Chapter Text
FIA Headquarters, Paris. Internal Policy Briefing - Classified.
The meeting room was air-conditioned and chilly, with glass walls frosted to obscure the view from outside. On the comfortable office chairs were sitting alpha FIA members, while the betas were lined up at the end of the table, standing.
President Mohammed Ben Sulayem leaned forward, lacing his fingers together on the polished table.
“We need to talk about the new grid and how we must control it. The omegas started to get out of hand.”
The Head of Medical Control Sean Petherbridge clicked his stylus. The presentation appeared on the big presentation screen, data flickering in cold blue.
“Increased hormonal irregularities. Heightened anxiety responses leading to, impulsivity. Pack formations forming outside official team structures, newcomers and unbonded drivers,” he listed, one after another, emotionless. “We’ve also seen unapproved bonding attempts between rival team drivers. Heat symptoms mid-weekends. Some omegas, especially the younger ones, have begun rejecting suppressant regimens entirely. The omegas started to act like alphas with the new relaxed regulations. We must bring the old ones back.”
A murmur ran through the board.
“The omegas are destabilizing the grid” a beta muttered.
“We could introduce more rigorous pre-race medical assessments. Maybe a physical check by the medical staff or isolate any omega with signs of a hormonal spike,” a high state doctor replied.
“And what about the public? There would be chaos” a beta said.
“We will frame it as health support and maybe now and then take some alphas to examine just for the public,” said the Director of Communications, Luke Skipper, smoothly. Stress management, physical optimization, and equality protocols. We’ll say it applies to the entire grid and then focus enforcement only on omegas.”
“And if they protest?”
“They won’t,” said Sulayem flatly. “They’ve been trained to feel grateful for any space they’re given.”
He paused. “Still. Say some kind of ‘Driver Wellbeing’ initiative. That’ll play well with the media. Use the word empowerment.” There were nods. Approvals filed. Reforms signed. The presentation dimmed.
Later that week…
FIA Press Release – March 24th
"In our continued commitment to equality and performance safety, the FIA is proud to announce the Athlete Support Program (ASP). This initiative will offer advanced medical monitoring and emotional well-being services to all drivers, ensuring they are fully supported in the demanding environment of Formula 1. These steps mark an evolution in athlete care. We believe in giving every driver, regardless of designation, the tools they need to thrive."
– FIA Official Statement
May 1st – Miami –
In the paddock, everything looked the same and yet, nothing felt the same.
The motorhomes, the chaotic buzz of the garages, the heat shimmering over the asphalt, the screams of the fans, these all were unchanged.
But there was a new kind of tension now, subtle but sharp-edged, humming between the staff and the drivers.
The officials moved differently. They were watching and checking. The media swarmed the drivers with questions about the new regulations, but the drivers, especially the omegas, answered carefully, their shoulders tense, their smiles brittle, trying to give politic answers.
The old omegas , even Fernando, were pulled aside before the fan stage, subjected to scent patch inspections that were only subjected to omegas with the change of new regulations.
After the fan zone event, when the drivers returned to their teams for the mandatory weekend briefing, every omega found a new item waiting for them at their seat:
A bracelet in their team’s colors and, for the mated ones, additionally something worse.
A collar.
Stamped with the FIA’s insignia, dangling on a metal disc from the front.
It was clearly a message: You don’t belong to yourself anymore. You belong to us.
Tucked under each bracelet and collar was a note from the FIA:
"All omegas must wear the bracelet at all times, and the additional Assistance Neck Piece for mated omegas at all public outings, including on race days."
The humiliation was total.
The rookies, clutching their new bracelets, didn’t dare meet the eyes of the veterans who wore collars now proof of bonds once celebrated, now turned into a mark of ownership.
Alphas passed by uneasily, their eyes darting away, their faces tight. But no one said anything. Sure, some territorial alphas had raised their voices. Carlos tried to talk to Fred about Charles and Max directly to Ben Sulayem, but they were quickly shut down.
*
On Friday, everything was worse.
It was suffocating heavier than the smell of fuel and rubber burning their nostrils.
More cameras were lurking around the paddock, more staff in sharp uniforms lingering just out of sight, earpieces crackling softly. More security stationed near the garages. More cold smiles from the FIA officials, and some even pitying the omegas.
The omegas were shadowed everywhere they went. Even inside the motorhomes, the supposed safe spaces of the teams, quiet checks became constant interruptions: verifying bracelets, adjusting collars, recording scent levels under the pretext of “monitoring well-being.”
Privacy, once only present in the safety of the paddock, was now gone.
When courting rookies like Kimi Antonelli and Oliver Bearman clung closer together, instinctively seeking comfort, it didn’t go unnoticed. Kimi barely brushed Ollie’s arm, trying to ground himself when one of the FIA spotters snapped their fingers, motioning sharply.
Within seconds, Kimi was harshly ripped away from Ollie, the omega’s thin wrist wrenched by a gloved hand.
The paddock noise seemed to still, just for a second, as Kimi’s wide eyes searched for help and found Ollie being gently steered the other way still protesting but the officials were trying to calm him. It was a stark contrast with how Kimi is being handled
Without a word, four FIA officials surrounded him, steering him through the open paddock for all to see. A long, humiliating walk to the Mercedes garage. Drivers, engineers, even team principals turned to look some with open horror, some with carefully blank faces, some already looking away.
The cameras, of course, pointed elsewhere. The world outside would only see the sparkling sun, the smiling interviews, the illusion of a sport still "committed to equality."
Barely daring to breathe without permission. The older drivers wore their humiliation like armor. Fernando’s jaw set like stone, he wanted nothing more than for Mark to be there, with him. Pierre’s hands were trembling whenever he thought no one was looking.
Meanwhile, the alphas and betas tried to go about their routines, but the air was too thick with something wrong. Even the strongest alphas looked tense around their omegas, instinct clawing at them to protect, but the fear of repercussions binding their hands.
The paddock was still bright, loud, and chaotic. But beneath it all, a different current was building:
Fear, heavy and bitter on the air.
*
That day, Lando topped FP1. And again, FP2. A miracle, some said. A fluke, others muttered under their breath.
Now, in the media pen, there were piles of microphones pointed at him a wall of flashing lights, and hungry eyes, trying to catch every word, every muttered phrase he uttered.
Lando shifted uneasily, the bracelet around his wrist burning against his skin. He answered mechanically, his voice light, strained laughter filling the spaces where real answers should have been.
He wanted out. He needed to be back in the McLaren hospitality, preferably hidden in the furthest, most tucked-away corner, but near Oscar. The presence of Oscar calmed him in ways he didn’t understand and didn’t dare question. Whenever they brushed against each other, even the slightest touch, Lando had to fight the instinctive purr rising in his throat.
After endless minutes of fake smiles and answering empty questions, he finally managed to slip away, hurrying back toward McLaren. It took forever, the garage was on the far end of the paddock this weekend, a prize for their Constructors’ success, but now it felt like a curse.
Halfway there, a flash of red caught his eye.
Tucked behind the Ferrari garage, a figure lay crumpled on the ground a familiar red polo just barely visible from the pathway.
Lando slowed, heart thudding heavily. The sharp scent of acidic peaches hit his nose, so familiar and so wrong in its sourness. Charles.
Even before he saw the face, he knew. He would know Charles’s scent anywhere. But now it was tainted, twisted with panic and pain. Lando quickened his pace, closing the distance between them. Charles was curled tightly into himself, arms wrapped protectively around his stomach, body trembling. His back was turned, but even without seeing his face, the sight was enough to make something in Lando crack open.
He crouched down carefully beside him, reaching out with trembling fingers to lightly touch Charles’s arm, feather-light, scared to startle him. The omega flinched hard under the touch, curling tighter into himself, a strangled whimper escaping before he could swallow it down. Lando’s heart twisted painfully.
“Charles, it’s me,” Lando whispered, voice soft, almost instinctively slipping into the gentler tones omegas used among themselves. “It’s just me. You’re safe.”
For a moment, Charles didn’t react. His body was stiff, locked in the fetal position, shallow breaths shuddering through him. And then, slowly, as if recognizing the voice through the haze of panic and pain, Charles turned his face towards him.
His cheeks were wet with tears, pupils blown wide, the collar around his neck rubbing angry, raw, red marks into his skin. He looked so small, nothing like the polished, charming public figure the world adored, and everything like someone who had been pushed too far, one humiliation too many.
Lando pressed closer, trying to calm him.
He wrapped his arms around Charles carefully, pressing their bodies together, letting the familiar papaya-sweetness of his scent bleed onto Charles’s skin.
He purred lowly, scratched gentle circles along Charles’s back, but nothing seemed to reach him. Charles kept trembling, kept whining under his breath, the soft sounds cracking Lando’s heart wide open.
Lando knew he needed to get Carlos, Charles’s mate, but he couldn’t leave him. Not like this.
With one hand still wrapped protectively around Charles, Lando fumbled his phone from his pocket, quickly dialing Carlos.
The line barely rang once before Carlos answered, his voice a low, dangerous growl after hearing Charles’s whimpers through the phone. While Lando was too occupied to calm Charles down, Lando had not noticed that Carlos picked up the phone. Lando froze for a second, instincts flaring, fear pricking at the back of his neck.
“Lando, what’s happening? Where the fuck are you?” Carlos barked, voice sharp with panic.
“Carlos-Carlos, calm down!” Lando rushed out, trying to keep his voice steady. “ I’m by the Ferrari garage. I found Charles, he’s crying, and sweating, a lot, can you come? He needs you.”
There was a beat of silence, then a harsh breath and a sharp, muttered “Mierda” before the line went dead. Barely a minute later, Carlos came skidding around the corner, eyes wild, zeroing in on them instantly.
He dropped to his knees without a second thought, pulling Charles fully into his arms, cradling him tightly against his chest.
Charles whined, still shivering, sweat soaking through his Ferrari polo. Carlos gathered him closer, trying to shield him from the world, from the cameras, from the stares he knew must be lurking nearby.
He nosed at the mating mark on Charles’s neck trying to get the collar aout of the ways, a low growl vibrating deep in his chest, trying to drown out the acidic sting of distress that clung to Charles’s scent while also trying to calm him.
Slowly, Carlos’s smoky cedarwood started to seep over the sour peaches and papaya, staking his claim, wrapping Charles up in something grounding, something safe.
“We need to get him to the medical centre,” Lando said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.
He flinched a little at the low growls Carlos was letting out deep, instinctive sounds that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
Lando knew, rationally, that Carlos would never hurt him, but instincts weren’t rational, and there was no fighting the pull of hormones when they took over.
Carlos stood, Charles tucked carefully in his arms like something precious. He nodded sharply at Lando, voice rough and clipped.
“Thank you. I’ve got him now- you can go.”
It wasn’t an order but it left no room for argument.
Lando scrambled to his feet, heart pounding, and hurried off toward the McLaren hospitality to find Oscar, casting one last worried glance over his shoulder before disappearing.
*
Carlos burst into the medical center, the door slamming against the wall with the force of his entrance.
"Can a doctor attend?” his voice thundered through the building, rattling the sterile walls.
A nurse rushed forward, trying to keep calm.
"Mr. Sainz, please," she said, reaching for Charles, "let me take him into a private room."
Carlos immediately pulled Charles tighter to his chest, stepping back like a feral animal cornered.
"No," he growled, voice low and dangerous.
The nurse hesitated, hands hovering. "Sir, please. It's the new protocol the FIA set. He needs to be examined in private without any other person. Does not matter if you are his mate"
"You are not taking him without me," Carlos snapped, the possessive edge in his voice cutting through the air like a whip. His whole body was coiled tight, his scent spiking sharply raw, protective, untouchable.
Charles whimpered, nuzzling closer to Carlos’s chest, and that tiny sound made Carlos’s stance even more unmovable.
"He needs space," the nurse tried again, softer this time. "Privacy-"
"You dont know what he fucking needs. And I am his space," Carlos snarled, baring his teeth. "I stay, or he goes nowhere."
Behind him, the room had frozen. Staff stared, rooted to the spot by the alpha’s pure, unrelenting fury.
The nurse finally lifted her hands in surrender, stepping back slowly.
"Alright," she said carefully. "Together, then. We’ll prepare a room."
Carlos didn’t thank her. He didn’t even move until he was certain no one else would try to take Charles from him. Only then did he start walking, slowly, carrying his trembling omega toward the back rooms where he could finally get Charles the help he needed without ever letting him go.
A doctor with ice-cold eyes and gray thin hair entered the room with two FIA officials on his back. He made a feeble attempt to take Charles from Carlos’s hold. Carlos bared his teeth. “You touch him without telling me what you are doing, and you lose your hand.”
The nurse faltered, behind the doctor, her clipboard trembling slightly.
Charles whimpered, clinging tighter to Carlos’s chest, scenting him desperately. His collar, the disgusting stamped leather one the FIA had forced on him, was cutting into his skin, and his scent normally ripe, fresh peaches reeked of acid and salt.
Charles was shivering in his arms, and Carlos could feel the wild spike of his suppressed instincts trying to break free. He started murmuring soft, soothing Spanish under his breath. “Mi vida, mi vida, I’ve got you, nobody touches you, nobody.” The beta doctor spoke, wearing a grim expression. He didn’t look Carlos in the eye. “The FIA changed his suppressant pills.”
Carlos froze. His blood ran ice-cold. “Changed it?” he spat. “Without our consent?”
“They said it was part of the Athlete Support Program. They didn’t notify teams directly.” The doctor’s voice was hollow.
“What did they give him?” Carlos barked.
“An experimental formula. It suppresses stronger... pair-bonding behaviors. Cuts emotional response time. They said it would make omegas more 'resilient' under pressure.”
Carlos's vision blackened at the edges. Resilient? Charles was breaking in his arms.
“They’re trying to make him numb,” Carlos growled. “Not resilient.”
The doctor hesitated. “FIA does not think so. Mr. Sainz, if you let us, we will give pain meds and examine what is wrong.”
“No more drugs,” Carlos snapped. “Nothing unless I see it. I read it and approve it.”
The doctor swallowed. “Of course.” He motioned to a nurse, who quickly brought over a clipboard stacked with documentation, sterile, official, pages stamped with the FIA's cold insignia.
Carlos took it, holding Charles with one arm while flipping through the sheets with the other. His fingers trembled, not from fear, but from rage barely held in check.
He first took a look at the suppressant formula. There were high levels of atrazine and mifepristone his face crumpled they were thought obut these substances in school but he could not remember them. Then he read the claimed effects of the pills: experimental, proprietary. Suppression of hormonal instability. Monitoring compliance rates. Emotional regulation. It was like a fucking leash.
But the pain relief listed was different. Standard. Fast-metabolizing. Non-invasive. Carlos exhaled sharply through his nose. Fine. He would allow it. Only that.
“Do it,” he barked, “but nothing else. You touch him without telling me, I will break your hands.” .
Now Charles was lying on the padded table, an IV cord tied to the back of his hand. The fluid was consistently dripping, giving him stable pain medication. He seemed more at ease, but he was not wired.
“Mr. Sainz, we need to check his hormone levels. He wouldn’t even sense a thing if you allow it. It’s just two small tubes of blood, nothing more.”
Carlos gritted his teeth. Every instinct screamed at him to say no to protect, to shield but he knew he had to choose his battles carefully. If it would ease Charles’s pain... if it would get them out of here faster...
He grumbled a reluctant, “Fine.”
The doctors moved swiftly, drawing blood from Charles’s arm while Carlos never let go of his free hand, clinging to it.
Charles eventually drifted into a restless headspace still awake but toeing the line to falling asleep, his lashes fluttering against red cheeks, looking heartbreakingly young. Carlos stayed at his side, never once letting go, his thumb brushing gentle circles over Charles’s knuckles. Time crawled by. Finally, footsteps approached hurriedly, nervous. The doctor returned, clutching a tablet of results, his face drained of color. Behind him, an alpha FIA official lingered, cold and silent. The doctor let him speak, too much of a coward to face Carlos’s fury directly.
“Mr. Sainz...” The oficial said. “There’s... one final procedure we need. An ultrasound. It’s a standard order under FIA medical protocol after hormonal irregularities. We would highly ask you to cooperate. It will not harm Mr. Leclerc. And after that... you both may leave. With precautions, if needed.”
Carlos’s jaw flexed. He hated every word. But he hated the thought of Charles suffering even more. He nodded sharply. “Okay.” His voice was low, dangerous. “But I stay.”
The doctor didn’t dare argue. Carlos turned back to Charles, smoothing the hair from his forehead with trembling fingers.
“Mi sol,” he whispered, “mi amor... just one more thing, and then we go home. I’ll build the best nest you’ve ever seen. I swear it.”
Charles stirred at the sound of his voice, nuzzling weakly into Carlos’s arm with a small, broken noise. Carlos held him tighter, feeling something raw and fragile crack open inside his chest. The nurse approached, holding the ultrasound wand awkwardly. She didn’t even dare reach for Charles, fearing Carlos.
Carlos caught the hesitation, without waiting, he gently lifted Charles’s T-shirt himself, exposing the soft skin of his lower belly. The gel was cold when it touched Charles, and he flinched instinctively, letting out a small whimper.
“Shhh, shhh,” Carlos purred softly, voice dropping into the soothing, instinctive register of an alpha calming his omega. “It’s alright, mi amor. Just one more. Nothing to worry about. I’m right here.” Charles was now more awake. More aware of the things happening around him.
The gel on Charles’s stomach was cold and sticky, the ultrasound machine humming softly. Carlos kept his eyes glued to the screen, watching the shifting shadows without understanding what he was supposed to see.
The doctor hesitated, adjusted the probe once, twice his face growing graver each time.
Carlos noticed it: the way the nurse’s hands shook. The way the FIA officials suddenly stood very, very still. Finally, the doctor pulled the wand away and wiped the gel from Charles’s skin with trembling hands.
He couldn’t meet Carlos’s eyes.
“Explain,” Carlos growled, low and threatening.
The doctor swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper.
“We… we detected elevated beta-hCG levels in Mr. Leclerc’s bloodwork,” he said.
“That typically indicates pregnancy.”
Carlos froze. Pregnancy? The doctor rushed on, stumbling over his words.
“However… the ultrasound confirmed… There is no viable embryo. No heartbeat. We believe…”
He faltered, glancing fearfully at the FIA officials. “Believe what?” he snarled.
The doctor flinched.
“We believe the suppressant formula Mr. Leclerc was issued the new one, under FIA regulation, contained compounds that could lead to pregnancy loss. Like atrazine and mifepristone”
He paused, twisting his hands nervously.
“It can cause spontaneous fetal rejection… if conception has already occurred.”
Charles’s breath hitched. Carlos’s world tilted. He stared blankly at the doctor for a moment. They had changed Charles’s medication. Had smiled and handed him poison and killed their baby before either of them even knew it existed.
Slowly, he turned toward the FIA officials lingering by the doorway, pretending to look busy. Their expensive suits. Their clipped smiles. Their pitiful attempts not to meet his gaze.
“You did this,” Carlos said, voice deadly calm. “You murdered my pup.”
The nearest official stepped back instinctively. “Mr. Sainz, please, we were just following new medical guidelines.”
“Guidelines?” Carlos roared. His voice shook the sterile walls of the clinic.
“You fed him poison and called it regulation! You killed something he didn’t even know he had! This shitshow is starting to get out of hand”
“Get out of my sight,” Carlos snarled. “Before I stop caring who’s watching.” And they scattered like cockroaches, fleeing the room.
*
Carlos still held Charles close, the omega's limp body tucked into his chest as if he could shield him from the world. His heart thundered with rage, but his movements were careful, reverent. He turned toward the exit only to find two FIA security guards standing in front of the door, blocking their path.
"Mr. Sainz," one said stiffly. "We need to keep Mr. Leclerc under observation for another twelve hours. It's standard protocol."
"Get out of my way."
Carlos’s voice was low and lethal, and it wasn’t a request. The guards shifted uneasily, but didn’t move. Behind them, the officials started whispering frantically into their earpieces.
They weren’t about to let Charles, their precious public image, their compliant little omega just leave.
Not without covering their mess.
Carlos tightened his arms around Charles and took a step forward, pure dominance radiating off him like a storm. His alpha instincts, normally so controlled, were burning through every inch of him now.
The guards flinched back instinctively. One put a hand on his belt, not on a weapon, but on a tranquilizer gun meant for handling uncooperative ones another new thing at the paddock. Wrong move. Carlos bared his teeth in a snarl, and the guard froze.
"If you even think of touching him," Carlos said softly, "you’ll need more than a gun to leave this room alive."
There was a beat of tense, silent standoff. Even the doctors stopped breathing. And then the head FIA official, still watching from the back, gave a tiny, frantic nod. “Let them go.” The guards stepped aside, reluctantly, heads bowed.
Without another word, Carlos carried Charles out of the clinic. Out into the garage area. Out into the humid, fuel-scented night. The paddock was mostly empty now, at almost 1.00. But even if it had been full, Carlos wouldn’t have cared.
Let them see. Let them see what they had done to his mate. He carried Charles across the lot to his car, one arm cradling him protectively, the other unlocking the door. He settled him carefully in the passenger seat, fastening the belt loosely so it wouldn't press on his stomach. Charles cried and bled the whole night, but Carlos was there trying to comfort him, snuggle him