Chapter Text
The world had expanded, grown monstrous and soft. The pillow beneath him was a vast, white landscape. The duvet cover, a crumpled mountain range of Egyptian cotton. Charles tried to sit up, a familiar motion, but his balance was all wrong. A wave of dizziness made him slump back down. Something felt off. More than off. His body was… compact. Dense. He lifted a hand to rub his face and froze.
That was not his hand.
It was a paw. A small, furry paw, covered in fine, light tan fur. He stared at it, uncomprehending. He flexed. Five tiny, needle-sharp claws emerged from pink pads. A sound, a pathetic, high-pitched mewl, escaped his throat. His throat. That was not his voice.
Panic, cold and absolute, shot through him. He scrambled, his new limbs tangling in the plush fabric of the pillowcase. He fell off the edge, landing silently on a much larger pillow below. The room. He knew this room. The minimalist decor, the single framed abstract print, the specific scent of sandalwood and clean linen. This was a driver’s room in the paddock. His paddock. But not his room.
His gaze swept the space, landing on a Louis Vuitton weekend bag left open on a chair. A flash of purple and yellow from a discarded t-shirt. He knew that shirt. His heart, a tiny, frantic drum in a small ribcage, hammered against his chest. This was Lewis’s room.
The door hissed open. Charles froze, every hair on his new body standing on end. Lewis Hamilton walked in, earbuds in, humming softly to himself. He was still in his team kit, looking focused but relaxed. He tossed his key card onto the side table and walked towards the bed, his back to the small, terrified creature on his pillow.
This was it. He had to communicate. He opened his mouth. “Meow.”
Lewis paused, his head tilting. He pulled an earbud out. “What was…”
“Meow! Meeeeeow!” Charles tried again, putting as much urgency as he could into the pathetic sound. He took a few wobbly steps forward on the duvet.
Lewis turned around. His eyebrows shot up. “Oh. Hello there. How did you get in here?” His voice was gentle, curious. He took a slow step closer, crouching down to be at eye level. Charles saw his own reflection in Lewis’s dark eyes – a small, pointed face with striking blue eyes, pale fur darkening to a rich brown on his ears, face, paws, and tail. A Siamese cat.
“You’re a beautiful thing, aren’t you?” Lewis murmured, holding out a hand. Charles, driven by desperation, stumbled forward and butted his head against Lewis’s fingers. The touch was grounding. “Lost, I suppose. The team will have a fit if they find a cat in here. Come on, let’s get you to someone who can help.”
No! Charles panicked. He couldn’t be taken away. He darted forward, not away, and climbed. His claws caught in Lewis’s fireproof undershirt. He scrabbled up, a clumsy, desperate ascent, until he was perched on Lewis’s shoulder, pressing his small face against the man’s neck.
“Whoa, okay, hey,” Lewis said, a laugh in his voice. He steadied the cat with a large, careful hand. “Friendly, aren’t you? Or just scared.” He made to lift Charles down, but Charles clung on, a quiet, desperate chirp escaping him. He butted his head under Lewis’s jaw, a gesture that felt instinctively right.
Lewis sighed, his posture softening. “Alright, alright. Just for a minute.” He walked over to the small sofa and sat down, carefully extracting the cat from his shoulder and placing him on the cushion beside him. Charles sat, wrapping his tail tightly around his paws, his blue eyes fixed on Lewis’s face.
“I need to get ready for the briefing,” Lewis said, more to himself. He reached for his phone. Charles saw his chance. As Lewis’s thumb moved to unlock the screen, Charles lunged. It was awkward, but he managed to bat the phone with both paws, sending it skittering onto the carpet.
“Hey!” Lewis frowned, reaching for it. Charles jumped down, landing with a soft thump, and placed a firm paw directly on the screen. He looked at Lewis, then deliberately looked at the phone, then back at Lewis. He lifted his paw and tapped it. Once. Twice.
Lewis stared. “That’s… odd.” He retrieved the phone. Charles meowed, insistently. He walked a few paces, stopped, looked back at Lewis, and meowed again. He jumped onto the desk where Lewis’s laptop sat, closed. He sat beside it and let out a long, demanding yowl.
A deep frown creased Lewis’s forehead. He walked over slowly. “What is it with this laptop?” He opened it. The screen lit up, prompting for a password. Charles watched him intently. Lewis input his password, still watching the cat. The desktop loaded – a simple wallpaper of a geometric design.
Charles shuffled closer. The movement was difficult. He lifted a paw, extended a single claw with immense concentration, and began to drag it across the trackpad. The cursor moved jerkily. Lewis’s breath hitched. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Charles fought with the trackpad, his movements uncoordinated but deliberate. He managed to open a blank note-taking application. It took agonizing minutes. He pecked at the keyboard with his nose, one key at a time. A… C… H… He was exhausted, his small body trembling with effort.
“A… C… H…” Lewis read aloud, his voice a bare whisper. His eyes, wide with disbelief, shot from the screen to the cat’s face. The cat with the intense blue eyes. Charles tapped a few more keys. A… R… L…
“Charles?” The name was a shocked exhale.
Charles, the cat, slumped in relief. He gave a slow, deliberate blink, then nodded his head as much as his feline anatomy would allow.
“No.” Lewis took a step back. “No, that’s impossible. This is… a trick. A very strange, very elaborate trick.” But his mind was racing. The cat’s sudden appearance. Its familiar, insistent behavior. The way it looked at him. Not like a cat looks at a human, but like Charles looked at him when he was confused by a car’s setting – frustrated, seeking understanding.
Charles meowed, a soft, pleading sound. He jumped off the desk, stumbled, and walked to Lewis’s bag. He nudged it, then looked at Lewis. He then walked to the door, sat down, and looked back.
“You want to go out? To the paddock?” Lewis asked, the rational part of his brain completely offline now, overridden by sheer, bizarre circumstance.
Charles nodded again.
“To prove it’s you.” Lewis ran a hand over his face. “Okay. Okay. This is insane. But if you are Charles… and you’re a cat… we can’t just walk out there. They’ll take you to animal control, or someone will adopt you, or a seagull will try to eat you.” The sheer absurdity of the statement hung in the air. He grabbed a small, padded team duffel he used for his gloves and balaclavas. He emptied it. “In here. For now. Just until we’re somewhere… private.”
Charles considered this. The bag was dark and confined. But Lewis’s face was serious, concerned. This was his teammate. The one person here he had to trust implicitly. He gave a small chirp and, with Lewis’s help, climbed into the bag. Lewis left it partially unzipped, a slit for air and light.
The walk through the paddock was the most surreal experience of Lewis’s life, narrowly edging out his first championship win. He carried the bag casually, nodding at mechanics, giving a wave to a journalist. Inside, Charles was a tense, silent weight. He could hear everything – the shriek of an air gun, the rumble of a hospitality generator, familiar voices. He stayed still, trusting Lewis’s lead.
Lewis didn’t go to the Ferrari hospitality. He bypassed it completely, heading instead for a quieter corner of the Mercedes motorhome. He had his own small driver’s room there too, a backup space. Once inside, he locked the door and opened the bag.
Charles tumbled out, shaking himself. He looked around the sterile, silver-and-black room, then up at Lewis.
“Right,” Lewis said, sitting on the edge of the desk. “Talk. Or, communicate. How? Why?”
Charles gave a helpless shrug of his tiny shoulders. He had no answers. He walked to a whiteboard on the wall. Lewis, understanding, handed him a whiteboard marker. It was comically large. Charles tried to grip it in his mouth, failed, and simply nudged it with his nose towards Lewis.
“You want me to write?” Lewis uncapped it. “Okay. Question and… nod or shake. Are you really Charles Leclerc?”
Charles nodded emphatically.
“Do you know how this happened?”
A firm shake. No.
“Do you know how to change back?”
A slower, more dejected shake. No.
“Does anyone else know?”
Charles hesitated. He thought of George, of Lando, of Max, of Oscar. Of the complicated, tangled web of affection and history he had with each of them. But none of them knew this. He shook his head. Only you, he tried to convey with his eyes.
Lewis sighed, putting the marker down. “Okay. Okay. We need to keep you hidden. And we need to figure this out. But first, I have to go to the engineering briefing. I can’t miss it, or they’ll send a search party. You have to stay here. Don’t make a sound.”
Charles’s eyes widened in panic. He let out a quiet, distressed mew.
“I’ll be quick. I promise. And I’ll bring you some water. And… I don’t know, some chicken from the kitchen.” Lewis found a shallow dish and filled it with water from a bottle. He placed it on the floor. Charles, realizing the practicality, drank, lapping awkwardly with a tiny pink tongue. It was humiliating and necessary.
Lewis left, locking the door behind him. The silence was oppressive. Charles explored the room, jumping onto the chair, then the desk. The boredom and anxiety were immense. Time stretched. He heard footsteps outside once, and froze, his fur on end, but they passed.
Then, a new sound. A keycard in the lock. Too soon for Lewis. The door opened.
George Russell poked his head in. “Lewis? Toto said you might be… oh.”
He stepped fully inside, his eyes landing on the cat sitting bolt upright on Lewis Hamilton’s desk. Charles’s heart plummeted.
George’s face broke into an immediate, delighted smile. “Well, hello! Who are you?” He approached, his movements slow and friendly. Charles didn’t know what to do. Run? Hide? But George was already reaching out, his fingers scratching gently behind Charles’s ear.
It felt good. Instinctively, Charles leaned into the touch, a purr rumbling to life in his chest. He couldn’t stop it.
“Aren’t you friendly,” George cooed, his voice soft. “And so pretty. What are you doing in here, all alone?” He scooped Charles up with both hands, holding him against his chest. Charles went rigid, then reluctantly relaxed. George’s hold was secure, warm. He smelled of fresh laundry and a faint, citrusy cologne. It was a comforting, familiar smell. George had held him like this before, after a tough race, a friendly, supportive hug. This was different, but the essence was the same. George, being kind.
“You look a bit like him, you know,” George mused, looking into Charles’s blue eyes. “Same intense stare. Maybe a bit less tragic, thankfully.” He laughed at his own joke, stroking Charles’s back. “I should take you to the folks at security. You’re probably someone’s pet.”
No! Charles squirmed, pushing against George’s chest with his paws.
“Whoa, okay, easy. Don’t want to go?” George adjusted his grip, cradling Charles like a baby. “I don’t blame you. It’s chaos out there. You can hang with me for a bit. I’m waiting for Lando anyway. He’s been looking for Charles all morning, says he’s not in his room, phone goes to voicemail. Bit weird, even for him.”
At the mention of Lando, Charles’s ears twitched. George noticed. “You like that name? Lando? He’d probably try to put a tiny hat on you.” George sat down in the chair, holding Charles in his lap. He continued to pet him, long, smooth strokes from head to tail. Charles felt the purr intensify, a traitorous, automatic response. This was a disaster. A warm, pleasant disaster.
The door burst open without a knock. “Georgie! Have you seen… oh my god, a cat!”
Lando Norris stood in the doorway, his face instantly alight with joy. He bounded over. “Where did you get that? Is it a paddock cat? Can I hold it?”
“It was just in here,” George said, relinquishing Charles easily. “Seems lost.”
Lando gathered Charles up, his hold more exuberant, less careful than George’s. He brought Charles up to his face, their noses almost touching. Charles stared into Lando’s bright, mischievous eyes. “Hello, little mate! You’re so cool! Look at your face! You look so serious.” Lando giggled, cuddling Charles close. “Charles is missing, but I found you instead! Maybe you’re a good luck charm.”
The sound of his own name on Lando’s lips, in this context, sent a weird thrill through Charles. Lando was tactile, always had been with him – slinging an arm over his shoulders, ruffling his hair. This was an extreme version of that. Lando sat on the floor, cross-legged, and placed Charles in the space between his legs, gently playing with his paws. “Do you think it’s a he or a she? Look at the pattern. So fancy. Fancier than my pajamas.”
“It’s a he, I think,” George said, watching with an amused smile. “And I was just telling him you’d put a hat on him.”
“That’s a brilliant idea!” Lando exclaimed. “I have a little team cap in my bag! It would be so small on him. We have to. For the ‘gram. It’ll break the internet. ‘Lando Norris finds the coolest paddock cat’.”
Charles had to stop this. He tried to extricate himself, but Lando’s hands were gentle but persistent. He was being manhandled, cooed over, and planned for a social media takeover. The door opened again.
This time, it was Lewis. He stopped short, taking in the scene: George in his chair, Lando on the floor with the cat, a look of mild horror on his face.
“Lewis! Look what we found in your room!” Lando said, holding Charles up.
“Yes, I… see,” Lewis said, his voice carefully neutral. “I was, uh, looking after him for a moment.”
“He’s adorable,” George said. “We were just keeping him company. Lando wants to give him a photoshoot.”
“No photoshoot,” Lewis said firmly, stepping forward and taking Charles from Lando’s hands. The action was swift, proprietary. Charles went limp with relief in Lewis’s hold. “He’s… shy. And he might belong to someone. I’m handling it.”
Lando pouted. “You’re no fun. Just one picture?”
“No, Lando,” Lewis said, his tone leaving no room for argument. It was his teammate voice, the one that brooked no nonsense. “You two should go find the actual person you were looking for. Any sign of Charles?”
The mood shifted. George stood up, his expression turning concerned. “Nothing. His phone is off. His trainers said he never showed up for his morning routine. It’s not like him. Fred is getting worried.”
Lewis’s hand, stroking Charles’s back, stilled for a second. “I’m sure he’s fine. Maybe he just needed some space. You know how it gets.”
Lando shrugged, getting to his feet. “Yeah, maybe. But if you see the mystery man, tell him to call me. Or text. Or something.” He gave the cat in Lewis’s arms a final, longing look. “Bye, kitty. Be good for Grumpy Lewis.”
Once they were gone, Lewis locked the door again. He looked down at Charles. “That was close. And complicated.” Charles just buried his face in Lewis’s elbow, exhausted and overwhelmed.
Lewis managed to procure some plain grilled chicken from the kitchen, which Charles ate from a napkin on the floor, his manners completely gone. The rest of the afternoon passed in a tense, quiet blur. Lewis had to attend meetings, but he moved Charles to a more secure, larger equipment case with air holes, taking him to his own driver’s room in the Ferrari hospitality. It was a risk, but less of one than leaving him alone in the Mercedes area. He placed the case in a corner, half-hidden under a table. “Stay quiet,” he whispered through the air holes before leaving.
Charles tried to sleep, but the sounds of his own team around him – mechanics speaking in Italian, engineers discussing data – kept him on edge. He must have drifted off, because the next thing he knew, the case was being moved. Not by Lewis. The movement was jerky. The case was set down, and the latches were opened.
Blinding light. Charles blinked. He was in a different room, one smelling of faint petrol, high-tech polymer, and an aggressive, sporty deodorant. Red Bull colors were everywhere.
Max Verstappen peered into the case, a frown on his face. “What is this doing here? Lewis said it was spare parts for…” His voice trailed off as he saw the cat. His blue eyes, so familiar yet so different from this low angle, narrowed. “A cat? Since when does Hamilton ferry cats around in equipment cases?”
Charles stared up, paralyzed. Max. Of all people. Max reached in, not with George’s gentle curiosity or Lando’s playful excitement, but with a sort of pragmatic briskness. He lifted Charles out by his torso, holding him up for inspection. Charles dangled, limp.
“Siamese,” Max stated, as if identifying a component. “Expensive. What is the play here?” He wasn’t talking to Charles. He was thinking aloud. He brought Charles closer, examining him. His gaze was intense, analytical. It was the look he gave a rival’s car, or a tricky corner on a simulator. Charles felt utterly seen, and not in a good way.
Max carried him over to a small couch and sat, placing Charles beside him but keeping a firm hand on his back. “You are not a normal paddock cat. You are too clean. Too… pampered. And Hamilton was acting strange with this case.” He looked directly into Charles’s eyes. Charles forced himself not to look away. It felt like a challenge. A silent, stupid challenge between a man and a cat.
A slow, unsettling smile spread across Max’s face. It wasn’t a kind smile. It was a smile of dawning, terrifying comprehension. “No,” he whispered. “It is not possible. But…” He leaned closer. “Charles?” he said, the name a soft, testing bullet.
Charles couldn’t help it. His ears flicked. His pupils dilated slightly. A tiny, almost imperceptible flinch.
Max saw it all. His smile vanished, replaced by a look of sheer, stunned amazement. “It is you.” The words were flat, absolute. He didn’t question it. He saw the evidence and accepted the impossible conclusion. That was Max. “How?”
Charles just looked at him, a mixture of fear and resignation in his eyes.
Max’s hand, which had been resting on his back, began to stroke his fur. The gesture was different now. Not an examination, but a possession. It was firm, deliberate. “This is… incredible,” Max murmured, more to himself. “All day, people are worried. Where is Charles? Is he sick? And you are here. Like this.” His thumb rubbed behind Charles’s ear. The touch was expert, and despite everything, it felt good. Charles hated that it felt good. A low purr started in his chest, betraying him completely.
Max’s smile returned, sharp and knowing. “You always were… adaptable.” The double meaning hung in the air. His phone buzzed. He pulled it out with his free hand, still keeping the other on Charles. He glanced at the screen. “Oscar. Wondering about set-up. And about you, of course. Everyone is asking about the missing Ferrari driver.” He looked down at Charles, his blue eyes gleaming. “What should I tell him?”
Before Charles could even process how to react, there was a knock on the door. A gentle, polite knock. “Max? You in there? Got a sec about the medium tyre sim?” Oscar Piastri’s voice, calm and measured, came through the door.
Max’s eyes flashed with something – mischief, challenge. “Come in,” he called, his hand still stroking Charles’s back.
Oscar opened the door and stepped in. His eyes went straight to the cat on the couch next to Max. He blinked. “Uh. Hey. I didn’t know you had a… friend.”
“Just found him,” Max said lightly, his fingers tracing the line of Charles’s spine. “Seems to have gotten lost.”
Oscar approached, his engineer’s mind seemingly trying to compute the scene: Max Verstappen, in the middle of a race weekend, casually petting a purebred cat. “Right. Well, about the sim data, the degradation on the front left…” His sentence died as he got closer. He looked at the cat. Really looked. He crouched down, bringing himself to eye level. Charles gazed back, hoping for blank feline inscrutability.
Oscar Piastri was quiet for a long moment. His gaze was not intense like Max’s, nor playful like Lando’s, nor kindly like George’s. It was observant, deep, and thoughtful. He looked at the blue eyes, the specific color pattern, the way the cat held itself – a tense, alert poise that seemed utterly at odds with a relaxed pet.
“That’s odd,” Oscar said softly, not to Max, but almost to himself.
“What is?” Max asked, his tone innocent.
“His eyes,” Oscar murmured. He reached out, slowly. Charles didn’t move. Oscar’s fingers didn’t go for a pat. They gently brushed the fur on Charles’s head, a feather-light touch. “They’re… very green.”
Charles froze. Max’s hand stilled on his back.
Oscar knew. Not in Max’s sudden, shocking way. He knew in his quiet, certain, piecing-things-together way. He’d noticed the eyes weren’t the blue of a typical Siamese, but a sharp, familiar green. He’d connected the bizarre absence. He’d seen the cat in Max’s room, of all places. His calm, intelligent eyes met Charles’s. He didn’t say anything. He just… understood. A faint, almost imperceptible frown of wonder touched his brow.
The door swung open again, without a knock this time. Lewis stood there, out of breath, a look of sheer panic on his face. It smoothed over into forced calm as he took in the scene: Max on the couch, his hand on Charles-the-cat, and Oscar Piastri crouched before them, his fingers still in the cat’s fur.
Four of them. In a room. One small, furry secret at the center of it all.
Lewis cleared his throat. “There you are,” he said, his voice strained. “I’ve been looking for my… cat.”
Max’s grip on Charles tightened, just a fraction. Oscar slowly stood up, his expression unreadable. He looked from Lewis, to Max, to the cat, and then back to Lewis.
“Your cat, Lewis?” Max said, his voice dripping with a fake, casual curiosity. “That’s funny. He doesn’t seem to like you very much. He hasn’t tried to run to you at all.”
Charles, trapped under Max’s hand, with Oscar’s knowing gaze on him, and Lewis’s desperate eyes across the room, felt the world shrink to a impossible point. The secret was out. Not to everyone. But to the ones who mattered perhaps a little too much. And as Lewis stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, the fragile normalcy of the day shattered completely.