it with him.
He swore that Park patted him in the back once, hiding the small curve on the corner of his lip.
“Wouldn’t turning over to the night shift just confirm what he already thinks of me?” You questioned, rolling your head to the side as the words rang in your head again. All you were was incompetent and juvenile anyways.
“Maybe,” Sully shrugged, readjusting the singular strap of his backpack hanging off his shoulder. “Or maybe he won’t care at all. If he feels that strongly about you, then why should it matter to him?”
Sully was usually right, which was why they titled him chief resident. He had made the last three years with Park more than bearable. If you hadn’t gone to introduce yourself to him in the parking lot, he probably wouldn’t have chosen you to assist him throughout most of his cases. He always noted that you were smarter than the rest. When they’d all make performances of them kissing ass, you’d do it in silence, without the need of recognition.
You thought he was being nice when he offered his spare bedroom. In reality, you were the only one he could fathom spending time with outside the hospital.
When the elevator halted, Sully gave you a grin. “I hope I wasn’t wrong about you, pipsqueak.”
“Seriously?” You groaned, dragging your feet through the lobby as you two wandered out the doors as all the other day-shift staff.
Sully led the way with more energy than when he came in. You didn’t know how he wasn’t drained from the work, or the bustling of Park pushing him in every direction. He was meant to be the right-hand man, after all. When the two of you made your way out, the sun was close to gone.
There was a chilly breeze and you shivered as it kissed your cheeks. “What is that supposed to mean anyway?”
“I just hope that all the hints I’ve been dropping Park isn’t for nothing.” He shrugged, trotting up steps to the parking garage elevator.
“What do you mean?” You pushed, letting out a sigh once the two of you made it to the elevator. Your hands landed dramatically to your sides, head tilted as you stared expectantly.
He shrugged first. Once he caught wind of your raised eyebrows, he chuckled. “Look, I get we’re friends, roommates, and honestly, we work on more cases together than with Shark combined.”
“Get to the point.”
He raised his hands, as a form of retaliation, while you deadpanned him. “But, you are more than a decent resident.”
Scoffing with an offended and jarred gaped mouth, you prepared to fire equally backhanded remarks. Sully put his hands on your shoulders, guiding you into the elevator first, leaning into your ear. “I’m messing with you.”
He let go once inside, and clicked the fourth floor. He turned to you with a sincere smile, crooked and charming. You had lost track of the amount of times other residents asked if he was single or in a relationship with you. “But, I don’t think I’ve seen Park so interested in anyone as much as he is with you.”
Throwing your head back gently, it thumped the elevator wall, trembling as it glided upward. “People say the same about you.”
“My point is if I see it, so does Park.” Sully redirected with a casual smile. Professional and honest, in the same manner he talked to patients. “So give him reasons he needs to be wrong.”
“And If it doesn’t pan out, I’ll hold you a spot in Chicago.” He winked at you and as if on cue, the elevator dinged and the doors revealed the dark parking garage .Walking backward, he widened his smile, all teeth. “Then he’ll regret ever doubting you, shark pup.”
You tried to keep Dr. Emmick and Sully's words in mind. It had started to feel like an omen you meant to keep an eye on. It never occurred to you that some people had formed strong opinions about you. Dr. Emmick had asked subtle questions about your consideration of the last conversation the two of you had. Sully had noticed, and even began to inquire about your next steps.
It had never dawned on you that the invitation was serious.
Not until you worked the next night shift block on your schedule. You had walked into the dictation room, zipping on your fleece sweater when you ran into Dr. Emmick. She looked up from her watch, stating your name with a smile. “Didn’t realize you were scheduled tonight.”
You nodded politely, offering a closed mouth smile in return. “I switched with another resident. It was a last minute thing.”
“Well, happy to have you here.” She somehow smiled wider. You tried to hide the sudden tightness in your chest. It was weird to be openly invited and welcomed into your shift by an attending. Park would have barely looked in your direction if this were the day shift.
She stood with her hands in her pocket, examining you up and down. “Have you done the hand off yet?”
“Just got back from that,” You point your thumb behind you, motioning to the door you came in from seconds ago. “Seems like a manageable workload.”
“For now,” Dr. Emmick chuckled, readjusting the pager on the waistline of her scrub pants. “Give it a few hours to liven up. The next trauma is yours.”
You should’ve known by now to take her words seriously.
While assisting her in a surgery that was when the call came in from the charge nurse. Trauma via ambulance. Motorcycle accident. Left leg deformity with obvious bone exposure. Dr. Emmick only hummed as she glanced at you from across the surgical table.
That’s what landed you in the elevator, gloves and gown doffed while now only sporting your scrub cap. When you landed on the basement floor, walking straight off the elevator and looking into Trauma-2, you saw the chaos within the glass. Pumping hand sanitizer and pushing the door open with your back caught the attention of most in the vicinity.
Walsh lifted her gaze across the room, a small smirk on her face as she announced your name amusingly. “Dr. Park’s shark pup. You finally turned to the dark side?”
You shook your head, grabbing a pair of gloves from the wall. “Hello to you too, Dr. Walsh.”
Approaching the gurney, your eyes immediately went to the splint holding his left leg in place. That when you saw the exposed bone from an open wound on the anterolateral shin. An intern was sitting, irrigating the debris into a pan. You then looked up to see the young, male patient, sedated on the bed. He was scattered with other wounds in his face.
“Present, please.” You proposed, eyes darting to the staff wearing black scrubs.
“A please? Are you sure you're one of Park’s?” Jack hummed from beside you leaning over the patient as he and Walsh worked on putting a chest tube and alleviating some internal bleeding near the liver. When you looked at him, you scoffed, shaking your head.
“Motorcycle accident. Flew almost ten meters away from the crash per paramedics. No knee fracture or joint surface misalignment.” Nazely spoke up from your other side, continuing to irrigate gently, looking much smaller as she donned her gown.
“Jesus” You mumbled, hands behind you back as you leaned in to examine the open wound with precision. “Did he come in unconscious?”
“Morphine and fentanyl will do that for you.” Walsh mumbled as she began to stand up straight. She tossed the small strands of hair that fell around her face back looking in your direction.
She watched as your hand traveled along the bone in his knee, then lowered as you felt the tissue. Nazely had retracted her hands, looking around anxiously as you stared at the leg like some prey on the hunt. “Keep irrigating. It’s looking like a subtype B and we don’t want to risk infection.”
“Subtype B?” Nazely questioned softly, looking up at you with her widen sunken eyes. She glanced around to try to understand the silent understanding everyone else had.
You nodded at her, a soft smile as you made your way around to where she was, stopping close enough to brush against her arms. “Gustilo-Anderson Type III.”
“Good old Ramon and John.” Walsh joked, shaking her head with a small huff. Jack glanced at her, an amused smile on his face.
The movement continued as you examined the patient in silence. Nazely kept cautiously peeking at you from the corner of her eye. She was paranoid of whether she was doing it correctly, adjusting her arms rhythmically. Your mind and body acted on your training, sensations alarmed from the previous cases you can recall that imaged the patient’s current situation.
When you turned to Nazely, she tensed up a bit, suddenly alarmed. “Was his upper leg always this swollen?”
Her eyes followed where you were pointing nervously. She furrowed her eyes, a bit panicked while shaking her head. “It looks worse than when he came in.”
“Before the medication he was in severe pain, even with passive stretching.” Jack informed, now stoic as he followed what you and his intern were concerned. He moved around the nurses and techs to assist with other continuous care in his upper extremities. “Felt numbness in his toes and pain continued up to the ankle.”
“Can I see imaging?” You called out, retracting yourself to step over to the machine where the radiologist tech stood with the blue vest still on. Peering down, you drowned out the sudden rise of noises.
Voices followed with consistent reports of heart rate and pressure, moving into a position that was no longer safe for comfort. Even while focused on your area of expertise, you could recognize the plan of care Walsh and Jack were announcing. Ischemic. Stiffness, swelling, and pain in the left leg. Tibia fracture.
“Acute compartment syndrome.” You called out, turning your head over to Jack and Walsh.
The trauma surgeon tsked as she busied herself with Jack looking over her shoulder. She lightly jerked her shoulder, pushing Jack back to block space between them. Jack lifted his head over Walsh, looking at the small intern sitting on the stool, attempting to shrink impossibly smaller. “What are the four compartments, Nazely?”
She blinked rapidly, pausing with her mouth open as her attending addressed her. While shutting her eyes, she took a deep breath out. “Anterior, Lateral, Superficial, and Deep posterior.”
“500 to Dr. Toomarian.” You joked, walking back to her side. She gazed up at you offering a trembling smile as she gathered her bearings again, focusing on her one task. You sighed, shaking your head. “He’s going to need a fasciotomy and reconstruction if we can salvage all the compartments. Hope he doesn’t lose his leg.”
“Any attending’s available in ortho?” Walsh questioned, finally taking a step back to speak directly at you.
You ripped off the gloves you were wearing, tossing them in a bin before sanitizing. While rubbing your hands you sighed, “Dr. Emmick will be stuck in a spinal surgery for the next couple of hours. I will proceed as primary ortho after checking in with her.”
“Without supervision?” Walsh clarified, an eyebrow raised. You could tell she had reservations, not of the work, but the ethicality of the procedure.
You shrugged, before crossing your arms and holding her attention. “You’d rather the patient lose his leg, Dr. Walsh?”
Jack snickered from across the trauma room. He shook his head, “Now I see it.”
Walsh followed your previous actions, doffing the PPE attire. Once she ripped off the gloves, she clapped her bare hands, an amused smile on her face. “You’re up, shark pup.”
When you finally scrubbed out of the surgery, it was nearing sunrise. Before walking into the OR, you kept repeating the case in your head, going over the steps you had done previously before. You weren't exactly secure until stepping into the sterile environment. Standing at the surgical table, along with Walsh and the other surgical techs, it was coming to you as easy as breathing.
Taking control of the entire narrative in a different capacity felt strange. There wasn’t the lingering presence of Emmick or Park, who typically didn’t refrain from giving direction, guiding your hands like molding clay. There was steadiness in your hands you didn’t think would be present without either attending.
You could hear Park’s constant reminders not to get too conceited. Cockiness never suits a wide-eye resident still learning to stand; he huffed out after assisting in your first major reconstruction surgery. He had surprisingly relied mostly on your directive than his own, asking questions and staring at your work.
There was still a buzzing sensation throughout all your nerves, like an adrenaline rush you didn’t want to come down from. It didn’t help that when Dr. Emmick did step into the OR, to check in with how the operation was progressing, she gave no criticism. The nod and approving hum that escaped her while wearing the mask, listening intently to you break down the steps you’ve taken, made it hard to not be proud of yourself.
Instead of gloating though, you sat in the break room, nibbling on the lunch Sully had prepared for you two for the week. You leaned back in the plastic chair, scrolling through your phone. You heard the door click open, but made no effort to turn your head to the sound.
When you saw a figure move around from where you were sitting, you caught Walsh looking down at you, much cleaner from the last time you saw her. She grinned at you, stopping across the table, “The patient was moved to the ICU for monitoring. Good job back there.”
“Thank you.” You replied, putting your phone down gently. Sitting up straighter, your braced both hands on the seat, smiling coyly. “Is it bad to say I was afraid of messing it up?”
“Don’t let Brendon hear you say that.” Walsh snickered, turning her back to scavenge the fridge. She pulled out a gray can, immediately cracking the seal and gulping down the cold liquid. “He’d have a gall if he knew you did the operation with no attending supervision.”
“You were there.” Your chin motioned to where she stood, one hand now braced on the kitchenette counter.
“I’m not your attending.”
Her grin widened as you playfully rolled your eyes. There was a beat of silence as you finally sensed the temptation to steal another nibble of your food. Walsh stared at you, taking another swing of her drink. “I heard you’re bored with the day shift. Is Park not living up to the hype?”
With down turned brows and a shaky laugh, you tipped your head to one side. “What are you talking about?”
Walsh looked back at you as if she had shared a secret she wasn’t supposed to let slip. Readjusting her back, she pursed her lips. “Marla said you were moving to the night shift with the rest of us nocturnal mammals.”
Dr. Emmick. Ardent to assume one good half-shift was enough to have you turning your current schedule upside down. Although, you could say pretty confidently you had never been as validated as you had this shift than any day shift, you still were considering the proposition. It wasn't entirely a decision you could rationally make with this one experience. You had yet to find out what struggling with the night shift entailed.
“I’ve yet to decide on such a big change.” You corrected, earning a hooded look from Walsh. “I promised her I’d consider it.”
Walsh booed, rolling her neck to glare at you with amusement. The playful grimace on her face eased the small worry in your chest. Has it really been that big of a disappointment?
She pushed herself off the counter, sauntering in your direction. “Here I thought I’d be able to rub in his face how we stole his greatest protégé.”
There was that word. Along with the ‘shark pup’ nickname some of the residents had heard a handful of times answering consultations. They were meant to learn from the quiet, calculated Dr. Park, and find some way to honor him with their skill, but Park wasn’t the type to look at that. He didn't care much for individuality either, but he preferred neither of you to paint yourself in an image that only suited him.
“Why do you guys keep saying that?” You questioned genuinely. Walsh stopped in her tracks, raising her eyebrows at your question. “I’m nothing like him, and if anything, he probably has a scroll full of things I could work on.”
For a minute, you thought Walsh might actually pull you into the insider information that every surgical staff knew–except you. A part of you wondered whether Park was secretly feeding into the ongoing perception as well. Walsh scoffed, the corner of her lips curling upward, pronouncing her cupid's bow. “I’m not going to spell it out for you. Takes away the fun.”
“Besides, if it keeps you from coming over to nights, I don’t think I want to.” She admitted, leaning in closer to come off as mischievous. You only nodded, defeated that you were left out.
She sighed, “You’ve got potential. I’d hate for ‘Park the Shark’ to be the reason you don’t explore that.”
She rolled her eyes at the title Park had been known for since you joined. Now you understood why Park always seemed to have a scowl after talking with Walsh. If she jabbed at him in his face as much as she was right now, that would explain everything. She straightened herself, sparing you one last smile.
“See you around, daredevil.”
To say Dr. Park was a tough person to impress was an understatement. You didn’t expect him to sing your praises the following shift after Dr. Emmick had prematurely gloated on your behalf. The only reaction you got was a huff of some sort, his head tilting to the side as he saw you checking in on the patient and mutterings of ‘doing your job.’
By that point, you knew Park was grateful the patient had survived long enough to offer you his gratitude.
It did get him off your back a bit.
He still picked on you to accompany him on the major trauma surgeries, but he stopped hounding over you. Most consultations in the ER were yours to attend, with the junior residents to teach and guide. The word must have traveled, because even a hunk of a chief like Dr. Robby had respected your professional opinion.
They knew to trust your opinion when packed under the pressure of a MVA, including up to five vehicles and six pedestrians. Some of them were as young as 12, just riding their bike on the sidewalk by a park, blindsided by the speeding cars. It was chaos in the ED, and the trauma alarms up in surgery didn’t go missed by anyone.
Gowns and gloves flew on with quick ease and stained with the crimson blood of those involved just as quickly. Right as you were working on the hip fracture of a 72-year-old woman, a passenger to one of the affected vehicles, Park had immediately switched you out with Sully to stabilize a 32-year old man's leg.
You had done the same procedure alone. When you watched Park walk out to dictate another surgery, a sigh of relief escaped you. It was hours before the hospital found a steady rhythm. Most of your shift had passed by with the blink of an eye, and patients transferred in and out like a manufacturing company. Now, most of the interns and second-years were attending to follow calls about surgery while you sat in the dictation room to finish charting.
Sully sat across from you, speaking quietly as he recounted the steps of his pelvic stabilization of a 45-year-old patient, waiting to follow up with the acetabular reconstruction. You preferred to type your way through the chart, even if you could barely keep your eyes open enough to see the words.
What did liven you up was the sound of your pager beeping. You groaned lightly, earning a scowl from Sully who didn’t falter with his words. When you glanced down at your pager, you read the room number feeling some sort of dread following.
The last thing Sully heard was the scraping of the chair as you walked out the dictation room.
You wandered up to the post-surgery wing, wandering towards the room number with alerted ears. Right as you were approaching the sliding doors, you halted as nurses were pushing the patient bed out of the room. Pushing yourself aside by a wall, you watch with slight horror as Jones, the small blonde second-year resident, walks out like a wounded puppy, followed by an infuriated Park.
Despite being the least expressive person in the entire hospital, there was an eerie distinction between his typical crabbiness and his frenzied authoritative side. This was the latter.
When Park’s eyes landed on you, he scoffed. The disgust was evident when he brushed past you with little acknowledgment. You tried to ask a question that fell short when Dr. Park finally spoke up with his back turned to you. “Nice of you to finally act upon your responsibilities,”
With a huff, you followed closely behind him, eyeing at Jones who departed down a desolate hallway. “What happened?”
“Your lack of concern for patient care is what.” He retorted, and from the angle, you caught him in, it was as if he was snarling his teeth with a low grumble. “Mr. Stevenson was your patient, and your lack of consideration for him has resulted in compartment syndrome.”
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. From the trauma interventions, the lack of fuel keeping you standing, and the endless work you still had yet to finish in the last two hours of your shift had all blurred together. The patients handed off from the night before had been lost in your memory, and when Park uttered his name with the sharp punctuation, it was like the thought was aimed straight for the center of your brain.
“Jones agreed to cover while we attended the incoming MVA patients.” You said breathlessly, now matching his pace. He still didn’t bother to look at you, which should’ve been the least of your concerns, but right now, it made you feel insignificant. Undeserving of a moment of his precious time.
“So I heard,” he reported sourly, shaking his head. The nurses lead the hospital bed in the direction of the elevator and if your body weren’t caught off guard, you would’ve realized exactly where they were heading in the first place. “I’ve already reprimanded him for his dismissal of the nurse's report of his increased pain after the intramedullary nailing and refusing to consult with a senior staff member.”
He paused, turning to stand right in your tracks. You stumbled back with a startled expression, craning your neck back to look at him. The bones in his jaw ticked as he clamped down. The shadow over his eyes made his crystallized stare sharper, like a pair of knives pointed straight at you. You finally had a moment to catch your breath, but hardly anything was traveling to your lungs.
“But with your seniority, it was your responsibility to supervise his actions and your patients, regardless of everything else going on.” He affirmed a finger point at your chest as he emphasized his point. “You learn to accept the workload. Do you think they care whether you’re tired or busy with their limb on the line?”
His voice was echoing now through the halls. The last thing the nurses saw was his muscles contracting under his plum scrubs before the elevator doors sealed shut. It left you in shallow waters, helpless under the unrestrained hunger of his wrath. You stood with both hands resting at your side, eyes fluttering with every stab of his words.
It was your responsibility, and you stupidly pushed it aside like scutwork.
“Now he might lose his leg.” Park pointed behind him, motioning to the elevator box the patient disappeared too. That reality was dawning on you with the emergency-surgery taking place.
Your body deflated; mouth agape as you attempted to reel in some courage to face him with dignity. The last thing you needed was for him to bully you over your lack of thick skin. That didn’t stop the wetness accumulating on your waterline. Accept the consequence of your inaction, god dammit.
“I can scrub in.” You pleaded, like a last attempt to beg for some form of life saving intervention. A boogie, life jacket, floating ring, something to pull you out of the depth of your despair.
With a flat palm right in your face, he snarled. “Don’t be an idiot. Don’t you think you’ve done enough?”
“I will fix your mistake for you, since you appear too absorbed by other duties.” His detached and swift examination of your diminished position tossed aside any ounce of consideration he had for you. The match he struck on you overturned all the micro-trivial actions you confused for tokens of his appreciation. Now, he was turning away as you burned and fizzled alone.
“Word of advice? Don’t waste my time if you don’t plan to take every challenge this program entails seriously.” The lash of his words didn’t need to be filled with profanities to make an impact, nor the heighten of volume like some may assume.
He was filled with quiet precision. A sniper with a scope and steady aim. “I’m not going to waste my time teaching a resident whose absurdity gets the best of them during dire moments. It’s not worth my effort and you’re not worth the aggravation.”
You were stunned, stapled into your position in front of him. It was like watching a bad accident unfold. Park was intact, emotionally stunted, but able to move on with his life without having to rerun the event. You were coming from the wreckage with all types of breaks and fractures. Your stability wiped from under you and recovery was a concept you were not sure could happen with due process.
Therefore, when Park turned around without so much of a glance in your direction as he stood alone in the elevator. You swore you saw the interaction slide off him, taking literally the last thing he muttered to you.
You’re not worth the aggravation. A third-year resident who needed to be coddled and instructed step-by-step on how to do their job properly, like you were a med student. Reprimanded and shunned all at once.
It was an embarrassment to yourself when you locked the door to the private bathroom, leaning against the door with a shaky hand covering your mouth. Truth was, you were frightened Mr. Stevenson would lose his leg after you incautiously neglected him. Not only would you have ruined an innocent man's life (along with yours), but Dr. Park might’ve used it for grounds of terminating your participation in the well-accredited program.
It wouldn’t have been unjustified, but you would never recover.
When you crawled back to the dictation room, night shift was making its way in. You looked around for Sully. Something familiar and safe to fall on to. As you were walking in, Dr. Emmick was walking out, alongside a night-shift resident. She smiled when she caught your eye. If she noticed the hesitation in your response, she didn’t mention it out loud, but she did furrow her brows in question.
Sully lifted his gaze, slight alarm when his eyes peeled from the desktop to the sudden sunken look in your face that was beyond the exhaustion of the shift.
“What happened?” He questioned, hands braced on the desk to push himself up.
You made your way over to him, sinking in the chair beside him. He turned to lean his body toward you, ear burning with anticipation. The subtle shake of your head and the wobble of your chin. He knew exactly what look that was.
Before he could ask a follow up, you sighed, “You’re right. I hate Dr. Park."
A week had passed. You let the dust settle for a week. You weren’t the idiot Dr. Park assumed you were. It didn’t settle because you were overly upset. Refusing to cry in your place of work, you saved the self-pity for your couch, a rom-com too sad to be comedic, and a tub of ice cream in the dark to self-indulge. It worked, because you came in for your next shift, coherent enough for Sully to understand you.
You let it settle to think clearly of the decision you conferred with your roommate about.
It only took you a week to decide with profound confidence because you didn’t want to cave into Dr. Park’s not-so-subtle mark of inferiority for you. Giving in to his brashness meant letting him win. If there was one thing you had decided against was losing the opportunity to prove yourself.
That’s what had you walking down the hall with the sheer determination of someone scorned. At least, you were pretending to be. Steadying your breathing and keeping your chin held high, you were confident enough to confront the current source of your uneasiness.
It was the end of your shift, hand-off concluded and Sully was currently waiting for you in his Prius. He had offered to stick around for moral support, but this was one challenge you had to endure alone.
As you rounded the corner, where most of the offices were, you felt the air thin too short to breath. You couldn’t turn back now—certainly not ten feet away from where Dr. Park was. So mumbling the affirmations, you spoke two feet from the mirror in the morning; you knocked on the door of the office.
“Come in.”
When you pushed open the door, Park sat in a comfortable office chair, desktop resting on a polished, and dark oak wood desk. His finger hovered over the keyboard, and when you met his eye, there was an unmistakable twitch from his nose.
Somehow, his gel combed hair shined brighter under the office light than that of the fluorescence in the OR and the ED. It was a visible recall of discipline and order. Nothing went unnoticed by him and he acted appropriately per his standard.
In the past week, he couldn’t ignore the fact you acted passive compared to your usual friendly demeanor. The very few consultations the two of you wounded up in, you were curt in your evaluations. You no longer sweet-talked conscious patients, and suddenly your reports were too concise. It was as if you were trying to wrap up any form of conversation with him as rapidly as possible.
He knew better than to assume the monologue he gave you hadn’t stung. That was the intention, after all.
You closed the door behind you, opting to respect him and your professional relationship to not blow this into departmental news to gossip about. Hands folded in front of you, it was like being in elementary school all over again. Addressing a teacher or principle with the dignity of an adult, that at the age of 12, was a foreign concept.
Clearing your throat, you offered a tight smile. “I wanted to tell you I have made the decision to transition to night-shift until the end of my residency.”
The glare he spared in return was still razor sharp, but once the words left your mouth, you instinctively searched for there to be something to deceive him. He peeled his arms away from the desk, folding them in his lap. “Admin will want a formal address as to why.”
“Dr. Emmick specializes in spinal and musculoskeletal orthopedics. She’s agreed to mentor me in those sub-specialties.” You explained with no hesitation. Once it landed, you noticed how rehearsed the statement sounded. You tried to seal it with a shaky smile, despite the stiffness in your posture betraying you.
Park examined you. His eyes narrowed and you silently pleaded he’d just accept the lame excuse, tell you to leave, and never have to face him again until the rare chance you’d have to work the dreaded day shift again. The last thing you expected was for him to stand, coming to stop on the other end of the desk. He sat on the edge, bicep muscles curling as he folded his arm over his chest.
If he weren’t so insufferable, you could see yourself drooling over them like some of the nurses did.
“You aren’t interested in spinal or musculoskeletal orthopedics.” He spoke directly. As if he had the faintest idea what you were interested in. You almost opened your mouth to derail his confident theory, before he shook his head. “You love pediatrics. You told Sullivan that in the first week.”
It was scarily true. The first pediatric case you worked on was a scared 7-year old girl who was going to need an amputation. She had strangely accepted the fact she would be missing part of her leg from above the knee and lower. That is what sold pediatric orthopedics for you. Except, Park hadn’t worked that case. He remembered that.
“Is this about last week?” Park sighed out, slight dismay in his tone.
You pursed your lips, hardening your stare. “If it was?”
“I’d tell you not to act so immature.” He remarked, like he was astonished by the fact you even asked the question. “You messed up. It will happen. I will chew you up about it. Grow up and just accept it.”
You dryly laughed at that. Grow up. What a concept?
Had you not matured in the three years from working under his supervision? He molded you under his guise, so much, so the other attendings only saw him in your image. Even with the tenderness you held on to. Meanwhile, he was stubbornly trying to beat it out of you, like a bad habit.
“What’s so funny?” He questioned, although he knew the laugh wasn't amusement. He wasn’t sure he had seen this reaction from the furrow in his brows. Somehow, his eyes were more hooded than before with that tick.
“Everyone seems to mistakenly think I’m your protégé or as they endearingly call me ‘shark pup’” You air quoted the last part, and the various voices utter that name brought upon a distaste in your mouth.
The name was a bag of weights resting on your shoulders. Without intending to, they constantly reminded you of who you were meant to be serving, as if patients weren’t the top priority. It had you running in circles, finding some way to remain impressive and shine enough to be memorable. Dehumanizing the charity of your work for the sake of appeasement.
“Like I want to follow in the footsteps of ‘Park the Shark.’”
Park scoffed. He had never approved the name per se, but he didn't discourage the usage. You saw pride in the shimmer of his eyes as people used it to praise him. All it did for you was remind yourself how negligible you were in his shadow.
You sighed with resignation, your body tired from the neglect on your own behalf. The backpack hanging on your shoulder weighed heavier. “I’m going to be frank Dr. Park; I want to be nothing like you.”
“Is that so?” He proposed, barely flinching from the implication.
“Yes.” Your breathy voice trembled, but you nodded with assurance. “All I want is to be someone honorable enough to treat the people who come in here during their worst moments.”
“I can’t do that with you disparaging me with every mistake or browbeating me around every corner.” Your hands motioned out to the very hospital Park reigned. With his designated office and cushy salary, he’d always terrorize your waters. “Especially when you don’t trust my skill as your resident.”
Maybe this was giving in. You were aspiring to have the same pride in yourself that Park did swimming into the ED or any surgery he led. If you were meant to fail to become great, why did it always feel like Park worked only in perfection?
“I happen to like to connect with my patients as much as I want to treat them and see them recover positively.” Your hand pointed to yourself, emphasizing the obvious difference between his bite and your heart.
The tiny sadness in your eye made Park shift uncomfortably. With his attitude, he must have made dozens of female residents cry. He probably went home satisfied if he crashed and burned the dreams of his students with the daunting reality that life could always get tougher.
“I don’t need you invalidating that method because you’d rather we operate in mechanical-like processes, like we are all just cogs in the machine.”
There was a beat of silence. You wholeheartedly awaited him to laugh in your face. Tell you this was ridiculous, you were too emotional, or even that you just weren’t cut out for the medical profession at all. That was everything you had heard in med-school and more. Yet, here you stood barring yourself clean, no life preserver to fish you out.
“Being emotional costs patients’ lives.” He stoically retorted, as if it had been obvious.
“I don’t see it that way.” You shook your head, lips forming a thin line. This was the final act of whatever the two of you had going on. Whether he appreciated you in silence at all or not, it couldn’t make up for the moments that ruined the illusion of his knowledge.
Too brilliant to apologize.
“Which is why I cannot have you as my attending,” You concluded, as if the argument was always clear.
He straightened his posture, shoulder falling back like a soldier hearing his command. He must have felt some way. Rejected by a resident must have been first, not that it was some record to feel proud of accomplishing. You had mixed feelings. It was all wrong, yet, there was comfort in knowing you had enough of a spine to say something.
Your hands brushed away the small hair tickling your face, “I’m afraid your judgment may hinder mine, and I need to trust in myself if I want to be good enough to be considered for the next attending position.”
That did it. You’d never outwardly said that you sought out an attending offer once your residency was up. If you had, maybe Park would’ve been much harsher than he already was. That certainly would’ve had you considering withdrawing all together.
Park's hands moved to the edge of the desk, gripping on to it as he pursed his lips slightly. Sourness or disbelief in a future where you were making the executive decision matched what you saw in his eye. “We will have to work together. Regardless if you leave the day-shift and especially if you apply for any attending position at PTMC.”
“Together. As colleagues.” You clarified, “Equals. Where I am not just some student you’re expecting to roll over at every word and waiting upon a treat blessed by you.”
There was something snarky in the comment. His nose flared lightly as he bit his tongue. For once, he was speechless, in a way that was aware, you had a score to settle, and he was at a disadvantage. Your hands fell to your side, lightly hitting your thighs. “I’ve already spoken with the program and staffing coordinator. This was mostly a courtesy.”
Then, one curt nod. No fondness of a goodbye, no devastation of your tender disappointment, or resentment for finding some unique way of disappointing him once more. It was bittersweet to terminate what you had come to know, even if it was your form of preservation. This would be your test on whether you could survive without the oh-so-wise knowledge only Park somehow had.
Maybe you could be a good surgeon without him yet.
With one hand on the door, you nodded, as if he spoke enough with his silence. Turning your body slightly, you paused with the door ajar. When you turned halfway, you offered him a tight smile, “I hope by then, you will have accepted I’m not like you, Dr. Park, nor will I ever be.”
When the conversation concluded with a click of the door, a relief shored into your chest. Your muscles released its iron-stiffness that weighed like stones in your pockets. You worried you’d regret the decision, but, how would you know who you are if you weren’t acting as you?
When you peeled your hand away from the handle, you finally noticed the small tremble gone. It was the calm after the storm, huddling in shelter as your world rattled around you. There was work needed to be done to find stability and normalcy again, but you started favoring the future more and more.
Sitting under your own tree and basking in the fruits of your own labor. Sighing in the idea of no longer standing under a man impersonating a territorial shark on dry land. And you’d finally outgrow the ‘pup’ term, once and for all.
this is something VERY different from my usual writing style and honestly i had so much fun experimenting with it
i know it's not written like my regular fics, so please forgive me for any mistakes or awkward moments while i figure out the format. i'm still learning and trying new things with this series 💜
i really hope y'all enjoy it because i genuinely had so much fun writing it
and if y'all like this format and wanna see episode 2, PLEASE let me know because i already have ideas
The camera crew followed you as you opened the front door.
"Come in, y'all," you laughed. "Welcome to our mess, I mean home."
Production walked inside and immediately started filming.
You smiled at the camera.
"Since y'all are gonna be here for a while, I might as well introduce everybody."
You pointed toward the living room.
"Okay, first of all, Michael."
The camera zoomed over to Michael sitting peacefully on the couch reading a book.
He looked up and smiled.
"Hi."
You grinned.
"Everybody's favorite, and yes, he knows it."
Michael laughed.
"That's not true."
Janet sat at the kitchen island drinking coffee.
"This is Janet."
Janet immediately looked up.
"The only normal one."
Jermaine, sitting behind her:
"That's a crazy thing to say out loud."
Janet rolled her eyes.
"Mama Katherine, she raised all of us. She's the reason we're alive."
"And sometimes I wonder why."
Prince and Paris were arguing over something stupid.
Bigi was sitting quietly with a book just like Michael.
"This is Prince, Paris, and Bigi. They keep things… interesting."
The camera followed you upstairs.
You lowered your voice dramatically.
"And this..."
You opened your bedroom door.
Jermajesty was dead asleep.
Hair in all directions.
Blanket hanging off the bed.
"Is my husband."
You smiled lovingly.
"I love him very much."
"Sometimes."
“Let's go…”
Just then, Jaafar walked past carrying a cup.
"Where are you going?" you asked.
"Mind your business."
The camera crew followed him anyway.
Jaafar opened your bedroom door.
Walked over.
And dumped the water right on Jermajesty’s face.
"JAAFAR! You bitch."
"You awake now!"
Jermajesty jumped off the bed.
"I SWEAR TO GOD I’LL KILL YOU!"
Production could barely keep up as the two ran downstairs.
Jaafar ran into Michael so hard he nearly dropped his book.
Janet started laughing so hard she was crying.
Mama Katherine covered her face just covered her face and pretended not to see anything.
"Lord have mercy."
Jermajesty finally managed to corner Jaafar in the kitchen, pointing a knife at him.
Threatening him until Michael came over and separated them, picking up Jermajesty by the armpits when he refused to put the knife down.
CONFESSIONAL
Jermajesty sat in the chair.
"I'm too old for this."
Replay.
Slow motion.
Jermajesty stared directly into the camera.
"And whoever clipped that and put it in slow motion..."
…
"...fuck you."
By noon, everybody had moved outside due to the California heat and the broken ac’s in the house.
The pool was only being used for dipping feet despite the heat.
Michael on the grill.
Kids running around.
Music playing somewhere.
And then Michael standing in the middle of everyone holding two Super Soakers.
Production:
"Michael… why do you have two?"
Michael smiled.
"So I can double-wield, see."
"Michael, you're sixty-seven years old."
"And?"
Before production could say anything else, he shot Janet in the arm.
"MICHAEL!"
Michael immediately started running.
Production nearly tripped trying to follow him.
"YOU STARTED IT!" Michael shouted.
"I just got here!" Janet screamed.
"I know!"
Everybody was dying with laughter.
Prince's son, MJ, had joined Michael.
The two of them were now running around and shooting everybody together.
"Grandpa, get Auntie Janet!"
"I'm trying!"
Janet:
"MICHAEL JOSEPH JACKSON!"
Jaafar had made the mistake of walking too close to the pool.
Jermajesty grinned.
"Oh, this is gonna be fun."
Jaafar instantly looked nervous.
"No."
"Jer, please, I'm sorry."
"No."
"Jermajesty."
"No."
"You push me in, and we're fighting."
Jermajesty smiled.
"I'm not gonna push you."
Jaafar relaxed.
"Good."
He turned around.
And walked straight into the pool.
Literal Silence.
Then Marlon burst out laughing as usual.
Even Mama Katherine was laughing.
Jaafar resurfaced.
"WHO MOVED THE GROUND?!"
CONFESSIONAL
Jaafar:
"Nobody pushed me."
"But I know Jermajesty manifested that somehow."
— —
CONFESSIONAL
Jermajesty:
"I didn't touch him."
"But God knew what needed to happen."
CONFESSIONAL
Janet:
"I'm surrounded by idiots; I hate it here.”
— —
Outside, Michael was now hiding behind a chair with his grandson.
"Grandpa, we need backup."
Michael nodded.
"You're right."
He peeked over the chair.
Spotted Janet.
And immediately sat back down.
"Nope."
"We're not fighting that woman."
"Retreat, it’s over."
Production:
"You're scared of Janet?"
Michael:
"I'm not scared."
He paused.
"She's just… mean."
"There's a difference."
Production:
"That's fear."
"No, it isn't."
Janet's voice came from across the yard.
"MICHAEL!"
Michael jumped before running away.
Eventually, everybody moved toward the grill.
And that was when Michael became Gordon Ramsay.
He had an apron on that said big DADDY mike.
Where the apron came from, nobody knew
But somehow he had one.
And a spatula in one hand.
"Who made these burgers?"
Everybody turned.
Jermaine looked over.
"I did."
Michael stared.
Jermaine stared back.
Michael slowly lifted the burger.
"You call this medium rare?"
Jermaine frowned.
"It's cooked."
Michael looked disgusted.
"It's dry."
Jermaine threw his hands up.
"Michael, it's meat."
"It's ruined."
"It's BEEF, Michael!"
Janet was laughing harder now than earlier.
"You've cooked twice, and suddenly you're Gordon Ramsay."
"No, Janet."
Michael shook his head.
"I'm an artist."
"It's about passion."
"Passion?"
"It's burgers!"
Production:
"Michael, when did you become a chef?"
Michael looked offended.
"I've always been a chef."
"You people just never appreciated me."
Randy:
"We appreciated you."
"We just didn't know you were crazy."
Production: Michael the spatula…
"Hm?"
"You're holding the spatula upside down."
"Oh."
"As I said."
"Passion."
— —
CONFESSIONAL
Michael:
"I AM Gordon Ramsay."
Production:
"No, you're Michael Jackson."
Michael thought about it.
"That's true."
"But if Gordon Ramsay and I had a cook-off…"
"I'd win." (My votes on Mike)
— —
CONFESSIONAL
Janet:
"This man has won thirteen Grammys."
"But the thing he's most proud of today is a mediocre at best hamburger."
— —
CONFESSIONAL
Jermaine:
"He criticized my burger."
"He burned his own."
Replay.
Michael flipping a burger.
Burger flying off the grill.
Michael:
"OH!"
Jaafar:
"FIVE SECOND RULE!"
Jermajesty:
"THAT'S STILL GOOD!"
Mama Katherine:
"Don't you dare eat that."
The burger was thrown away.
Mostly because you physically took it from Michael.
And then somehow…
It managed to be peaceful after that.
Music playing.
Kids running around.
People talking over each other.
Mama Katherine smiling, looking at all her babies together.
Michael humming Ladies' Night by Kool & The Gang while standing beside the grill.
Everything felt perfect.
Then production accidentally caught Michael eating chips straight out of the bag, scratching his butt, and putting his hand back in the bag while nobody was looking.
Production:
"Michael, aren't those for everybody?"
Michael froze.
"...No."
Game night
Nobody really remembered who suggested it.
But now everybody was too invested to stop.
Monopoly.
Dominoes.
Uno.
Production immediately realized they had enough footage for three seasons of this shit.
Jermajesty sat down.
"Okay, nobody cheats tonight."
Everybody turned toward Michael.
Michael looked offended.
"What?"
Jermaine started laughing.
"He's talking to you."
"I don't cheat."
Everybody:
"YES YOU DO."
"That was one time."
Janet:
"Michael, it was literally yesterday."
Meanwhile, Jaafar was focused on Monopoly.
Production:
"Who takes Monopoly the most seriously?"
Everybody pointed at Jaafar.
Jaafar looked offended.
"I don't; it’s just a game."
"WHO MOVED MY MONEY?"
Jermajesty started laughing so hard he nearly fell out of his chair.
"Nobody stole your fake money."
"It's the principle!"
Production:
"Jaafar, it's Monopoly."
"And?"
Production:
"It's fake."
"So are your ratings."
— —
CONFESSIONAL
Jaafar:
"I don't have anger issues."
"I'm just passionate, just like my uncle."
— — —
Michael and Jermaine had moved over to dominoes.
Marlon:
"Oh, they're cheating already."
Michael:
"I'm not cheating."
Jermaine:
"Neither am I."
Janet:
"Those two smile when they cheat."
Everybody nodded.
Jermajesty stared.
"I knew Uncle Michael was cheating because of the smile."
Michael froze.
"What smile?"
"The smile."
"What smile?"
"The smile you do when you're guilty."
"I don't have a smile."
"You literally smiled while saying that."
— —
CONFESSIONAL
Michael:
"I didn't cheat."
Production:
"We have footage."
Michael:
"No, you don't."
Production:
"Michael."
Michael:
"Delete it."
Production:
"We're not deleting it."
"Traitor."
Janet had somehow won again.
Randy:
"I've never seen her lose."
Marlon:
"I don't think she can."
Production:
"Does she cheat?"
Everybody immediately became serious.
"No."
"No."
"Absolutely not."
"We wanna live."
Janet just smiled.
"What are y'all whispering about?"
Everybody:
"Nothing."
— —
Later in the evening, Uno started.
And that's when everything went downhill.
Jaafar hit Jermajesty with a Draw Four.
Jermajesty stood up.
"THAT'S PERSONAL."
"It's Uno."
"You've crossed a line."
Michael had somehow accumulated seventeen cards.
Jermaine had four.
Janet had one.
And then Michael smiled.
Everybody froze.
"No."
"No."
"No."
"Don't do it."
Michael:
"What?"
"The smile."
Production:
"Michael…"
He slowly placed down a Draw Four.
Janet screamed.
"MICHAEL!"
Production realized nobody had noticed the camera they'd left in the kitchen.
And that would become the funniest moment of the entire episode.
— — — —
Nobody knew production had left one of the cameras running in the kitchen.
Nobody.
Which was exactly how production liked it.
The game night had calmed down.
People were wandering around.
Some were getting drinks.
Others were arguing about whether Michael cheated or not.
Jermajesty was leaning against the counter, eating leftover chips.
You sat beside him.
Production's hidden camera recorded everything.
Jermajesty looked around.
"Okay."
He lowered his voice.
"Don't tell anybody."
You immediately started laughing.
"That sentence has never ended well."
"No, seriously."
He pointed.
"Auntie Janet told me not to tell anybody."
You covered your face.
"Oh, Lord."
"But…"
He smiled.
And then whispered the absolute juiciest piece of gossip you'd heard all year. (What do you think it was)
You nearly choked.
"WHAT?!"
"I KNOW!"
"Jer!"
"I know!"
"No!"
"Yes!"
"No!"
Jermajesty laughed.
"I wasn't supposed to tell anybody."
"THEN WHY DID YOU?!"
"Because I love mess."
"You ARE mess!"
"I know."
You started laughing.
"You're terrible."
"And you married me."
"I ask myself why every day."
"You love me."
"Unfortunately."
Both of you burst out laughing.
Then…
Jermajesty froze.
His smile disappeared.
He pointed.
You turned around.
Silence.
The camera.
Still recording.
Long.
Painful.
Silence.
Jermajesty:
"Oh, shit."
You:
"Oh, shit."
Jermajesty:
"OH, SHIT."
— —
CONFESSIONAL
Production:
"So, Jermajesty…"
"No."
"We haven't even asked the question."
"No."
"Did Auntie Janet really…"
"No."
"You know we have footage, right?"
"No."
"Jer…"
"I DON'T RECALL."
Production:
"Your memory disappeared?"
"Exactly."
"Convenient."
"Thank you, God bless you."
— —
CONFESSIONAL
You:
"Whatever y'all think he told me…"
"You probably don't know."
"And no, I'm not telling y'all either."
"Because unlike somebody…"
You stared directly into the camera.
"I can keep my mouth shut."
— —
CONFESSIONAL
Jermajesty:
"Okay, but technically…"
"Nobody specified HOW long I was supposed to keep the secret."
Production:
"Janet said don't tell anybody."
"And I didn't."
"You did."
"I told my wife."
"That's different."
Production:
"No, it isn't."
"It is in my heart."
— —
Janet suddenly stopped and looked around suspiciously.
"I don't know why…"
"But I feel like somebody's been running their mouth."
Around midnight, the house finally began to quiet down.
The Monopoly board was still sitting on the table.
Dominoes everywhere.
Empty chip bags.
Random cups.
Bodies everywhere.
Marlon was asleep on the couch.
Randy somehow ended up asleep on the floor.
Jermaine had fallen asleep sitting up.
Mama Katherine was peacefully asleep in her chair.
Janet had an entire blanket for herself.
Michael had somehow stolen half of it.
And nobody had the energy to fight him.
Everybody had ended up tangled together.
Paris was asleep against Janet.
Bigi was asleep with a book still on his chest.
Prince's son was sprawled across Michael.
Michael was snoring.
Still holding the remote.
Jermajesty was asleep on your shoulder.
His hand still holding yours.
Jaafar had somehow ended up asleep upside down.
Production:
"...How?"
Nobody knew.
Not even Jaafar.
Michael suddenly opened one eye.
Still half asleep.
"Did we win?"
Production:
"Win what?"
Michael:
"I don't know."
And immediately fell back asleep.
— —
CONFESSIONAL
Production:
"So, Jermajesty…"
Jermajesty was already asleep in the confessional chair.
Production:
"...Never mind."
— —
CONFESSIONAL
Jaafar:
"Family game night was great."
"I'm still mad about Uno."
— —
CONFESSIONAL
Janet:
"Michael cheated."
Production:
"At what?"
"Everything."
Production:
"Everything?"
"Everything."
"And I know Jermajesty opened his mouth."
"That boy cannot keep secrets."
— — —
CONFESSIONAL
“So what did you think ?”
"Honestly…"
"I wouldn't trade this for anything."
"They drive me crazy."
"They embarrass me."
"They stress me out."
You smiled.
"But I love them."
"They all love each other too."
— — AFTER THE EPISODE AIRED — —
@ moonwalkermj95
jermajesty exposing Janet's secret and then panicking when he realized the cameras caught it absolutely took me OUT
@ user28173
why was Jafaar upside down 😭😭
@ janetsvelvetrope
janet is such a baddie
@ free_tito
I forgot what I was gonna say anyway @ michaeljackson I'm hungry
@ michaeljackson
What the fuck you want me to do ??
@ michaeljacksonismyman
i need episode 2 IMMEDIATELY
@ dangerouslover
renew this for 50 seasons right now
@ rememberthetime_
episode 2 when???
@ applehead4life
this family is genuinely ridiculous and i love them
Tag list : @cocomilaa @blcknebula @stiflersbabymama @callmeoncette @needjoekeery @nuttyrebelflower @1eliana123-blog @ladyearthsea @rastharex @darkgreengrl @bananajoeclone @violet0182 @minghaossv @melynex @thebabykashmere @ghoulxeg @simply-lovley44
𝓼𝚢𝚗𝚘𝚙𝚜𝚒𝚜 ⭑ almost 4 years have passed since your band's debut at the Grammys, and the press has always taken a chance to take a dig at you ever since the infamous barbara walters interview. but when an attempted conversation with michael jackson leads to hurt feelings, the both of you are forced to look at each other in a different light. or, in which you and the king of pop find out you have more in common than you'd like to admit. 7.2k words ( part i here!
𝓰𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎 ⭑ angst angst ANGST to comfort. some fluff if you squint hard enough.
𝓬𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜 ⭑ pyromaniac!reader. reader is a troubled kid. mentions of child abuse, political unrest & xenophobia. black-coded!descriptions (reader is called 'dirty', implied to be an immigrant). timeline innaccuracies (just pls pretend he was in schwerin in october '92). michael is lowkey jealous of you. — inspo tracks: mein herz brennt (piano version) by rammstein 𓂅 diamant by rammstein
𝒕𝚊𝚐𝚜 ⭑ @softformj @nata-de-coconuts
When the band first came crashing the pop music party of the 80s with your industrial debut project, it had opened doors you didn't even know existed for the six of you. Of course, you knew it'd be hard. You'd have to deal with sleazy record labels who wanted to water you down, bad faith critics who looked into your songs too deeply and parents condemning your antics, but it was all worth to see the millions of people who saw past your abnormal behavior and infernal addiction and saw the true stars you all were. But the day of that interview in '88 changed something. Both in you and the public's perception of LIFAD. Nobody saw the band as its own entity with interests and unique ways of doing art. They all started to see you as a laughing stock, a punching bag for artists as to what not to do. The five got a jab here and there. But you? Oh, you got it worse than any of them.
It started off tamely at first. A headline here, a badly edited photo there. But what initially began as friendly fire with you clapping back with satirical statements and provocative poses amalgamated into something meaner. Brutal. Words started cutting deeper than usual. Journalists went out of their way to find you in public and embarrass you in private behind their writing. The public shamed you and pointed their fingers as they mocked your tendencies. All of a sudden everybody started turning up their noses and nobody wanted anything to do with you.
And it was all thanks to Michael fucking Jackson.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
"Mein Gott¹, they're really going in on you." Karl exclaimed. Your house smelled faintly of Radler and the carbonated scent of beer already going flat and warm after hours of being untouched. You had just finished recording the last song on your upcoming second studio album and you were all exhausted. Karl's words made you close your eyes in an effort to mentally hit the pause button and prepared yourself for the circus that was gossip and outlandish rumors.
"What is it this time?" You asked, bored out of your mind. Karl handed you the newspaper. Big, bolded letters caught your attention as you read the header out loud.
The caption was neatly placed over a photo of you while on your supporting tour. You wore a wide smile with your tongue out (oh come on! You didn't even smile that wide!), your eyes wide with makeshift insanity as fire shone brightly behind you. The fire retardant on your face and body defined the muscles under your skin, highlighting the scars on your chest and shoulders. And did they lighten your skin? You let out a bitter laugh. It's been 4 years. 4 years since you found out what most of the music industry thought of you. And apparently the world wouldn't let you hear the end of it. The room was uncomfortably silent. Fritz was the first to speak, although even he couldn't seem to find the proper words to describe the low-blow.
"Fuckkkkkkk." he slurred.
Your eye twitched. Then in an action of impulse, you ripped up the paper to pieces and threw them in the nearby fireplace, your eyes reflecting the heat of the blaze as you watched the journal incinerate itself to mere ash. The fire ate up the paper like a greedy dog starved for days.
"Y'know," Emmett started, feeling the tension in the room. "I'm surprised they've been going on for this long."
The rest hummed in agreement. You, however, knew exactly what he was referring to. The interview with Barbara. Since then, you've started doubting yourself and what your band mates, what everybody, thought of you. Did they really see you as this genius writer, the child of local poets who knew how to use language to evoke emotion? Or did they see you as what everybody else saw: a fire-obsessed freak who loved drowning in controversy and scarring themselves for masochism's sake? You used to believe you knew the answer. But now? Your mind started to question whether you ever truly possessed what it took to make it here. You groaned loudly. "That's the tenth one in, what, three months?"
The rest shrugged. Walter yawned, then chimed in: "At this rate, I don't know what they'll eat up more. You or the album when it drops."
Everyone laughed at his words as they took swigs of beer. That brought the mood up a bit. "Alright," you said, getting up and clapping your hands twice.
"Who's up for currywurst²?"
Cheers filled the room.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
AUGUST 1992, NEVERLAND RANCH
5 months later, and LIFAD's album had finally released to the public. Being the biggest thing in metal since Megadeth, the public was itching to hear your work again. And sure enough, when Streichholz made its way to the radio, they ate it up. Sure, there was the classic SCARS & GUITARS!!! headline that made its way through all the praise. But with hits like Keine Lust and Weit weg, teens and stressed out college students were blasting it all over the country, moshing and headbanging to the sound of cymbals and guitar dirt. That was enough for them.
But it still wasn't enough for Michael Jackson to understand just what people liked about you.
Sitting in his living room, papers scattered across the wooden floor, a bored look on his face. Dangerous had come out 2 years prior, and even though it reached number one on the charts and received unanimous praise for its artistic reinvention, it still wasn't enough to satisfy him. The biggest star in the world, and yet, he had no reason as to why his mind was still bothering him, or any idea what would come afterwards. Shocker. Scrolling random channels on the big screen TV, he stopped when he caught a glimpse of a close-up of your face during a TV show performance. He tried telling himself it was out of boredom. Although the way his body began to sway to the music told a different story.
The stage was scarce, and to his surprise, there was only three people: you, Emmett and Fritz. He must've been dreaming, because there was no distortion, headbanging, inferno or screaming for the entirety of the performance. The three of you simply sat on bar stools, the acoustic chords of what sounded like one of your recently released hits serenading the set you were in. Emmett and Fritz, the former on the piano and the latter on strings, occasionally came in with harmonies, complimenting your deep, gruff-like vocals.
Du bist schön wie ein Diamant
Michael felt the way he did back 4 years prior, at the Grammys. Like you put a spell on him and he couldn't look away. But this was different. It sounded…surprising? No sky-high belts like the ones on Stein um Stein, no earthquake-causing lows like the ones from Du hast.
Schön anzusehen wie ein Diamant, Doch bitte lass mich gehen
Your voice sounded surprisingly nice (so you could sing!); not screeching, yelling or off-key like back then. You sounded soft here. Almost like you were begging for something. Your voice cracked a bit, but it felt fitting. Like you had never stopped pleading. Like you were crying for someone to stop.
Welche Kraft, was für ein Schein
Michael's eyes began to sting and it was then that he realized he'd forgotten to blink, his eyes providing tears to combat the gritty, dry visual environment he'd accidentally caused for his vision. Huh, he thought. Who'd have thought a hyperactive twenty-something year old (now pushing thirty), known more for their incendiarism and vulgarity towards the tabloids than actual work, would have him so captivated he'd forget basic human functions.
Wunderschön wie ein Diamant, Doch nur ein Stein
Your voice slowed down, signaling the end of the track as your vocal folds produced one long, deepened note to finish off your performance. The crowd thunderously applauded , as you, Emmett and Fritz got up and took a bow. The host came forward and shook your hand. Michael noticed your face. You looked dazed, as if you were in a completely different world than where you were now. "Wow!" the host praised. "What a performance!"
You smiled shyly. "Thank you." you said, a twinge of northern German dialect slipping through.
For a person with a deep, booming voice capable of commanding heaven and hell, you were surprisingly quiet. Michael had also noticed your English had gotten better since—since…
Oh God, not again.
Michael cradled his head in his hands as he was hit with the memory of seeing you on TV back in '88, witnessing silently as Barbara humiliated you live in front of not only the rest of the band, but thousands as they watched you watch him grimace at the sight of your impulsiveness on stage back at the Grammys. He remembers it all too well. Your laugh. Your face. God, that look on your face. It haunted him. It was the look he more often than not had on his face when he was younger, dissociating as his father insulted his face and made him the scapegoat for everybody's insecurities. His once 'too big' nose, making theirs look small and narrow, their extroversion standing astride his shyness. Your behavior afterwards made him feel worse, as you barely spoke more than a sentence and tried to power through the interview, almost like you no longer wanted to be there. Rubbing the back of your neck, eyes darting to your lap, awkwardly laughing and fiddling at the ends of your sleeves… He'd seen it all and done it all. He should've felt some way. You never took yourself seriously, after all. The infernal circus everybody called the 'performance of the night' 5 years ago was nothing but a joke. Michael Jackson, the singing sensation who'd held the record for most albums sold worldwide, who'd been in the business since before double digits, managed to have what was widely considered one of the best performances in Grammy history, outshined by a pyromaniac's wettest dream. A frontperson in their early twenties stole the show in '88's New York City and all they did was slap their leg till it stained purple-blue and nearly burn the building down. LIFAD's talk with Barbara ought to have satisfied him. All that verbal fighting with the press made your head big; Barbara just did what you deserved: she knocked you down a peg and brought you back down to Earth. Your face would have made him chuckle.
But it didn't and instead it dug a deep, dark, nasty pit in his stomach. Because he was the reason behind your shutdown. Because behind all the middle fingers to the press, infernal blazes and leg-hammering, you, the face of the first German band ever to win Best New Artist; seemed to be genuinely upset that the Michael Jackson didn't like you or your music. Michael shook his head, wiping the memory from his immediate conscience and fixed his attention back to the screen, where the host asked you a question.
"So, I think you know what everybody here wants to know." he said. You simply laughed, bringing your hands together in one soft clap. The host continued, oblivious to your nervosity. "Back in '88, you shocked America with your explosive Grammy debut."
"Yes, that's right." you said.
"The entire world commended your showmanship, and those effects! Nothing short of amazing!"
"Thank you!"
The host then sported a devilish smile, his clean suit & tie failing to hide his ulterior motives. "Unfortunately, however, not everyone was impressed… and you later found out Michael Jackson didn't seem to share similar feelings."
Your smile slightly fell and you squeezed Fritz's hand, already knowing what came next.
Back at Neverland, meanwhile, Michael rolled his eyes and sighed loudly.
"What do you have to say about that?"
Oohs and giggles meant to tease filled the room as everybody's eyes were laid on you, eagerly awaiting your answer. But time had stopped for you. Ringing began to fill your ears as you tried your best to keep your composure.
Again with this nonsense?, you thought, your mind racing to come up with any statement. An excuse, a lie, a stupid joke, just…anything. Luckily for you, Emmett saved the three of you. His accent dripped from his English like a viscous liquid.
"I'd say he shouldn't knock it till he tries it." he smirked.
A unanimous laugh came from the live audience. The host let out a chuckle with a sleazy grin. "To be fair, you do invite the scrutiny a bit." He laughed. "With your crazy pyromania and scary voice, who wouldn't be put off?"
Now what did that mean?
You silenced the smart ass in you and replied politely. "Well, it is a nice change of pace."
The host's grin was too wide to show good faith. "An artist in denial! Well folks, we all know how this one ends." He sneakily said as the audience laughed out loud. You visibly flinched, your eyes downcast to the stage. You really did want to say something back. But years of mouthing off to the press left you with the lesson that some things were better left in the deep crevices of your mind.
Ouch.
"Anyways, LIFAD's long awaited second album, Streichholz is out now! Give it up one more time for them everybody!"
The crowd gave one last cheer before sending you off as the three of you all waved goodbye before walking off the stage.
Michael rubbed his temple. He really hadn't meant to make you suffer. But what did he expect? He, of all people should have known the press would have a field day with that clip of his reaction. He was Michael Jackson, how could be possibly think he had a chance of escaping that? Although he hadn't said anything explicit, he'd completely undermined your achievements. He'd done the exact same thing Joseph would do when he was younger, rarely ever praising the good while overexposing the flaws and mistakes during shows.
Tired from the dread of his mind making him stay up late, Michael sighed before turning the TV off.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
OCTOBER 1992, SCHWERIN, GERMANY
"LIFAD! LIFAD! LIFAD!"
The adrenaline was racing through your veins, like a car on an F1 race track at maximum speed. A raucous crowd of over 85 thousand people stood in front of you, jumping and screaming for an encore as they chanted your name as you did forward arm circles, your pyro wristbands shooting out sparks and fireworks as you sang.
Your band was headlining a festival, one that celebrated the two-year reunification of Germany. Asche zu Asche, Feuer frei!, Ich Will—whatever you played, the crowd knew every word by heart. It was surreal, to be frank. Even you, who came from a small house in the North, to unexpected heights of worldwide stardom, could feel the happiness of the public mass. Thousands with their hands up, losing their minds to the energetic riffs and drums as they sang along to the music in unison, too hyped to care about their surroundings. Eventually, after 10 songs, and what felt like an eternity, you bidded your farewells to the crowd, laughing and cooing at them as they awww'd at the announcement of your departure. The six of you all held hands then bowed.
"Vielen Dank, meine Lieben!"³
Backstage, you quickly made your way to your dressing room. Sitting in the nearby chair, you quickly made good use of the nearby makeup remover wipes, erasing the drying fire retardant that already began to irritate your eyes due to the sweat. It wasn't long before you heard the door open, a soft, whispery tone taking you out of your concentration.
"What are you doing in here?"
Shit.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Michael walked around the backstage of the festival, doing vocal warmups & exercises as he waited for his set time slot, wearing that iconic gold leotard. The booming, earth-rattling screams of the crowd making his chest rattle. Things made sense once he realized that your infamous band was playing. His eyes nearly rolled to the back of his head when he was informed.
Even now, you both still managed to find each other.
Of course the crowd was loud. The noise you proudly called your music had the crowd in a daze, almost like you were controlling them. You weren't even singing (you were talking musically, he'd like to say), yet the crowd knew your every word, chanting the chorus to your biggest hits as you commanded them to sing along. That kind of crowd control was insane, even by his standards. Despite being a rookie in the business, your charisma's ability to hypnotize the crowd was something to be commended. Nevermind your vulgar tongue, chaotic demeanor, arsonist tendencies and screaming voice, the crowd seemed to love you regardless. A life that Michael Jackson, the king of pop, wouldn't dare even dream of. His image needed to be pristine. Like the little boy who made a splash back in '69 with his voice that could incite a romantic craze in women and girls.
Michael started to feel a hot bubbling start to merge within his body. The cheering crowd began to sound like a unanimous, annoying shriek. He started getting heated. LIFAD, coming onto the scene out of nowhere, leaving wherever they arrived a blazing trail of mosh pits and the scent of singed hair, made him heated. You were completely free from the clutches of any higher power who hid marketability behind champagne flutes and smiley handshakes. Out of control, he thought. Too impulsive. Why you?, he thought. Just what made you so special? Where did you get it? How come they left you to your own devices—whatever that even meant anymore—right out the gate—like it made complete sense? It was one thing to be completely careless to the art he loved so much.
But this? To take gunpowder and bring the underworld to Earth; to say what you wanted, when you wanted, how you wanted—made his jealousy rise in a way even he hadn't anticipated. Freedom and the right to enact one's free will didn't belong to you. It didn't belong to somebody who didn't care about the quality of their work, who didn't even know what it's like to be thrown in a cage and told you were free and that the cold, dark and damp feeling of iron bars didn't exist, and probably never would. Who'd never feel the hot stinging and nearly invisible welts from Joseph's belt—receiving adult beatings as a child and of a child as an adult simply because his pubescent voice cracked on one note. And the more his mind ate away at him, the more the dreaded feeling of incompetence consumed him.
And Michael Jackson wasn't incompetent.
He decided to power walk back to his dressing room. It wouldn't be long before they called him to the stage. So he walked, to counter the vehemence of his psyche caused by your cluelessness at how you fueled his envy. Everything was suddenly too loud. Too noisy. Shaky, even. His breathing, uneven, went against against his instincts as he fought to get it back under his control in time. His ears started to ring. And it was then and there that he noticed his dressing room door. Slightly opened. Creaking the door open, his eyes widened as he scanned the figure in his chair. Using his makeup wipes.
"What are you doing in here?"
The question came out faster than he could catch it. You jumped, slowly turning your head to face him, still holding one of the thin, wet cloths to your cheek. Sensing your embarrassment, he pointed one of his taped fingers to the door.
"I think you're in the wrong place…"
You quickly stood up, dusting yourself off and throwing away any used wipes.
"Oh, sorry! I just entered the first room I saw. I didn't care to check any names…" you trailed off. Michael thought you were trying to lighten the mood.
"Are you…okay? Your breathing's all wrong."
You were right. His breath was still uneven. And your face made his heart sting and sharpened his mouth. Because you were oblivious to his self-consuming self-esteem. He felt like a child. Not in the cute, adorable way that weirded everybody out. But the one everyone looked down at in pity, with nothing but words of encouragement and condolence and no action. So when you mentioned something so inconspicuous, so small, it felt like somebody pulled back the curtain, leaving him naked and exposed for them to examine. It made him feel sick. His voice was sharper, all of a sudden. Like knives cutting through.
"I'm fine."
You recoiled at the sudden change in his tone. And he noticed the slight reflex.
Please stop looking at me like that.
"Um, alright. I was just wondering if you—"
"I'm fine." Michael interrupted you. The venom lacing his voice was fully taking effect. "I'll be okay. "
You deadpanned. Liar. "Riiiiiiight…" you dragged out. "Because no one's ever barged in their dressing room on the brink of a damn panic attack."
Another stab. Michael didn't like that—that you could tell what was going on with him. He snapped. "You don't have a clue what's going with me."
"And you do?" you asked.
"Could you just leave, please?" he asked back. He was practically begging you at this point. You raised your hands to your chest in surrender.
"Alright, alright… I was just trying to help." you muttered.
I heard that.
"Help? What were you going to do? Set the stage on fire and scream with that noise you call music?" Michael's heart raced. He hadn't meant to say that out loud. But he saw the hurt in your face. And your confused mixed in with your devastation pained him even more. But at this point, the angry heat he held in his body was doing all the talking.
You, however, just needed to get the final word in. "You don't know what you're talking about. You don't know anything."
"No need to have seen a trainwreck to know what it looks like. And I'm looking at one right now."
You recoiled in shame. Because what he said was half-true. You were a pyromaniac. You were an uncontrollable, walking matchstick who couldn't keep their mouth shut. All the tabloids did was show everyone just how severely untamed and wild you were. No use in convincing anyone any differently. The damage was already done. No wonder he hated your guts. Tears threatened to brim your eyes as you blinked them away. You subconsciously held your shoulders together, covering your scars as you contained yourself, like oxygen fire on the verge of spreading any further. You were trying to change. Trying so hard. Michael must've secretly known too, because he stopped talking and let the loud silence say what it wanted.
No wonder Michael hated your guts. You hated them too. Probably more than anybody else. "I'm gonna leave now." you said. You wasted no time in waiting for an answer. You made your way out, walking faster than normal. Michael wanted to go after you. He cursed himself out for keeping his feelings to himself.
He'd hurt you again.
He was about to make his way to find you, when suddenly: "Michael! You're on in 3!"
Sighing his feelings away, he closed the door behind him and made his way to the stage, pushing the last few moments and that dark, ugly resentment back deep down. Exactly where it should've been. Michael, with his breathing now even, got ready to perform.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
As for you, you made it back to your dressing room (your actual one), opening the door to be greeted with the five LIFAD instrumentalists drinking beer and eating to their hearts' content. Sylvester noticed you first.
"Where the hell have you been?"
You put on a brave face, not wanting to sour the mood with the anecdote of the petty fight that just went down.
"A walk. I needed some fresh air after the show."
Fritz immediately noticed your discomfort. He might've been wasted, drunk off his ass, but he'd spent enough time with you to know your habits when something was wrong. But for your sake, he didn't press further. "Well then, join us!" he shouted, drunkenly laughing. "You're lucky we love you, otherwise we'd have downed all the Schnapps!"
You jokingly gasped. "You wouldn't!"
The laughter that ensued made you feel warm again. You came in as you cracked open a bottle of the liquor, joking and singing along to folk songs as the hours passed.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
JANUARY 1993, AMERICAN MUSIC AWARDS
The cold winter of '92 came and went and along with it arrived the early year award season. Streichholz successfully got the attention of the masses again, and was, once again, nominated for over 3 awards (Best Heavy Metal/Hard Rock Song, Album & New Artist). But despite all of the accolades and the acclaim you'd received, you never stopped thinking about your encounter with Michael. To be specific, your first encounter with the man. Everybody had nothing but good things to say about him; how compassionate, generous, hard-working and understanding he was. It left you wondering if you did something wrong. Why you were the only one he seemed to coldly brush off like an unpleasant stench. You were ready to apologize for what you'd done to offend him (whatever the fuck that meant) and let bad feelings go. But you were incapable of not internalizing his words. Those words that made it absolutely clear that he wanted nothing to do with you.
"No need to have seen a trainwreck to know what it looks like. And I'm looking at one right now."
Is that what you were? Truly? Your mood never recovered since that day. Sitting in the black limo, you looked out to the night skyline. You did everything the same, though. Got drunk, laughed boisterously, trolled the tabloids again, but it no longer felt like you were doing it for fun. It felt…dehumanizing. Like a mask sewn to your face you couldn't take off, lest its threads tear your skin apart.
"..? Hey, you there?"
Karl's voice took you out of your own thoughts. The rest of the band looked at you, faces of concern painted across their faces. You recomposed yourself and laughed, reassuring the rest that you were still there.
"You sure? You've been out of it since we left." Sylvester noted. The 5 hummed in agreement.
shitshitshitshit. Was is that obvious?
"Just thinking about the performance." you nervously laughed.
Karl ohhhh'd at the reply. "Still can't believe you decided on that. You sure you're gonna be okay with being the center of attention?"
Emmett chimed in. "I still remember how the label reacted when you said you weren't gonna do any pyro. Their eyes nearly bulged out." he laughed.
You rolled your eyes. "It's something I've been thinking of for a while. We've been going fast and heavy since we started, we deserve to slow down for a bit, no?"
"By dressing up as the Sandmann⁴?"
You all laughed out loud. It was a weird idea, yes. But the idea filled you with childhood nostalgia. You remember just how tired you would be after watching Unser Sandmännchen⁵ when you were younger. 7pm, on the dot, to be exact. Recently you'd started watching it again. You chuckled at the image in your head of you—the obscene frontperson of LIFAD—sitting down in your house, watching a stop-motion show meant for children as your eyes never looked away from the screen. The limo stopped, and you all came out of the vehicle, the flashing lights of paparazzi cameras reflecting your silver futuristic themed wear (you were all matching this time!) as you posed for group photos. Before you made your way to your seats, Fritz held you back, whispering in your ear.
"I don't know what's going on with you, but you're gonna kill it. We trust you."
That made you feel better. They trusted you. You held your head high, the extra reassurance boosting your confidence.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
A few hours passed and awards were given, and before you knew it, it was your turn to close the show. Again. Slowly, you made your way to the stage. Dressed in a shapeless black dress and what could possibly be mistaken for corpse paint, you stood on the stage, waiting for the curtain to raise. Emmett was on the piano not far behind you.
Slowly but surely, your time came close as the host announced your performance.
"And finally, performing their smash hit, Mein Herz Brennt, from the eastern corner of Germany, please give a warm welcome to LIFAD!"
The curtain raised, and with your still sore heart, you poured your all.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Michael didn't know what to expect. That day had haunted him ever since, more than the Barbara interview even. He'd tried searching for you; appearing at events in same areas, asking those who knew you where you'd be popping up next. But you always eluded him, almost like you didn't want to see him again. Michael was sure the bad blood would be permanent, he wanted to make it up to you. So when LIFAD was announced to perform at the American Music Awards, he found an excuse to show up. Sure, Dangerous was nominated (and won), but he wanted to see you. He had so much to tell you.
The curtain raised. Michael's brows furrowed as a light shone from the floor, exposing your creepily painted face, holding your hands together as if you were praying. The dress (could you even call it that..?) didn't help his confusion much. A pianist he recognized as your bassist started to play. Your head turned, looking around the stage, as you then set your eyes on the audience. Your face, hard, contrasted your soft voice, telling a story much rather than singing.
Nun, liebe Kinder, gebt fein Acht
This is different, Michael thought. There wasn't any pyro to be seen anywhere. No flashy lights, other than the one illuminating your shadow from below. The soft pluck!, pluck! of the piano, although feeling out of place, strangely complimented your vocals. It was dark. Deep. Some might even say you were doing a ritual.
Ich bin die Stimme aus dem Kissen
You flailed your hands around your forearms, pointing to the veins inside. Your hair, stringy from the sweat, stuck to your forehead.
Ich singe bis der Tag erwacht
You looked up to the ceiling. Your voice was much louder than before. You gestured to your heart, almost like you were trying to get something out of you, as if you wanted to rip out and expose the beating, red muscle that abided in your chest.
Ein heller Schein am Firmament, mein Herz brennt
You belted the lyric out as you gave a crooked smile, one that weirded out the crowd. Murmurs wafted through Michael's ears as he stared at your face, like you were in slow motion. The hairs on his neck stood and he felt chills run down his spine. Your eyes. Eyes that witnessed every kind of evil that befell the world around you. Despite showing rows of teeth, your eyes were filled with sadness. Sadness that lamented your loneliness. Sadness that, despite its own grieving heart, tried to imitate happiness it, simply put, couldn't understand. That smile disturbed him more than he wanted to accept.
Because under all that makeup, fire and obscenity, you and him were alike.
Mein Herz brennt!
You were both tortured souls, moving but always hiding, awake and never resting. Not even for a moment. Two beating, asynchronous hearts that ached, burned for kindness and rest. And in spite of the isolation and immeasurable anguish, you both did your jobs. And even if he had learned to hide it from scrutiny and morbid curiosity, your loneliness blessed you with a terrifying visage, scaring and warding away the very people you loved. The pyromania. The vulgarity. It was all there. A pang of guilt struck his chest. Is this what you've been carrying all this while? The burden of solitude? A burden that he added more weight to?
Mein Herz brennt!
The piano got heavier, louder whilst you finished your performance.
Mein Herz brennt, ja!
You screamed out the last word, making your way off stage.
Mein Herz brennt…
The piano had one last sad hurrah as they sent you off. The light below where you were once standing began to dim as a line of smoke escaped and traveled upwards. The bassist played the final note. You were finally gone. The crowd was silent at first. Then a clap. Then another. And what started as scattered applause ended in united acclaim as the guests clapped. Michael couldn't be helped. So putting his two hands together, he did the same.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
I'm never doing that again, you thought.
Singing in an operatic manner, with that getup? What were you thinking? Nobody was going to get the reference anyway. Sitting in your dressing room, you ripped off the arm warmers, almost as if they were contaminating you, as you rubbed your eyes, dragging your hands over your face. As if the whole world didn't already see you as a joke, you just had to dress up as the nightmarish eye-stealer version of Sandmann you knew from your childhood, decked in the shittiest makeup known to mankind. What were you planning on doing exactly? To throw rheum and grit in their eyes and make them go to sleep with goodie dreams and pluck out the eyes of the ones who didn't follow? You gripped the roots of your hair tightly as you tried to calm your racing mind.
why would you do that why would you do that you stupid son of a bitch nobody takes you seriously are you trying to make yourself look more like an idiot stupid the press is going to eat all of us alive and nobodys gonna want to work with us anymore youve ruined everything stupidstupidstupid—
A banging on the door interrupted your spiraling. Then it flew wide open as the rest of your band ran in, shouting and ranting incoherently with wide grins on their faces.
"What the hell was that? That was amazing!"
"That's it. We're all going out and I'm paying."
"You killed it out there!"
"Now that's our lead singer!"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" You held your hands up. "One at a fucking time, please?"
The screaming stopped. Walter was the first to speak up.
"Performance of the night."
The rest hummed in agreement, nodding their heads.
"You did so well! We're so proud of you." Karl added.
"The emotion was there." Sylvester said. "And that smile? Ten out of ten."
Your face got hotter with each compliment. "Uh…"
"We knew you could do it." Fritz said, a knowing smile on his face.
"Yeah," you dumbly replied. "Guess I was worrying over nothing."
Just as you were talking with your band mates, Emmett frantically came in through the door. He had an unknown expression on his face.
"Emmett? Where have you been?"
"Sorry, I meant to be here earlier," He apologized. "But this person wouldn't stop hounding me until I told you where you were."
Your brows furrowed. Who could that have been? "Can't it wait?"
Emmett shook his head vigorously. "He insisted I bring him with me."
"Who is it anyway?"
Emmett simply opened the door wider. The room fell into shocked silence as they set their eyes upon a familiar (well, not really familiar to be frank. But they'd seen him on TV) face. Fritz looked at you, whose eyes were wide and breath was picking up. There, in all his glory, was Michael Jackson. His behavior now contrasted the one he had during his performance. On stage? Confident and charismatic were his middle names.
But here? In front of you no less?
He was much…quieter. Not quiet as in not talking (although that too), but quieter as in he tried to take up as little space as possible. Shy. Small even. The 5 LIFAD members sensed the tension between you and the dancer. Sharing unspoken looks with each other, they one by one left the dressing room.
"We'll…leave you guys to talk." Emmett trailed off. He didn't want to be there for the inevitable explosion that was to come.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Michael could feel his heart thumping in his throat. Any longer and he might've coughed it out like phlegm. You were there. That's what he wanted, right? You were there. You were there sitting down in that formless black dress and he didn't have anything prepared to tell you.
Just talk. Talk!
You broke the silence.
"Can I help you, Mr. Jackson..?"
Mr. Jackson. The level of formality dimmed the light of possibly making amends with you in his being. All he had to say was sorry. So why was it that no sound came from his mouth, despite it being open? His throat produced a small sound of vocal fry.
You frowned. "If you have nothing to do here, could you close the door on your way out? I have pl—"
"Wait!"
A beat.
"Uh… Nice performance."
You didn't look amused. Your face itself spoke volumes. Seriously?, it said. Michael felt his hands getting clammy and started sweating. The man, who could perform in front of over 70 thousand people, over screaming heads and fainting bodies, couldn't find anything else to say other than 'nice performance'.
"Thank you." you blankly said.
"I liked the rendition. Main Herz brent, was it?"
You deadpanned. The second time you've seen each other face to face and he decides to greet you with that horrendous German.
"It's Mein Herz brennt." you said, emphasizing the R.
"Oh, sorry."
"Your German’s horrible."
He flinched. You were blunt.
"Oh, uh… I'll try harder next time."
You were clearly getting annoyed, Michael could tell.
"Out with it. Why are you here?"
Here goes nothing. Ignoring the pounding in his chest, he spoke again.
"I'm sorry."
You froze.
"What."
Michael repeated himself. "I said I'm sorry. I really am."
You scoffed. "Really? For what? For everybody all of a sudden changing their minds about me when they saw you make a face 5 years ago, or for insulting my music and calling me a fire obsessed trainwreck 3 months back? Tell me, Mr. Jackson, which one is it?"
Michael's mouth dried up. He didn't know what to say. You, however, laughed loudly, albeit not a genuine one. It was a laugh that was ripping at its seams trying to contain the anger within you. " Listen. I know I—"
You interrupted him, your rage boiling over. You couldn't hold it in.
"No, you listen. Do you have any idea how hard I had to fight my since that day for even a shred of credit? Do you know just how much of a hell on Earth my life, my friends' lives, have been for the past 5 years? All because you didn't like my music? 10 years of working my ass off making sure nobody around me knew about what I wanted to do because I might get beat up by the People's police, of being called dirty by other people threatening me with deportation simply because didn't I look like your typical 'German'. Of risking jail time protesting government censorship. And none of it matters because a man people look to as their God gave them permission to hate me. Never mind what the fuck they thought before. They watched one clip and suddenly thought they knew me and my life. Fritz and Karl can't go anywhere without people spitting at them because, obviously, the tabloids said they were in a relationship, so it must be true!" you said sarcastically. "Walter and Emmett have murmurs thrown at them all the time. Sylvester no longer laughs the way he used to. Now it's popular to hate LIFAD and it's all because of you."
Your tears were freely flowing, washing away the leftover makeup from your earlier set. Pain. Grief. 5 year old mental agony you'd kept bottled in and only let go in forms of complex displays of fire and smoke gave way. Michael watched and listened in horror and guilt as you told him the backlash of your debut performance; a moment in your life that you held in bad regard because of what he did. What he didn't say, and yet showed for the world to see. A bitter chuckle escaped your mouth.
"You know what the worst part of all of this is?" you asked. Michael gave way to silence. "I know you'll never understand. You'll say your sorrys and beg for forgiveness. Then you'll let me fight alone and refuse to stick your neck out and come clean publicly because you know the tabloids'll treat you worse."
Shit.
Michael felt transparent. Too transparent. You were right. Everything you said was correct. Everybody else had left him to fight for himself. Even when the press was calling him all sorts of names like Wacko Jacko, he'd been there to absorb the blow and heal and tank and heal so often that by the time he had the chance to catch a breath, it'd feel too long. Too soft. Too quiet. How could he refute your claims when he'd done the same thing to you? Threw you to the wolves and forced you to fend for your bandmates? For yourself? How, when he'd disapproved of being seen as an oddity, yet endorsed your smearing campaign without a second thought?
You were still crying. Michael didn't know how to deal with it. So he simply came closer and hugged you. Snot, mucus and tears stained his shoulder heavily. He didn't care. Tears brimmed his eyes at the sound of your cries and sniffling. He was so truly, truly sorry. But how could he make you believe that?
I'll call a conference next week, he told himself. Yes, he'd do right by you this time. He'd tell the whole truth. He'd apologize till his voice was sore. But now, he'd just let you cry. The outside world no longer mattered. Just two people lamenting the hurt they suffered and caused.
And your crying was long, bottomless to the point of never-ending void. Just long, dragged out sorrow caused by the other tortured, burning heart who'd unintentionally made your dream into a nightmare.
𑣲⋆（ 𝕯𝙴𝙼𝙴𝚃𝚁𝙸𝚄𝚂 ） omgomgomg im FINALLY done. this took me like 3-4 days to finish 😭 i rlly hope this pt2 was enough to satisfy you pookies <3 i wanted to explore a more... humane(??) part of michael, which includes his envy towards your freedom. there's also some little references to my favorite authors 😁. also, i'd highly recommend you listen to the songs i've listed in the intro when they call for it (idk nigga do it 4 ambiance or wtv). hope you enjoyed! :D
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋ 𝒊𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚎 — fic glossary.
¹ — mein gott : my god! 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ
² — currywurst : german dish consisting of sausage & curry ketchup. 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ
³ — vielen dank, meine lieben! : thank you so much, my dears! 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ
⁴ — sandmann : german folk character. 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ
⁵ — unser sandmännchen : german children's bedtime tv show. 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ
┊ ♡ ﹒ summary : what happens when someone who has spent his whole life controlled finally has to choose who gets authority over his future?
┊ ♡ ﹒ byi : heavy family conflict and emotional manipulation, discussions of abortion, public humiliation and loss of bodily autonomy, manhandling / being dragged against one's will, gendered power imbalance, generational trauma, intimidation, minor injuries and bleeding (scraped knees, bruising), hurt / comfort, literally j*e jackson being absolutely awful. **9k word count.
┊ ♡ ﹒ part two here!
“I don’t want you around my son.”
Joe points directly at (Name) when Michael opens the front door, his voice loud enough to carry across the driveway before anybody even fully processes what’s even happening.
Chilly air bites against her bare legs beneath the oversized shirt she’d thrown on half awake as morning light spills across the front steps and over the line of cars crammed unevenly outside the house. The engines are still running from how quickly everybody apparently left to get here. She instinctively tightens both hands around Michael’s bicep beside her, pressing herself closer against him while the men of the Jackson family crowd the doorway.
The boys all look they’ve been dragged out of their sleep.
Tito has a jacket thrown over what looks like his pajama pants, hair barely smoothed down while he keeps shooting worried glances between Joe and Michael. He’s already spent the entire drive over trying unsuccessfully to calm this situation before it escalated. Marlon looks uncomfortable as he stands off near the driveway, arms folded awkwardly across himself while he avoids looking directly at (Name) for too long, he’s visibly aware this has already gone way too far. Randy lingers closer to the cars rubbing sleep from his eyes every few seconds, still trying to gather himself because he quite literally got dragged out of REM. Jackie is larger than all of them, fully awake now out of necessity rather than his choice. He’s prepared to stop his father from switching this altercation from verbal to something physical, already on go.
Michael’s hand wraps tightly around the door knob, trying so hard to be brave. But he looks exhausted. Sweatpants thrown on crookedly, curls flattened unevenly from sleep, eyes heavy from being dragged awake too fast. But when Joe points toward (Name) again, something in his expression shifts.
“Josep—” Marlon attempts to speak.
“No,” Joe snaps, cutting directly over him without taking his eyes off her. “I told you all this was gonna happen.”
(Name)’s grip tightens harder around Michael’s arm and she can physically feel her pulse hammering in her throat now. Nobody’s yelling except Joe, but the front porch already feels like too much is happening. There’s many bodies, too much noise. Michael subtly shifts more in front of her without seeming fully conscious he’s doing it, blocking part of Joe’s line of sight while she stays tucked tightly against his side.
“She’s got you missing rehearsals now,” Joe continues, his eyes locking onto Michael’s. “Hour late already. People waiting on you while you up here playing house.”
“It’s still early,” Michael says quietly.
“It ain’t early when there’s work to do.”
Jackie steps a little closer while Tito mutters something low that sounds like “Joe, c’mon.” But Joe barely hears anything but himself and his own thoughts anymore. His attention keeps snapping back toward (Name).
And then he points at her again. “This right here is the problem.”
Michael speaks again but his voice leaves him before he even has time to think about it. And for one brief moment, he wishes it hadn’t. “Get your hand out’ve her face.”
The driveway goes completely still for half a second after he says it. Because Michael almost never speaks to Joe like that and realization settles over him very quickly.
He feels sick—so, so sick. He could vomit right now.
There are certain feelings adulthood never managed to kill. You can become famous, wealthy. You can become the most recognizable person in the world. and build kingdoms out of your talent alone. But then your father looks at you a particular way, and suddenly all of it feels like decoration. Suddenly you’re not a man standing in front of property you pay for your girlfriend to live in. You aren’t a provider. You’re his son again, a boy again. A little boy waiting to see what kind of mood his father is in before deciding what version of himself is allowed to exist that day because everything depended on it.
“Who you talking to, boy?”
The question makes him turn color. He’s spent his entire life knowing this exact question—the verbiage, the tone. It’s not meant to be answered, but to be reacted to. It’s a challenge, a warning and the reminder. The absolute demand to remember where he came from and who made him. Who’s in charge.
Michael hates that his heart is beating so hard. Hates that his palms feel warm. Hates that fear still comes before anger in his heart. Fear first. Always fear first. It embarrasses him in ways he can’t explain. Embarrasses him because he’s standing beside the woman he loves and is supposed to protect as the man in the relationship. It embarrasses him because his brothers are watching. Embarrasses him because some part of him thought he had outgrown this years ago but, deep down even he knew he’d never be able to escape this feeling.
Beside him (Name) feels the shift happen without fully understanding the nuances. She’s seen Michael sad, anxious. Seen him overwhelmed and collapsing into himself under pressure. But this feels different, older somehow. The fear isn't coming from the conversation they’re having now because it’s coming from hundreds of conversations that happened before she was ever in the picture. A hundred moments she wasn’t there to witness or protect him from. The awful history between a father and a son fills up the space around them until it feels impossible to breathe through.
“I said who you talking to?” The question isn’t really a question anymore, it’s an invitation. An opportunity to back down.
An opportunity to apologize and make this easy.
Michael knows that too. Become smaller, submit to his father’s intimidation and make things easy.
But he can feel (Name) beside him. He can feel her holding onto him and through her touch he can feel her fear. Thee choice becomes unbearable because backing down no longer belongs solely to him. If he shrinks now, he leaves her standing there alone and Joe gets to keep treating her like she’s a cancer to the family name instead of his person.
“I’m—I’m talking to you, Joseph..” His voice is quiet. Not brave in the slightest but it is honest. It’s the honesty people stumble into when they’re too exhausted to lie anymore. And Michael is tired.
Something changes in Joe’s face, its recognition. He’s seeing a version of Michael he doesn’t particularly like. A version that belongs to himself and not Joseph Jackson, his father.
Because that’s the thing Joe never seems to understand. Fear and control are not the same thing. Michael is afraid. Everybody standing here can see that he's afraid. But for the first time in a long time, he isn't letting that fear make the decision for him.
The realization seems to irritate Joe almost as much as the answer itself.
“My girl is not the problem.” Michael says it before he can lose his nerve. “So please.. leave her alone.”
The statement simmers between them.
He’s saying he’s not ten anymore, saying he knows what he’s doing. He’s saying he loves her.
Joe never takes his eyes off Michael.
“Oh, that’s where we at now? You gon’ tell me what to do?”
“I’m asking you not to point at her..”
The argument changes speed when Joe looks at (Name) again.
Up until now, it’s been about rehearsal. About Michael being late, Joe being angry. Familiar territory everyone standing in the driveway has seen before in one form or another. But then Joe’s attention settles on her, a cold chill slides down her spine. Before he even opens his mouth, she knows where this is going. She’s spent weeks carrying this secret around like a live wire, convincing herself there would be a better time to tell Michael. A calmer time. A private time. One more day. One more conversation. One more chance to figure out how to say it without watching his entire world collapse around him.
“Did you handle your business yet?”
Michael doesn’t understand the question. It sounds strangely vague to his ears. He glances toward (Name), expecting her to answer immediately, expecting this to be something small and unrelated to him. Instead, she goes completely still, the stillness that comes from panic. The kind that arrives when the lie (by omission) you’ve been telling up and abandons you. Michael feels it instantly—that shift. The fear. The way her grip on his arm changes. And all at once, a terrible feeling begins creeping into his stomach. He’s not understanding, at least not yet. But the sensation that he’s standing at the edge of something he doesn’t know about but should.
The silence stretches far too long and becomes an answer all on its own. Joe watches her without blinking. Waiting. Michael watches her too with his brows pinched in the middle, now aware of how terrified she looks. And now remembering the strange conversations they’ve had over the last few weeks. Every question she never fully answered. Every moment she seemed on the verge of saying something before changing her mind. The pieces aren’t fitting together yet, but they’re moving.
Joe nods slowly.
“I’m gon’ ask one more time.” The driveway feels smaller as all the brothers have gone quiet. Even the morning doves have seemed to have stopped singing as Joe’s voice lowers.
“Did you handle your business yet?”
And when (Name) still can’t answer, when she just stands there staring with tears gathering in her eyes, Michael watches confirmation settle across Joe’s face. The silence told him everything he needed to know. And standing beside her, Michael feels very afraid of whatever conversation everyone seems to be having except him.
(author’s note: hello! stop reading here if you’re particularly sensitive to manhandling and heavy themes! or maybe even take a break! 💗)
Joe’s hand closes around (Name)’s wrist before anybody fully realizes what he’s doing. One second she’s standing beside Michael on the porch, clutching his arm so tightly her fingers cramped, and the next she’s being pulled down the front steps so abruptly she misses two of them entirely. Her foot catches the edge and she stumbles hard, a startled cry tearing from her throat as she nearly goes down. The concrete scrapes across her bare knee when she catches herself. The sting is hot and sharp. By the time she regains her footing, her skin is already scraped raw.
“Joe, let go of me!”
The driveway erupts all at once with Tito and Randy shouting. Jackie moving so fast he nearly collides with Joe trying to intercept him. Somebody keeps saying Joe’s name over and over as if the repetition alone might somehow break through whatever decision he’s already made. None of it matters. Joe keeps walking and dragging her forward with certainty of a man who has already decided he’s right. The more she resists, the more inevitable it feels. Michael’s voice cuts through the chaos somewhere behind her, the panic she hears from him makes her stomach drop. She’s never heard anything quite like that from him before.
“(Name)!”
She digs her heels into the pavement while ger other knee slams against the driveway when she loses her balance again. Pain shoots up her leg and tears flood her eyes. Fear—this is real terror she’s experiencing. The rear passenger door gets yanked open and now this isn’t just an argument anymore.
“Please!” She sobs. “Joe, please don't—”
“Get in the car.”
“No!” She twists violently, trying to wrench herself free, but his grip only tightens. She gets a good look at him, and really sees him. He looks convinced that he’s solving a problem. And she’s the problem.
“I’m taking her to the clinic.”
The statement is thrown out across the driveway and everything stops. The brothers fall silent and even (Name)’s struggling falters. Michael freezes halfway down the driveway, the color draining from his face so quickly it almost looks unreal. Nobody breathes then.
Joe points directly at her. “This girl is pregnant.”
A sound leaves (Name) before she can stop it.
Not a word or even a small cry, really. Just a small, helpless noise that seems to come from somewhere deep inside her chest, its beyond language. The moment Joe says it, the moment the word pregnant is said out loud in the middle of the driveway for everyone to hear, something inside her simply gives way. All the effort she’d spent holding herself together over the last few weeks vanishes at once. The planning. The rehearsing. The constant bargaining with herself that she’d tell Michael tomorrow, or the day after that, or when she found the right moment. Gone. Torn out of her hands before she ever got the chance. Her eyes squeeze shut instinctively, thinking maybe if she can’t see their faces, the humiliation won’t be real. But it is. It’s real, so horribly real.
Her knees nearly buckle beneath her and she thinks she’s actually going to collapse right there in front of everyone. The driveway tilts sickeningly beneath her feet, blood from her scraped knees mixes with fresh tears tracking down her cheeks, and all she can think is not like this. Not in front of his brothers. Not in front of Joe. Not Michael finding out this way. She had imagined so many versions of this moment. Nervous ones. Tearful ones. Maybe even happy ones. Michael sitting beside her, holding her hand. Michael hearing it from her. Instead she’s standing in the middle of a nightmare she can’t wake up from, her secret hanging in the air for everyone to stare at while her body seems to forget how to stay upright. For the first time since this started, she stops fighting Joe entirely too devastated to remember how to.
Joe shakes his head.
Michael genuinely thinks he misheard him.
The driveway feels like its been stretched one hundred feet and muted like somebody stuffed cotton into his ears. He can see mouths moving. See his brothers reacting. See (Name) crying. But everything feels strangely far away as the words register individually. This girl. Pregnant. But they refuse to connect. They hover in the air like separate things while his brain scrambles desperately to make sense of them.
He finds himself staring at (Name) as though the answer might be written somewhere on her face. And every strange moment from the past few weeks begins rearranging itself into something clear in hindsight. The tears she’s tried to hide. The nervousness he could never quite understand. The questions that seemed oddly specific at the time, questions about disappointment and anger and mistakes and whether people could forgive things they hadn’t expected. The way she’d looked at him lately, sometimes opening her mouth like she wanted to say something before thinking better of it. The fear. More than anything, the fear. He sees it all now. Not as separate incidents but as pieces of the same story. A story she’d apparently been carrying while he remained oblivious to it. His stomach hurts—because she knew. She knew.
The hurt sneaks in rearing it’s ugly little head directly into his chest, nearly hidden beneath the shock. It isn’t intense enough to be anger or resentment. It’s something.. honestly way sadder than that. A dull ache that spreads slowly through his chest the longer he stands there looking at her. Because all he can think about is the amount of time that must have passed between finding out and now. Days. Maybe weeks. Countless conversations that feel different in retrospect. Countless opportunities where she could have told him and didn’t. And the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that what wounds him is a small, ugly part of him wonders why she didn’t trust him enough to come to him.
Pregnant. The word doesn’t even feel real. His entire life just changed between one heartbeat and the next. He’s going to be a father. A dad. He helped create life. This isn’t real life.
She looks at him. And the expression on her face is so devastated, so apologetic, so terrified of what he might be thinking.
The worst part is the fact that she can’t read him right now. Normally she can. Normally she knows exactly what he’s thinking long before he says it. She knows the tiny shifts in his expression, the way his mouth moves when he’s trying not to laugh, the particular look he gets when he’s upset but pretending he isn’t. She knows him. Or at least she thought she did because right now she knows nothing. He’s just staring. And that terrifies her, because the truth is that her fear of Michael being angry has never been entirely rational. It’s actually embarrassingly childish when she really examines it. Michael has never given her a reason to believe he would scream at her or humiliate her or stop loving her over one mistake. Yet she’d spent weeks building these catastrophes inside her own head, convincing herself there was a wrong way to tell him, a wrong time to tell him, a version of this conversation that would make him look at her differently forever.
Now she’s standing in front of him and every ridiculous fear she’s been carrying feels very fucking real because he isn’t saying anything. The silence is unbearable and her mind fills it for him. Maybe he’s angry. Maybe he’s disappointed. Maybe he’s wondering why she hid it. Wondering how long she’s known. Maybe he’s wondering what else she hasn’t told him. The thoughts arrive one after another until she can barely separate reality from imagination anymore. The awful thing is that Michael’s opinion of her matters far more than she’s ever admit out loud. Somewhere along the way, his approval stopped being something nice to have and became something she needed always because loving someone inevitably gives them a certain kind of power over you. The power to hurt you simply by looking disappointed. The power to make your stomach drop with a single expression. The power to make even you feel like you have to prove you’re good enough to be loved.
And right now she feels very young. Very small. Very foolish. Like a child waiting to find out how much trouble they’re in outside the principal’s office. Except Michael isn’t giving her anything and that’s worse. Anger is understandable. Anger can be apologized for. But shock is different, shock means she has no idea where his thoughts are taking him. It means she can’t follow him there. It means that since Joe spoke, she’s completely locked out of the one person whose reaction matters most. So she keeps looking at him. Keeps searching his face. Keeps waiting for something. Anything. A smile. A frown. A shake of his head. Some indication that he is still her Michael and not a stranger standing across the driveway from her. But it never comes. He just keeps staring trying to hold an entire collapsing universe together inside his head. And when fresh tears spill down her cheeks, she realizes the cruel irony of it all. For weeks she’d been terrified of telling him. Now she’s terrified of what happens after he knows.
“I’m not letting her ruin your life.”
“Joe—” Tito starts.
“Stay out of it.” Joe cuts him off before turning back toward Michael.
“You think this is funny? You think this is some game?”
Michael says nothing. He can’t. His mind is moving too fast and not fast enough at the same time.
”How do you even know it’s yours?”
Nobody says anything. Nobody even seems to know what to do with it. The pregnancy is one thing. The screaming is one thing. Joe being angry is one thing. But this? This feels different. Meaner. Like the argument has crossed into territory it never needed to touch. Jackie is the one who finally breaks the silence, letting out a short, disbelieving laugh as he shakes his head.
“Aw, c’mon, Joe. Nah, man.”
Joe turns toward him. “What? You got somethin’ to say to me too?”
“..You know that ain’t right.”
“It ain’t right?”
“No.” Jackie gestures toward Michael and (Name) like the answer should be obvious. His irritation is growing more visible by the second. “They been together how long?” Nobody answers because nobody has to—everybody knows. Everybody standing in that driveway has watched the relationship unfold for years. Through the tours, recording sessions, family gatherings, arguments, reconciliations, and everything in between. “(Name)’s been around since Mike was seventeen. Man, quit it.”
The words seem to irritate Joe almost as much as the pregnancy itself. “That don’t mean nothin’.”
“It mean enough.”
“No, it don’t.”
Jackie runs a hand over the back of his neck and exhales sharply. “You mad? Fine. Be mad.. You wanna get on him ‘bout rehearsal? Fine. But don’t stand here sayin’ stuff like that.” The driveway goes quiet again. Nobody wants to get involved. Nobody wants to make things worse. Yet even the brothers look uncomfortable now because regardless of how anyone feels about the situation, the accusation feels evil and insulting. Not just to (Name). To Michael.
“They love each other, Joe.” He says. “Everybody know they love each other.”
Michael looks up and his eyes flicker toward Jackie, something in the expression nearly breaks the older brother’s spirit. Michael looks devastated—like he’s trying desperately to catch up to a conversation everyone else somehow started without him. The ground beneath him has shifted and he’s still searching for something solid to stand on. Jackie sees it and feels a fresh wave of frustration. Because regardless of whatever happens next, one thing is painfully obvious. Michael didn’t know. Whatever this is, however long (Name) has known, however scared she’s been, Michael is finding out right now. In the middle of a driveway in front of an audience. From his father.
Unfortunately, Joe appears completely uninterested in anybody else’s opinion. He lets Jackie finish, lets his words hang in the air for all of two seconds before dismissing them entirely. Frankly, they’re irrelevant because none of this is actually up for discussion.
“Love,” Joseph laughs a little. “Y’all don’t know the first thing about love.” His grip tightens around (Name)’s wrist and she lets out a small cry, stumbling when he starts moving again. The sudden jerk nearly sends her back to her knees. The scrapes on her legs burn viciously as she tries to keep up, her vision blurred from tears.
“No, please—”
“Get in the car.” The command is flat, final. And that certainty terrifies her more than the yelling ever could.
The rear passenger door is still hanging open. Waiting. The sight of it sends fresh panic crashing through her chest. She can picture it too clearly, all of it. The door closing. The car pulling away. Michael disappearing in the rear window while she screams for him. Her feet plant themselves instinctively against the pavement. She pulls backward with everything she has left.
“No!” The scream tears itself from her throat before she can stop it. Raw and desperate out of genuine fear. It rips straight through the driveway. Straight through Michael.
It triggers something in Michael and he finally moves but Joe is faster.
Before anybody can properly react, before Jackie can get between them or Tito can grab the door, Joe yanks (Name) forward and practically throws her into the back seat. The force of it sends her sprawling awkwardly across the upholstery, her shoulder slamming painfully against the opposite door. The breath leaves her lungs in a startled gasp and she’s too stunned to move and process the fact that she’s actually inside the car. Until panic crashes back in all at once.
“Michael!” The scream tears itself from her throat as she scrambles upright.
Outside, the driveway erupts. Michael reaches the car just as Joe slams the driver’s door shut. The locks drop immediately with a sharp mechanical click that feels horrifying. Michael grabs for the rear passenger handle anyway, yanking so hard the entire vehicle rocks on its suspension.
“Dad!“ His voice cracks with panic. Pure panic.
Inside the car, (Name) throws herself toward the door, fumbling desperately with the handle through blurred vision and shaking hands. Nothing happens. Child lock. She pulls again. Nothing.
“Let me out!”
Joe doesn’t even look at her. “Sit down.”
Outside, Jackie is pounding on the driver’s window. Tito is trying another handle. Randy is shouting. And Marlon looks halfway between furious and terrified. Michael catches sight of (Name) through the glass. Her face. The tears. The absolute terror—fear. Genuine fear.
Then the engine starts and everybody freezes.
Nobody moves because nobody quite believes Joe is actually going to do it. Until he does, and the car lurches into reverse. Jackie jumps back as gravel spits across the driveway and Michael stumbles away from the vehicle as it swings around. And then it’s gone. Down the driveway. Onto the street. Disappearing faster than any of them can process.
There’s a pause in any movement.
“What? Y’all just gonna stand there?” Tito’s voice cuts through the shock.
Everybody is still staring at the road where Joe’s car disappeared, Michael hasn’t moved at all. He’s still standing exactly where he was when the car pulled away, staring after it with an expression that looks almost frighteningly blank.
And Tito doesn’t have the patience for it.
“Get in the damn car, let’s go!” That finally breaks whatever spell has settled over the driveway and everybody moves at once.
Jackie is already heading for his car. Randy nearly trips over himself getting to his. Marlon takes off running. And doors start slamming, engines start turning over. The sudden burst of activity feels frantic and messy and desperate because nobody actually has a plan. They just know Joe has (Name) and every second they’re standing here is another second she's alone with him.
Michael finally blinks, his mind is still somewhere back in the driveway. Still stuck on the look on (Name)’s face through the glass. Still stuck on the word pregnant. Still stuck on the sound of her screaming his name. The thoughts keep colliding with each other until none of them make sense anymore. By the time he reaches Jackie’s car, he barely remembers crossing the distance.
“Mike!” Jackie yanks his door open. “Hurry up!”
Michael practically falls into the passenger seat followed the door slamming.
Tito’s already pulling onto the road ahead of them. Another set of headlights swings out behind them. Gravel sprays beneath the tires as Jackie throws the car into gear and guns it down the street.
The ride to the clinic felt so endless.
The only sounds are from traffic, the occasional turn signal and the shaky breaths she keeps trying and failing to steady. Her wrists and upper arms ache from where he’d grabbed her. Her knees burn every time the car hits a bump, dried blood has begun to crust over her scrapes, pulling uncomfortably against her skin whenever she shifts. She keeps staring out the window because she doesn’t want to look at Joe. But she doesn’t know which is worse, looking at him or catching her own reflection in the glass and barely recognizing herself. Puffy eyes. Tear stained cheeks. Hair falling out of place. She looks exactly how she feels.
Distraught.
The second the car finally pulls into Planned Parenthood’s parking lot, fresh panic surges through her chest.
“Joe..” Her voice comes out weak.
He parks, turns off the engine and opens his door.
“Joe, please. Don’t do this.”
Of course, she gets nothing in response as he gets out.,
A minute later she’s being ushered through the front doors with trembling legs and tears threatening to start all over again. The waiting room smells like coffee and antiseptic, and a slight hint of body spray. People glance up when they enter. A pregnant woman flipping through a magazine. An elderly couple sitting together. A receptionist behind a desk. Normal people having normal days while her entire life feels like it's actively collapsing.
The receptionist looks up with a practiced smile.
“Good morning.”
Joe takes over. ”We need to see somebody.”
The woman glances between them. “..Okay. Is she the patient?”
“Yes.” The receptionist’s eyes settle on her, taking in the red eyes, the scraped knees, the fact that she looks distressed and like she’s been crying for hours.
“Miss? Are you okay?” The receptionist asks and (Name) stares, the simple question almost makes her cry.
Nobody has asked her anything all morning.
Nobody has cared what she wanted.
Before she can answer, Joe does it for her. “She’s pregnant.”
The receptionist blinks, she clearly doesn’t like what’s going on here. “Okay.”
“And she needs to be seen, right the hell now.”
Again, the receptionist looks toward (Name). “Would you like to be seen today, sweetheart?”
Joe’s jaw tightens. “Yes.”
The receptionist doesn’t even acknowledge him as she keeps her attention on (Name). “Honey?"
Before (Name) can answer, the front doors burst open and the entire waiting room turns.
Jackie. Tito. Marlon. Randy.
And Michael.
Michael arrives last, breathless and visibly shaken from sprinting through the parking lot. His hair is disheveled and he looks nothing like the famous pop star Michael Jackson. He looks like a young man who has spent the last twenty minutes terrified. The second his eyes find her, he stops moving.
And she can’t breathe.
Because he’s here. She can’t even look at him because she’s so humiliated.
Unfortunately, Joe notices too.
“We ain’t doin’ this here.”
The receptionist’s smile disappears. ”Sir, what's going on?”
“Family business.”
The woman stares at him. Then at (Name). Then at Michael standing near the entrance looking like he doesn't know whether to run to her or stay where he is. Then back at Joe.
Whatever she sees concerns her very quickly. “Sir, if she’s the patient, I’d like to hear from her directly.”
Joe lets out an irritated breath. “I’m the manager around here and what I say is best for business."
“No, sir.” The correction comes instantly, professional and calm but firm. It’s evidently clear this woman has been doing this for a very long time and will always prioritize and protect every single woman who steps foot into this building. “If she’s an adult, she makes her own medical decisions.”
Joe actually looks caught off guard. “’Scuse me?”
The receptionist folds her hands together. “If she would like an appointment, we can help her. If she would like information, we can help her. If she would like to leave, she can leave.”
“You don’t understan—”
“No, sir.” The woman shakes her head. “I think you don’t understand.” Because this isn’t a family argument anymore. This is reality. It’s paperwork. It’s consent forms. It’s a beautiful stranger with a name tag telling Joe Jackson that he doesn’t actually get to decide what happens next. And that he could go to hell, respectfully.
Then she turns toward (Name). “Is there something you’d like to do today?”
After being dragged out of her home, dragged into a car, dragged into a clinic, and talked about like she isn’t even standing there—let alone a human with feelings, somebody is finally asking what she wants.
And the decision belongs entirely to her.
The receptionist’s words should have ended it. They should have settled the matter the way facts often do, with a simple reminder that reality exists outside the boundaries of family dynamics. Instead, they seem to make Joe angrier. There is something desperate in the way he continues talking, as though volume alone can restore authority that has already begun slipping through his fingers. He isn’t really arguing about the pregnancy anymore. He’s arguing against the idea that there are limits to his control. Against the fact that there are people in this building who don’t know him, don’t fear him, and don’t particularly care what he wants. Every sentence he speaks feels less like an argument and more like a refusal to accept that the world is moving forward without asking his permission first.
”You don’t understand what’s at stake here.”
The statement isn’t directed at anyone in particular. It’s directed at the room—at the entire world for refusing to bend the way Joe thinks it should.
“If people find out my son has a babymama, it’s gon' mess up our product—our brand.”
And that’s when the brothers finally stop trying to keep the peace.
Because there is something uniquely infuriating about watching a grown ass man drag a crying woman into a clinic to force her into an abortion and then continue speaking about her as though she isn’t standing three feet away. Tito’s patience finally snaps first. Jackie, Marlon and Randy follow immediately after. Years of old resentments begin bleeding into the conversation. Old wounds. Old arguments. Old frustrations that have nothing to do with the pregnancy and everything to do with control.
A security guard appears near the front desk and then another. A nurse asks everyone to lower their voices and nobody listens.
For (Name), the noise gradually stops sounding like English. It becomes something shapeless and overwhelming, a wall of sound pressing in from every direction at once. The fluorescent lights overhead seem brighter than they did a few minutes ago and the waiting room very quickly feels too crowded, too exposed, and too public. Everywhere she looks there are strangers witnessing one of the worst moments of her life. A pregnant woman flipping through a magazine. An elderly couple pretending not to stare. Nurses trying to remain professional while an entire family implodes in front of them. People are realizing this is the Jackson family and Michael Jackson’s pregnant girlfriend is here for an abortion. The humiliation crashes over her all over again. She had spent weeks carrying this secret, weeks rehearsing conversations in her head, weeks convincing herself she would find the right moment to tell Michael. Every version had ended with the choice belonging to her. Every version had ended with privacy. Instead, she got a forced trip to a clinic and Joe Jackson announcing he wants her pregnancy terminated. Somewhere, the story stopped belonging to her.
That realization is what finally pushes her over the edge. The loss of ownership of her body, the dehumanization of herself. The feeling that everyone has been discussing her future while she stands screaming at the center of it, reduced to a subject instead of a participant. Her chest begins tightening until each breath feels smaller than the last. Thoughts start colliding faster than she can sort through them. Fear folds into shame. Shame folds into guilt. Guilt folds into the familiar childish terror that Michael is angry with her and she simply can’t tell. She hates how much that possibility matters. Hates that a part of her still wants his approval as desperately as she did when she first fell in love with him when they were seventeen. Hates that, despite everything happening around her the thing she wants most is a sign that he doesn’t look at her differently now.
Michael notices before anyone else.
The argument has long since lost his attention. Her pregnancy is still sitting inside his chest because he hasn’t figured out how to hold it yet. Every attempt he makes to examine it seems to split into ten other thoughts. The shock of finding out. The hurt of being excluded. The realization that she’d been dealing this alone. The image of her in the backseat of Joe's car. The look on her face through the window. It all keeps circling without resolution. But the second he sees the distant look settling into her eyes, every one of those thoughts disappears. He knows this version of her, the difference between crying and panic on her. He’s watched her push herself too far before, watched her try to hold herself together long after she should have stopped trying. What frightens him now is how familiar it looks. Because it looks like him.
The noise of the room continues around them, but Michael doesn’t hear it anymore. The only thing he can focus on is the way her breathing has changed and the fact that she looks like she’s slipping further away from the room with every passing second. His hands find her instinctively, one settling against the back of her head while the other gently covers her ear, creating a small barrier between her and the chaos surrounding them. It’s not a solution by any means and de knows that. But it’s something. A way of saying that she doesn't have to absorb all of it at once. A way of giving her one thing to focus on besides the noise.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs, his forehead briefly resting against hers.
The words aren't true. Neither of them are naive enough to believe that. Nothing about today is okay. Their lives have been blown apart in the span of a couple hours. They’re literally standing in a clinic because his father tried to force a situation he had no right to control. There are a hundred conversations waiting for them on the other side of this moment, but his words aren’t really meant to describe reality. They’re meant to communicate something else entirely.
I'm here. You're not alone. You don't have to do this by yourself.
The receptionist notices almost immediately, her attention shifting away from Joe and the growing argument surrounding him. What she sees instead is a young woman on the verge of a panic attack and a young man who looks just as shaken but is trying desperately not to show it, and failing. She sees the way (Name) has folded into him without thinking and the way Michael hasn’t taken his hands off her once. She sees two young people drowning beneath circumstances neither of them had any control over.
“Excuse me, mister Jackson.. are you two.. the couple?”
The question feels oddly intimate amidst everything else. Michael lifts his head, momentarily caught off guard by how simple it is. After all the shouting and accusations and assumptions, his answer is the easiest thing he’s been about to say all day. He nods.
“Yes..”
The receptionist studies them for another moment before her expression softens. “Would you like a private room? Somewhere quiet, away from.. all this?”
The offer feels like a deep cut, it’s the first genuinely compassionate thing anyone has suggested since the morning began. Michael doesn’t hesitate and doesn’t even ask where he just nods again, unable to find the energy for words. The idea of getting (Name) away from this room, away from Joe, away from this noise and the eyes and the prying eyes, feels less like a preference and more like its necessary.
The receptionist smiles gently and motions for them to follow.
The room itself is completely unremarkable. An examination table sitting in the center of the room. Cabinets line the counters, stocked with supplies that all look identical in their sterile blue and white packaging. There’s a sink, a rolling stool, a faded medical chart pinned to the wall. It’s your standard annual check up room and yet the second the door closes behind them, it feels like the safest place either of them has been all morning. There is a door between them and everyone else for the first time this morning.
The silence that settles isn’t awkward though. If anything, it feels overdue. Both of them are exhausted in ways that go beyond simple fatigue. Adrenaline has this cruel habit of keeping people on edge until the danger they perceive passes, and only afterward it allows them to feel the full traumas of what they’ve survived. Michael sits on the rolling stool beside her for a long moment without speaking, his elbows resting against his knees as he studies her. His eyes drift across her face, her eyes are still swollen from crying before he eventually settles on the angry scrapes covering her knees. The sight seems to bother him, perhaps because the cuts are visible. Tangible and a problem with a clear beginning and end. Compared to everything else, scraped skin is refreshingly simple.
Michael can fix that. He can fix that.
He reaches for the supplies sitting in the cabinets.
The avoidance is so obvious neither of them acknowledges it. There are conversations the size of elephants in the room, questions that need answers. But they both ignore it, for now at least.
The alcohol burns the second it touches the raw scrape.
A sharp hiss escapes her before she can stop it, her knee instinctively trying to pull away from the sting. It’s not even particularly painful compared to everything else she’s felt today, but the sensation catches her off guard. Immediately Michael’s head lifts.
”You okay?” The question comes out so soft as he looks up at her from where he’s crouched in front of her, his Bambi doe eyes wide with concern. It’s painfully sweet the way he asks, because the answer genuinely matters to him.
She can’t bring herself to look at him still.
Not when every time she does glance his way, she’s struck by the terrifying realization that he’s.. still Michael. Still gentle and still looking at her the same way he always has—she feels shy.
“Mm,” she murmurs softly, keeping her eyes fixed somewhere over her shoulder. “Just stings a little.”
The concern doesn’t leave his face any time soon and he watches her for another moment, before he returns to cleaning the scrape. The room falls quiet again and its strangely intimate. No one’s watching. No one needs anything from them.
When he finishes cleaning the scrapes, he turns toward one of the drawers and begins searching for bandages. She watches absentmindedly until she notices the subtle shift in his expression.
“What is it..?”
Instead of answering immediately, Michael pulls a small box from the drawer and holds it up.
Disney themed bandaids.
The sight is so absurdly unexpected that a startled giggle escapes before she can stop it and Michael glances between her and the box.
“They have Disney.” He smiles a little.
Carefully, Michael peels some bandages from their wrappers and smooths them over her knees. One ends up slightly crooked. He notices instantly.
His frown deepens.
“..It’s a little crooked.”
“Michael, it’s a bandaid.”
“But it has to be perfect on you..”
Another laugh escapes her when he fixes it and this one comes easier. The tension in the room doesn’t go away, but it is lighter. You could compare it to knot loosening enough to allow circulation back into a limb.
When he’s finally satisfied, Michael smooths the edges down with his fingertips and leaves his hand resting there before something thoughtful settles over his features. The same look she has seen a hundred times before when he becomes lost inside his own head. Before she can ask what he’s thinking, he bends forward and presses a quick kiss against one bandage.
Then the other.
The conversation doesn’t start because either of them is ready for it, every possible distraction has been exhausted. Michael stays seated in front of her, one arm resting loosely across his lap, his gaze occasionally drifting toward the cartoon princesses now stuck to her knees.
“..Can I ask you somethin’..?” He rubs his hands together nervously.
She nods.
“Why didn’t you tell me, dove..?”
There isn’t an accusation hidden in the question, that’s what makes it harder to answer she thinks. He’s not angry, he’s hurt. And hurt simply sits there between them and asks to be acknowledged. (Name) drops her gaze to her hands because the truth is she doesn’t know how to explain it. The answer was never one thing. It was dozens of fears layered together until they became impossible to untangle.
“I was gonna tell you, ’Key..”
”I know.” Because of course he knows. If she’d truly intended to hide it forever, she wouldn't have spent weeks looking fucking haunted. The secret had been leaking out of her in a hundred different ways be just didn’t know what the hell was going on. Michael’s expression softens.
“I think that’s what’s botherin’ me,” he admits quietly. ”You were gonna tell me.. but you were scared to.”
He’s talking about the fact that she’d convinced herself she had to handle this all alone and she’s forced to consider what this morning must have felt like from his side. Finding out he might be a father in the middle of a screaming match. Learning she’d been withholding life changing information from him.
“I didn’t know what to do.. ’m sorry..”
Michael lets out a small breath and looks away for a moment.
“I didn’t know what to do either.. looked like a punk..”
The honesty catches her off guard. She’d spent so much time fearing his reaction that she’d never really considered he might be just as overwhelmed.
The memory of the drive to the clinic rises uninvited. The rearview mirror and Joe’s eyes finding hers every few minutes. The hatred in them. He’d planted these awful doubts in her mind and by the time they’d arrived she’d found herself questioning things she’d never questioned before. Whether she was capable of raising a child. Whether love was enough. Whether wanting something automatically meant she was ready for it. Would Michael get tired of her and leave? Maybe she was only supposed to be a temporary person in his life, a placeholder for someone rich and famous..
“What if we’re not good at this?” She asks like word vomit. “What if I can’t do it?”
Michael takes the question seriously. “Lovey.. I don’t think anybody knows what they’re doin’. I think everybody’s probably scared.”
She studies him for a long moment before asking the question that’s been sitting underneath all the others. “What if you leave?”
Michael’s expression changes, because he understands that that question didn’t appear out of nowhere. It came from weeks of fear, insecurity, and a voice that didn’t belong to her. He reaches for her hand and wraps his fingers around it gently.
“(Name),” he says softly. ”Look at me, please..”
Reluctantly, she does.
His eyes are tired and red around the edges he looks so sure. The most sure than she’s seen him all day.
”I want this.” Michael swallows hard and lets out a small, nervous laugh. “I’m scared. Real scared..”
His thumb brushes across her knuckles. “But I want my baby.”
(Name) feels some of the fear loosen its grip on her chest. They don’t have all the answers. Maybe they never will. But they’re finally found their way back to the same side.
