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leqclerc · 2 months ago

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Outside the window, the world is dark, with only the occasional twinkle of a distant city or a star breaking through the velvety blackness. ↳ Charles and Bean and five birthdays over fourteen years Bean AU Words: 2527 *

She’s tiny, so small that she doesn’t even fully fill the cradle of his arms.

Charles takes in his baby’s little button of a nose, the perfect seashell of an ear, the sweep of her delicate eyelashes, her rosy cheeks. He’s pretty sure she weighs less than the trophies he’s held aloft on the podium.

One of the baby’s fists escapes the soft cocoon of her blanket. There’s a thin plastic band adorning her wrist that reads Baby Girl Leclerc.

He touches a finger to the ridge of her knuckles, feather-light. The loop of her hand closes around it with surprising tenacity.

She’s awake and alert, looking up at him with the same intensity with which he’s gazing down at her, his wonderment reflected back at him in her big, slow-blinking eyes. Logically, he knows that he’s little more than a hazy image swimming across her blurry vision, but it still feels a lot like I know you. I remember you.

Of course she does—for months her entire world had been narrowed down to just him, and the timbre of his voice, and the warm steady beating of his heart and the oxygen they both shared. He’s everything she’s ever known; the first person she’s ever met.

It’s an all-consuming, dizzying thought. He hopes he doesn’t disappoint her. He’s not perfect, but he can be better. They did okay, so far, didn’t they, to get to this point.

“Béatrice,” he murmurs. “Chérie.”

one

Charles flies out of Amsterdam on Sunday evening. On the jet, he takes stock: the race was—okay. It could’ve been better, but mostly, it could’ve been worse.

He’d ended up on the podium, at least, but he’s under no illusion that this will have any bearing on his championship hopes—those fizzled out before they ever had a chance to be fully-formed, the garage already resigned to another year of next year.

Bean’s already asleep by the time he arrives at the apartment to relieve Pascale of her babysitting duties. He leaves his bags in the hallway and goes to check on her, like he always does.

She had been asleep long enough now that she had starfished over half the crib. The glow-in-the-dark stars—a staple of his own childhood—form a galaxy overhead, with her at the heart of this makeshift universe. She looks so soft in sleep. He wonders what she’s dreaming about.

✿

The morning sun filters softly through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the nursery. He allows Bean to wake up at her own pace, then guides her through her morning routine as usual.

“Happy birthday, mon petit chou,” Charles says softly after she’s changed and dressed and ready to start her day. He lifts her high above his head, kissing both of her cheeks as she laughs, before settling her on his hip. Though unaware of the significance of today’s date, she easily picks up on the mood, her excitement mirroring his.

There’s a celebratory cupcake waiting for her on the coffee table in the living room, a single candle perched in the center. Charles carries her over, leaning in so she can get a closer look. He watches as she stares at the candle with wide eyes, mesmerized by the flickering flame.

“Are you ready to make a wish?” He gently takes her small hand in his, helping her to understand what they’re about to do.

They successfully blow out the candle, the flame reduced to a tendril of gray smoke. Well—it’s mostly Charles doing the work as Bean lets out an amusing little puff of air in an attempt to mimic him. Still, he claps for her to show her she did well in an encouraging, positive affirmation kind of way. She giggles, clearly pleased with herself, and Charles can’t help but laugh along with her.

six

The Vista jet cruises smoothly through the night sky, the soft hum of the engines providing a gentle, rhythmic backdrop to the otherwise quiet, dimly-lit cabin. Charles sits in one of the plush leather seats, the glow from a single overhead light casting a warm, faint circle around him. Outside the window, the world is dark, with only the occasional twinkle of a distant city or a star breaking through the velvety blackness.

Bean’s curled up on the seat across from him, sleeping off another busy, excitement-filled day in the paddock. The blanket he draped over her has shifted, so he leans over and carefully tucks it back around her, making sure she’s comfortable.

As Charles sits back, he glances at his watch, noticing the time. It’s just past midnight, marking the official start of Bean’s birthday in their timezone. A soft smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as he realizes it’s already her day, and here she is, sleeping soundly, completely unaware.

There’s a perceptible shift in the weight of Bean’s body when she falls asleep—even now, when she sometimes dozes off in his arms and he has to carry her to the car, her limbs going loose like she’s giving her whole self over to Charles. It’s an achingly artless kind of trust.

Tonight, in the quiet cocoon of the jet, it feels as if time has blessedly slowed down, just for a moment. He reaches over and gently brushes a curl from her forehead, careful not to wake her. The soft rise and fall of her breathing is steady and soothing.

In just a few hours, they will land in Nice, where the city lights will greet them as they descend toward the coast. They’ll celebrate her birthday properly then, with cake, presents, and all the things she loves. But for now, Charles is content to sit here in the calm of the night, watching over her.

eleven

Charles retreats to his driver’s room after the Sunday morning strategy meeting, glad for the respite, a moment away from the bustle of the race weekend. He glances at his phone again, his thoughts drifting to his daughter.

It’s her birthday today, and for the first time, they aren’t spending it together. Instead, Bean is miles away at a karting circuit in the south of France, competing in one of the biggest races of her blossoming junior career.

His heart tugs as he imagines her, blonde curls wild under her helmet, focused and determined, not unlike him. He knows this is exactly where she wants to be, doing what she loves, but it doesn’t make the time apart any easier. He’s always been there for her birthdays. Not being there today feels strange.

Charles sighs and taps his phone, pulling up FaceTime. He waits a moment, hoping she’s not on track or too caught up in pre-race nerves.

A few rings later, Bean’s face appears on the screen. She’s sitting in the paddock of the karting circuit, green eyes bright with excitement, cheeks flushed from the heat of the day. The sight of her, even through the phone, makes Charles smile.

“Happy birthday, ma puce!” he says, voice warm.

“Thanks, papa!” Bean grins, her usual exuberance shining through. “Ready for the race?”

Charles chuckles. “Always. But today’s not about me, it is about you. How are you feeling? Nervous?”

“A little,” she admits, pushing a stray curl behind her ear. “It’s a big race, and... I kind of wish you were here.”

His chest tightens at her words. He hates being apart on days like this, but he knows how much karting means to her, and this is an important milestone in her young racing career. “I know, Bean. I wish I could be there too. I’d give anything to watch you race today.”

She smiles softly, though he can see a touch of sadness behind it. “It’s okay. I get it. You’re doing your thing, and I’m doing mine. I mean, it’s kind of cool we’re both racing on my birthday, right?”

“It might be a sign,” he says. “Two Leclercs racing on the same day—it’s got to be good luck.”

Bean laughs, her mood lifting. “I hope so. I’m going for the win today.”

“I am sure you’ll do great,” Charles reassures her. “You’ve worked so hard for this. Just trust yourself and enjoy it, okay?”

She nods, her confidence slowly returning. “Yeah, I will. And you? You better win your race too. It’ll be like an extra birthday present.”

Charles chuckles. “No pressure, huh?”

A brief pause follows. He takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry I’m not there, Bean. I wish I could’ve made it work. But I’m proud of you for everything you’re doing. Always.”

“I know, papa,” she says softly.

A beat, and then: “I miss you.” There’s a startlingly vulnerable expression on her face, eyes big and guileless. “But I’m okay.”

He smiles, feeling a swell of emotion. “That’s my girl.”

Suddenly, someone in the background calls her name, probably one of her karting team members. She looks over her shoulder, then back at Charles. “I have to go now, I think. I’ll call you after the race?”

“Of course. I want to hear all about it,” he says. “Good luck, chérie.”

“Thanks, papa. You too.”

Charles stares at the screen for a long, lonely moment after the call ends, feeling a mess of conflicting emotions.

fourteen

The lights at the hotel’s two-Michelin-starred restaurant have been dimmed for the dinner service. A gentle murmur of conversation floats through the air.

Béatrice’s gaze drifts to the name card that sits beside a bouquet of fresh water lilies—its elegant lettering marking her place at one of those reservation only tables—and then beyond it, at the expansive windows that afford sweeping views of the impeccably manicured hotel gardens, bathed in the moonlight. She longs to excuse herself, to step outside and drink in the night air, but forces herself to stay seated as the first course arrives: a delicate plate of lobster carpaccio, thin slices of tender meat arranged artfully with microgreens, lemon zest, and a drizzle of olive oil. It’s one of those dining experiences where the dish is dwarfed by the size of the plate it’s served on.

The meal is rich and flavourful, as expected, but her sour mood has sapped her appetite. She takes a few bites, then resorts to subtly pushing her food around the plate as her eyes drift to Charles.

He’s sitting next to her, but his attention is elsewhere. She watches as he makes polite, uninspired conversation with sponsors, wearing a practiced smile as he nods along to some business magnate’s stock market analysis. She doesn’t recognize the man, vaguely wonders if she should. He’s like everybody else here, just another face in the sea of well-dressed guests that surrounds them—models, executives, and industry moguls mingling easily, all gathered for Giorgio Armani’s exclusive event. Everyone seems so absorbed in their glamorous world—except her.

The second course is a perfectly cooked filet of beef, topped with shaved truffle and paired with a side of buttered potatoes and seasonal vegetables that looks like it came straight from a painting. It melts in her mouth, but it still doesn’t feel right. She shifts in her seat. The straps of her Chanel ballet flats bite into her ankles.

She understands—these events are important for his career. It’s just. It’s not how she imagined spending her birthday.

Dessert is an intricate chocolate mille-feuille with layers so fine and precise they look almost too perfect to eat. It’s accompanied by a tiny scoop of Tahitian vanilla gelato—and she has to admit, it’s delicious. But the grandeur of it all only makes her long for home that bit more.

As Charles leans in to chat with one of the executives seated beside them, Béatrice glances at her father. He looks handsome, as he always does in formal attire—crisp white shirt and tailored black Armani suit, the smoky, earthy notes of Tom Ford’s Oud Wood lingering long after the conversation has ended. But she can see the faint tension in his smile, the subtle weariness in his eyes. He’s working, even now, appeasing sponsors with casual banter and posing for photos whenever someone approaches their table. He makes the politesse look effortless, but she knows better. This isn’t how he wants to spend the evening either.

She sighs softly, glancing down at her watch. It’s well past 10 p.m., and they’re still at the table, with no sign of the event winding down anytime soon. She twirls a strand of her curly blonde hair absentmindedly, her eyes wandering the room, taking in the unfamiliar faces.

Charles, catching her fidgeting out of the corner of his eye, places a gentle hand on her arm. “Okay, Bean?” he asks quietly, his voice soft with concern.

She nods but can’t hide the weariness in her expression. “I’m fine,” she says, though the truth bleeds through her words.

Charles frowns, guilt creasing his brow. “I know this isn’t how you wanted to spend your birthday, mon cœur. I’ll make it up to you, I promise,” he says, squeezing her hand gently.

Béatrice offers him a small, understanding smile. “It’s okay, papa.”

He nods, his heart heavy as he glances at the surrounding tables. The guests are still engrossed in their own conversations. With a deep breath, Charles makes up his mind. They’ve done their duty, fulfilled their obligation. Now it’s time to leave.

“Let’s go,” he whispers, standing up and excusing himself from the table with polite nods to the sponsors.

Her eyes light up with relief as she grabs her small handbag and follows him out of the restaurant, the cool night air hitting her face and easing the tension she hadn’t realized had built up in her shoulders. A sleek, black chauffeured Mercedes waits at the hotel entrance, the driver opening the door for them as they slide into the back seat. Charles gives her a tired smile as the car pulls away from the hotel, heading towards the airport.

She leans her head against the window as they speed through the quiet streets of Milan, watching the city lights blur past. By the time they arrive at the airport, the weight of the evening has caught up to both of them. The private jet is waiting on the tarmac, ready to whisk them away.

She claims the familiar window seat, and he settles into the seat beside her, leaning back and watching as she makes herself comfortable, curling up and resting her head on his lap, like she used to when she was small. He cards a soft hand through her hair as they lift off into the night sky.

✿

Charles surprises her with a silk Hermès Équateur scarf, the one with the vibrant jungle print. He smiles, watching her trace the shape of each animal with something akin to reverence. And then Sebastian’s just unbearably old school about it, gifting her a curated CD mix of songs he thinks she might enjoy.

They sit on a bench overlooking the Limmat, eating a selection of pastries from a local café—schnecken, with cinnamon and hazelnuts, nussgipfel, and warm, buttery croissants. The water is calm. The pastries melt in their mouths. Béatrice leans against Charles, resting her head on his shoulder, content in the moment. Sebastian sits beside them, stretching out his legs and tilting his face up towards the sun.

#showing up a week late with birthday cake!!!!!! 🎂🥳 i think about her/them more than i write about them #but! forced myself to finally finish something yay #they mean a lot to me. personally 🥺#tumblr text formatting is my nemesis actually. like it took way longer than it shouldve to get this in order #bean au #f1 rpf #(as in yeah seb haunts the narrative y/n dni)#fic tag #*mine: fic #*bean au intensifies*#long post

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