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Chapter Text

October 2029

When George sees her, the first thing he thinks is—

Well. Alex, sweat-soaked and completely shocked, says it best when the midwife first lifts Baby Girl up from between his legs, and sets her against his chest.

“Oh my God.”

He sounds terrified; even as his arms come up on instinct to cradle her, George thinks that the midwife may as well have handed Alex a tarantula, or a live nuclear warhead. He’s not spoken in hours, barely made a sound beyond the small, sharp little pants he’d let out between pushes. He’s still on the birthing stool, George is still sat behind, helping him to balance. He’s just brought their daughter into the world— and apparently there’s only one thing he has to say about it. “Oh my God. Oh my God…”

It’s a pretty decent summary, if George is being honest: sort of awed, sort of begging for fucking mercy. Parenting encompassed, and exemplified, and she’s not even half a minute old.

George can’t quite account for how he feels, in the seconds that follow. There’s joy there, of course, and more love than he knows what to do with— but there’s also the very real, very scary fact that she’s here, no longer tucked safely away inside Alex, where all they really had to do to ensure her safety was keep him off raw fish, and pray that the many, many plane rides between races would take off and land without incident. He’s shaking, he realises, only when he reaches up to wipe at the bright red smear Baby Girl has left on Alex’s chin where he’s holding her close. George’s thumb catches in it, and for just a second makes it worse. He can’t really see properly; he’s dizzy, and the tears streaking down his cheeks don’t make it any easier— and in the end he just does what he’d wanted to do all along, kisses Alex, viscera and all, as their daughter screams furiously, beautifully, between them.

“Hello, little love,” George says thickly, and only then does Alex give a great big sniff too, smiling so wide despite the state he’s in. It’s like permission, in a way; her name slips out of him seconds later, new to the world at large, if not to them. “Hello Emily…”

“Oh, that’s lovely.”

The midwife’s been a gem, George has to admit. Twelve-plus hours on her feet, and she’s smiling almost as much as they are. “Little Emily, welcome— and you did so well, Alex.”

“Cheers.”

“No, you did.” There’s a good scrub-down for Emily, and a damp cloth for George to help Alex do the same, wiping his chin clean from blood, and his forehead clear of sweat. “Really - maybe the calmest I’ve ever seen. You almost made it look easy.”

“Oh, well I’m glad to hear that,” Alex says, in that disarming way he has of being completely and utterly savage whilst still smiling. “I’m glad it looked easy. It felt like shoving a whole chicken through a rubber glove.”

To give the midwife her due, she only freezes a second or two before laughing. It’s a lesson most folks have to learn the hard way, George thinks - Alex is just so bloody polite when he’s on TV.

“We’ll do her measurements and that in a bit,” she says, though far as George is concerned, she could have said anything, from ‘no one will notice three extra toes,’ to ‘we just live-streamed the whole birth on Sky Sports.’ All his focus is on the little bean in her arms, and on what she could possibly think of this big, bright world, full of strangers and smells, and so very far removed from the comfy little space she’s occupied for all this time inside Alex. It must be awful to be apart from him, and awful for Alex too, from her— which is why George is shocked when the midwife angles the little bundle, not towards Alex, but towards him instead.

“Wh—"

“Your turn, Daddy,” Alex says, and well, if George wasn’t in tears before—

It’s not the first time he’s held a baby, but it is the first time he’s been so incredibly scared to do so. He has to fight for the calm to settle around them as he cradles her little head, which should feel like a contradiction in terms, and does— only George gets this feeling that’s going to be the constant sum of his life now, so long as Emily is in it: forcing the calm, so his little girl can float.

Alex barely breaks a sweat delivering the placenta - in fact he waves off George’s attempt to hold his hand, and shortly thereafter gets (fairly) steadily to his feet, makes his way to the bed so George and Emily can join him. 

“Jesus Christ,” Alex says when he’s lying propped against the pillows, Emily against his bare chest, and a blanket around them both. “That was not fun. Like, on a scale of one to ‘we’re never having sex again,’ you’d better get used to sleeping in jeans.”

“Mm,” George says, only half-listening. He’s got a knuckle against Emily’s tiny hand, gently stroking, marvelling at the way she loosens and tightens her grip. “I can live with that. The nuns are always hiring, right?”

“Sister Russell,” Alex muses, sleepily smiling. “George ‘Wimple’ Russell…” He ekes an eye open where they’ve started to droop. “Can you tell they gave me diamorphine?”

“The thing you refused to take when you were actually in labor?” George asks, and helps scooch Emily’s bum upwards where Alex’s arms have gone loose and floppier around her. “Never could’ve guessed.”

“You’re just jealous,” Alex says, his eyes drooping again before he says: “Georgie?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you fucking believe this?”

George can’t— but there’ll be a time for words, plenty of them, when Alex isn’t half-high, and about to have the best sleep of his life. He leans over instead, and presses a kiss to his husband’s head as he gently lifts Emily into his own arms.

Alex is snoring before she’s fully off him, and though it truly pains George to put her in the little bassinet by the bed, he knows they’ll all sleep better, and safer, with her in it as opposed to in his arms.

It’s for the best, he thinks, even as he leaves one hand curled protectively over the plastic edge. After all, tomorrow or the next day, he’s got to pull off the most dangerous drive of his life to get them all home.

**

F1 Grid 2029-30

tap here for group info

12:34 - George Russell sent a photo

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Emily Aranya Albon-Russell Ansusinha 💕 29/10, 7llb 3oz

Alex is asking who won the pool.

12:35 - Andrea Kimi Antonelli

!!!

Felicitazioni fratelli!

12:36 - Esteban Ocon

🥳🥳

12:36 - Lance Stroll

nice one guys 😎

12:37 - Lewis Hamilton

Congrats guys

12:39 - Oscar Piastri

Great name 🥳 congrats

14 unread messages

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13:03 - Isack Hadjar

so who did win?

13:06 - Oscar Piastri

Lando?

13:10 - Lando Norris

so it’s a rogue win and 500 squids for lance with ‘E’ for the name then a 2k collective pot for the other 3 categories so let me just check the list

13:11 - Carlos Sainz

The suspense kills me.

13:18 - Lando Norris

yeah so can we all agree seb needs kicking from this fucking chat?

13:18 - Charles Leclerc

Seriously?

13:18 - Carlos Sainz

Really? Again?

13:19 - Fernando Alonso

vete a la mierda

13:20 - Sebastian Vettel

I don’t apologise for winning.

13:21 - Lando Norris

probably should apologise for cheating tho

13:22 - Sebastian Vettel

That is an extraordinary accusation.

13:23 - Fernando Alonso

is not a false one though?

13:23 - Sebastian Vettel

No

13:24 - Alex Albon

Alright everyone, handbags away

13:25 - George Russell

They’ve got a point @SebastianVettel. How the hell do you always win these?

13:26 - Sebastian Vettel

I’m perceptive.

13:27 - Sebastian Vettel

Though I am still not seeing €1,500 in my bank account…

13:28 - Oscar Piastri

It’s with the stewards.

13:32 - Oscar Piastri

Did you just get Mark to message me your fucking complaints?

13:33 - Sebastian Vettel

I have leverage.

13:34 - Alex Albon

Can you grab pizza?

13:35 - Oscar Piastri

??

13:34 - Alex Albon

Sorry, wrong chat

13:35 - Lando Norris

steward ruling - clear violation

13:36 - Sebastian Vettel

Bullshit. On what grounds?

13:36 - Lando Norris

on grounds that your clearly lying and you’ve been secretly measuring alex for 9 months

13:37 - Alex Albon

He hasn’t.

13:37 - Lando Norris

alex shut up this doesn’t concern you

13:35 - Lewis Hamilton

Norris I’m begging would you just pay the man?

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13:40 - Alex Albon

@GeorgeRussell Seriously, though. Pizza?

13:41 - George Russell

Yes dear.

Chapter Text

One Month ~ November

“Do you ever think about what this must be like for her?” George asks, glancing up from the changing table. “Like— she has her food, yeah— then her only ‘job,’ if you like, is to sleep, be cuddled, and then demand someone wipes her arse before feeding her again.”

“You paint quite the picture.”

“Am I wrong, though?” George shrugs. “She holds an incredible amount of power. Part of me wants to think she craves it; on the other hand, if you were having to wipe my arse, the very last thing I’d feel is powerful.”

“You might find out one day,” Alex points out, then has to dodge as the father of his child flings an actual shit-streaked wetwipe at his head.

“Is that better, darling?” George coos, and as always happens, Alex feels his belly fill up with warmth just listening to it. He watches from the sofa as his husband lifts Emily up to his chest, one big hand spanning her entire back. His gaze catches Alex’s over her head, and he’s smiling so softly, but with something so sad behind his eyes too, that Alex just opens his arms for them both.

“What’s up?” Alex asks, though he suspects he knows, and thankfully George doesn’t try to hide it.

“I hated leaving you guys for Brazil. I didn’t want to go to Vegas, I wanted to come here.” He tucks in solidly against Alex’s side, that same sad smile on his face as he watches Emily snuffle and root. “Now we’ve got— what? Two days before I’m off to Qatar?” He shakes his head. “I’m already missing so much. I miss her, and I miss you— and that’s really shit.”

It’s difficult to know what to say, how best to help. Alex can’t exactly deny it was awful when George left for the airport, just ten days after Emily was born— but he’s the one who’s been with her at home, and that’s the crux of what he suspects George isn’t saying - he’s not just missing them, but he feels he’s missing out. That makes it trickier, and whilst Alex would normally be upfront, there’s not much to achieve with ‘we knew this would be tough when we planned her.’ George has always just Been There, is the thing, since Alex was nine years old, through when he was spotty, too tall, too awkward, presenting omega, crashing out with girlfriends, and realising he never liked any of them half as much as he liked his best friend. George is his favourite person in the world bar one - of course it sucks that he’s not here every day.

But it’s a state in flux, as all things are. Alex learned that young, and it’s never a bad time to remember.

“It’s only for now,” Alex says, reaching up until he can brush George’s hair off his forehead, even as he huffs discontentedly. “Two more races ‘til Christmas— then we’ll be following you before you know it.”

“I know,” George says, sighs really. “And yeah, I know Lando and Oscar are pulling it off fine with Violet; I just—"

There’s a trick with George, Alex has learned over almost a quarter-century, to letting things sit until he figures out the words and the feeling. Predictably enough, it ends up coming in a rush.

“I don’t want her to miss me.”

“I know, Georgie.”

“You don’t have to do that,” George says, “I know it’s stupid.” When Emily tries burrowing inside his t-shirt in earnest, he sighs again, but he’s smiling slightly as he hands her over to be fed. “At the same time, why jump the gun, right? She’s got to learn to recognise me before she can figure out I’m not here.”

“She doesn’t really recognise anyone yet,” Alex points out, pulling his own shirt down at the collar in a move that’s started to feed solely off muscle memory. “I don’t even know how much she can see; everything in her world is just—nipple. Or varying sizes of potato.”

It’s far from his best-finessed metaphor, but George snorts anyway, so Alex can only conclude it’s a job well done.

“Potato,” George muses, tapping Emily’s nose gently until it wrinkles up. “As in graphics? Our baby sees us in ‘PS1,’ is that what you’re saying?”

“If you like,” Alex says, getting a finger and thumb around Emily’s chin, and steering her into a proper latch. She’s quite potato-esque herself, now Alex is thinking about it; yet to get the hang of stretching out, her default setting is this precious scrunch of limbs, like she’s still tucked up inside his belly, and that alone is something Alex still struggles to wrap his head around. He put in the work, twelve hours’ active labor, and then he pushed her out. Far fucking from a ‘one minute she was in there, and then—’, it was a long, painful transition, one state to the other, yet it's moments like this Alex realises how wholly he recognised her, from the very split second he gave birth. They’re not two separate people, the little girl Alex carried, and the one now making creaky, snuffling noises against his chest as she feeds, as he feeds her. He can’t imagine not knowing her, or her him— and it’s easier, suddenly, to see why even the remotest possibility is digging under George’s skin.

“Hey,” he says softly, a while later, smiling as George turns to look at them both, his head resting back against the sofa.

“Hey yourself.” It makes Alex smile; George is no more ‘smooth’ now than when he was fifteen, trying to flirt—or at twenty-six, rolling out frightful Gen-Z slang for Mercedes’ social media. What he is, however, is Alex’s husband, and Alex is embarrassingly attracted to him, ‘dork’ and all. “Is she nodding off?”

“Not yet,” Alex says, though she has finished feeding, which means his window, if you like, isn’t a large one. He shrugs his shirt back up and kisses her forehead before angling her George’s way, ‘scrunch’ fully formed. “Would you take her a minute? I could really do with a change of clothes.”

He phrases it like a favour; not that George would object for a second either way, but Alex is rather hoping Baby Girl will help him prove a point… and when he sneaks back from the bedroom five minutes later, it’s to find the whole thing has gone off rather well, with George not cradling Emily, but looking adoringly down at her where she’s laid on her back against his angled thighs.

The sense of peace in the room can be felt just as easily as scented. Alex isn’t sure when the sun started setting outside, just that George has his hand up to shield her eyes—and that those eyes are fixated right on him, on her Daddy, like she’d recognise him anywhere.

“Atta girl, Em,” Alex murmurs to himself—and though he doesn’t creep closer, or attempt to overhear what George is whispering to her, just for them, he does stand there and watch, heart full, until both have fully dozed off on the couch.

**

Elisia Lewis for Motorsport Online, 30/11/2029–

MERCEDES ROLLS THE DICE ON RUSSELL

August break is long behind us, yet Formula One ‘silly season’ continues at Mercedes, with the Silver Arrows only just now confirming their driver lineup for next year.

Traditionally ‘strict’ when it comes to multi-year offers, the German outfit confirmed yesterday that they have locked down current title contender Andrea Kimi Antonelli, and veteran teammate George Russell - but chose not to disclose for how long either driver has secured his seat.

Russell, 31, who welcomed a daughter last month with partner Alex Albon, has said he’s ‘never seriously’ considered jumping ship from Mercedes, despite rumours of multiple offers from other teams.

“Toto and the team know my position,” Russell said on Thursday’s press day, heading into the Qatar Grand Prix. “‘Musical chairs’ has never been my style, or Mercedes’ […] and at some point, the numbers, and the years, become a formality. I’m not shopping around for a better paycheque or a longer deal. We know what we want from each other, and the expectations are clear on both sides: take the fight to McLaren, give it everything we’ve got.”

Russell’s ‘fight’ for the World Championship will be highly contested in 2030, as the aforementioned McLaren close in on their second consecutive WDC from Australian hotshot Oscar Piastri. Notably absent from the grid next year will be Piastri’s partner and former teammate Lando Norris, who announced his official retirement from Formula One back in August. Returning to his former seat in Red Bull, however, is four-time World Champion Max Verstappen; fresh off the back of parental leave, the Dutch driver has made his intentions for 2030 clear: win his fifth, then retire in a (hopefully non-literal) blaze of glory.

“Yes and no?” was Russell’s response, when asked if the return of Verstappen raises any concerns for his own title hopes. “Obviously we all know to never count Max out - he’s a great talent, and the closer you get to doubting him, the harder he’ll race you on the day.”

“That said, he’s not had the input he’d like when it comes to development. That’s been Isack and Arvin’s ‘zone’ for the last few years—so I don’t know how you come back into that scenario, that setup, and still wring the neck on the car every weekend. I guess we’ll have to wait and see how much of a threat [Verstappen] actually is.”

Fans were quick to jump on the ‘strong’ words from Russell who, despite forty-four podium finishes across his F1 career, has yet to end a season inside the top three - a stark contrast to his teammate, who came nail-bitingly close to beating reigning Champion Piastri to the title last year.

Asked quite plainly if Russell’s ambition is fully aligned with his racing prowess, Mercedes Team Principal, Toto Wolff, left little doubt as to his opinion:

“We see George as we always have: a talented racer, still young, still very capable of winning points. It would be foolish not to recognise this, and I think George understands—we have spoken about it, so long as he continues performing, there will be a seat for him. That is what we are all here for, at the end of the day – performance, the highest possible standards, and hopefully a win for the team next year.”

Formula One continues from Thursday, with the buildup to the Qatar Grand Prix on Sky Sports F1. 

Chapter Text

Two Months ~ December

“Well,” George says. “Safe to say, I’ve got no idea how this happened.”

He’s lying, Alex knows, because he has to; they both have to, because the alternative is acknowledging that their home is flooded with presents for a baby who can’t even lift her head yet, and that everyone they know is insane, reckless, and apparently believes they live in a fucking TARDIS.

“I think you do,” Alex says, slowly picking his way through the sea of boxes to George’s side. “I think your mum lost it, then my mum lost it— then the rest of our families and friends followed suit, and now we’re drowning in crap.”  Following the overwhelming need to demonstrate his point, he picks up what is so very obviously a Peppa Pig doll, and practically shakes it in his husband’s face. Whoever bought it has put wrapping around the shape of her, for fuck sake - they could’ve surface-wrapped a dildo and it would’ve been less obvious. “Seriously, Russell - what are we going to do with all this?”

“Open them?” George shrugs, then throws up his hands when Alex gives him a Look. “What? It’s nice.”

“It’s a fire hazard.”

“A nice fire hazard,” George says, smirking, and only the fact he’s objectively right saves him from Alex’s wrath. He drags Alex forwards by the shirt, still smirking as he presses a closed-mouth kiss against his lips. “Honestly, mate, where’s your Christmas spirit?”

It’s a fair question, the answer being, right now, somewhere that reminds Alex of the father from Elf, before Will Ferrell arrived in town to harass him. Truth is, he’s exhausted; there’s no getting into the festivities with Emily yet, and it’s not like her routine can change— but it’s also her First Christmas, and absolutely no one is being normal about that, so even his mum, who typically only celebrated for her kids, has thrown herself into it with Alison’s encouragement. The doorbell’s been ringing at all hours, siblings and parents, nieces and nephews, all bearing gifts or decorations, all wanting to hold the baby— and force-feed Alex home-cooked meals, because the concept of losing baby weight is clearly not one either of their mothers understand.

It’s not that he isn’t grateful. He is. It’s been wonderful feeling cared for, and George arriving home a day earlier than planned was the cherry on it— but people being people, and in particular their people, Alex is fucking shattered. It must show on his face, because George stops attempting to waltz him through the festive detritus, and gives him a squeeze instead.

It’s almost exactly what Alex needs, just to bury his face in George’s neck, breathe him in. Almost. But George comes good with the rest mere seconds later.

“You look wiped,” he says, and smiles softly when all Alex can do is nod. “Why don’t you have a shower? Get into your PJs; I can sort things out down here.”

It’s an invitation Alex can’t pass up— and once he’s actually under the spray, he remembers for the first time in a long time exactly why he eventually agreed to George’s insisting on one of those ‘waterfall’ showerheads in their en-suite. George usually takes baths; he’d only admitted afterwards the fight was because he knew Alex would like it, and that thorough reminder of an alpha’s care, how good it can be, had him grinning for weeks.

Under the water, Alex manages little more than scrubbing his hair, and a light squeeze of shower gel that mostly misses his hand. Turning it off, he’s half-expecting to hear Emily screaming— but it’s all blissful and fairly strange silence as he wraps himself up in a towel, then pulls on a clean t-shirt and shorts whilst waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Em’s still dead asleep when he checks the video monitor, so it leaves him plenty of space to head back— and into what can only be described as a transformed hallway, the sea of presents neatly stacked, the tree Alison forced on them lit up.

It’s very ‘George’ - helpful, caring, deeply Extra. The piss-taking bastard has even started up the Christmas music - slow songs, to somehow compliment the actual smell of Christmas, drifting through from the kitchen as Alex follows his nose. He has to stop in the doorway and admire, truth be told. George might’ve waited until his twenties to get ‘model-gorgeous,’ but it’s the slightly stressed, slightly sweaty creature stood at the hob Alex loves best - the one who’d do anything for his family, including, it seems, pulling off something of a Christmas miracle just to make him happier.

“What’s cooking?” Alex asks, then laughs when George immediately grabs him, twirls him, holds him close, like the stain Alex’s wet hair has left on his collar doesn’t even matter. It really doesn’t, and that’s a mere snapshot, Alex thinks, of why it’s so fucking good to be married. “Smells good. Takeaway, or…?”

“You can fuck off,” George says, grinning, “and stay thirsty, if that’s your attitude.” He goes to the stove anyway, and fills two cups with whatever he’s got brewing; all Alex knows is it smells fantastic, and that George pressing the warm mug into his hands feels a real act of love.

It’s delicious, is Alex’s first thought, milky and fragrant, exactly what he needs— and before long they’ve made their way to the couch, and even though The Presents are touching the arm of it, Alex couldn’t really care less anymore.

He grabs one anyway, the Peppa one, and marionettes it around as George, laying against his chest, laughs ‘til he’s hoarse.

“I think the real question is, do we want this in our home?”

“Peppa Pig?” George queries, still amused. “Why wouldn’t we?”

If there’s one thing a twenty-year friendship, and five years ‘together,’ has taught Alex, it’s that some things are better demonstrated than explained.

“Alright, well she’s a wanker,” George says half an hour later, and Alex just nods sagely, flipping the tv back off.

“This is what I’m saying.”

“Solid ‘parenting’ choice, I reckon,” George muses, picking Peppa out of Alex’s hands and tossing her in the air like a ball. “No Peppa on the telly; we should at least give this to charity, right?”

“Yeah,” Alex says, “for sure.” He’s already designated a box for all the excess. No baby needs this much stuff. No person does, and Em is more than privileged already. “Should probably work out who it’s from, though. Send them a note to say thanks.”

“Good point,” George says, and swings his legs off the sofa. “Can you remember what bag it came out of?”

Alex can’t, but it ceases to matter anyway when he tilts the present into the light, and catches sight of a scribble directly on the paper.

“‘To Emily, love Violet,’” Alex reads aloud, then snorts. “Lando wrapped this one, then? Clearly never heard of labels.”

“Unless they’re in jeans,” George says, because lightly mocking their oldest friend never gets dull, even when he’s not in the room. “Or, like.. a fifty-seventh pair of trainers.”

“I’ll tell him you said that,” Alex says, then tosses Peppa towards his husband. “Do the honours?”

George does, and for a split second after the wrapping comes away, he looks confused… then begins choking on horribly unflattering laughter.

“What?” Alex asks, craning his neck to see. “What’s so—”

He gets it once he sees the colour of ‘Peppa’s’ outfit - not red, like in the show, but blue. It’s not Peppa at all, but George Pig— and since George Human seems to be taking the joke as intended, Alex doesn’t have to feel even slightly bad about cracking up too.

“Oh my God,” Alex snorts, and only laughs harder when he clocks Lando’s additions: a neatly drawn Mercedes symbol on the romper, and a healthy application of superglue, ensuring the doll’s arms are stuck in a permanent ‘T.’ “That’s fucking classic.”

“No charity, then,” George says, shaking his head and grinning as the pig’s lifeless eyes stare right through him. “What d’you reckon— burn it?”

“Absoltuely not,” Alex says, and throws his husband a wink. “Soon as it’s age-appropriate, he’s going in the crib.”

**

Transcript - ‘Secret Santa 2029;’ Josie Fleming interviewing/directing

Editor’s Note - Could we get some action descriptors on here please Lachy? Rosa needs them for the audio mixing. Cheers. Mike.

Transcriber Note - no wakkas mate. hope you enjoy xoxo

JF: So here we are, Secret Santa time once again. Any thoughts so far?

OP: Pretty well-wrapped, isn’t it? Suspiciously-so.

[Piastri’s got what is obviously a fucking book, but he shakes it anyway. Pure brainpower, that kid - real bright spark.]

OP: I’m thinking it’s not alive, so that’s rules out a puppy. Maybe some new golf clubs?

[oh my bad - he’s just being a sarcastic cunt.]

OP: Pretty sure someone’s mum wrapped this.

[he pulls back the paper like he plans to fold it after. Big reveal—]

OP: We’ve got a book.

[well who’d have fucking thunk it?]

OP: ‘Don’t Cook it Up: 100 Easy Recipes for the Amateur Chef.’ [cut to laugh] Yeah, I know this is from Sainz, ‘cause I was saying to him a while back that we use our oven mostly for storage.

JF: No cooks in your house, then?

OP: Not unless you count Lando’s emotional affair with the air fryer.

[r/FanF1ction just imploded]

OP: Merry Christmas, Carlos. Thanks a lot for the book, and thanks in advance for the food poisoning.

[cut]

CS: [battling his navy blue Santa hat] Ey! Every year with these things, I swear.

JF: It’s not so bad, right? At least you get a present out of it.

CS: This is true.

[he wants to sniff that fucking parcel, I know he does, the psycho.]

CS: Very good paper - Christmas chillies.

[he’s not wrong y’know, Mike - they’ve even got faces, and little hats. He unwraps it; at least one chill gets beheaded.]

CS: What is this—

[fuck knows, mate. it’s blue and sorta plasticky , but it could be anything. why’re you asking me?]

CS: Oh, it’s— no, this is cool.

[if you say so, Carlos. Looks shit.]

CS: ‘My First Drivers’ License.’ Does it come already with points? [cut to laugh] This is for my son, no?

JF: Any ideas who it’s from?

CS: Someone else who has kids— because they know once you’re a parent, every gift for you is actually for them. Nico?

JF: Not Nico, no.

CS: George?

JF: It was George, yeah.

CS: George, really?

[classic. what a legend, thinking of the kids.]

CS: Thank you then to George— Carlito will send you a nice note.

[cut]

GR: Ho-ho-ho! Wow, big one this year.

[size isn’t everything, Russell, you handsome fucking prick.]

GR: I wonder if it’s like one of those joke presents, where the box is huge, but what’s inside is tiny.

[he tears in. oh to be the paper in those hands. I’m wet with envy.]

GR: It’s— bloody hell, seriously?

JF: What is it?

[WHATS IN THE BOXXXX??]

GR: Scalextrics. A— wow, a really good set, too, proper quality. This is amazing; isn’t there normally a spending limit?

JF: There might be a note too, I believe…

GR: Yeah, found it.

[opens the note. This is fucking fascinating stuff, Mike - the lesser-spotted ‘millionaire reacts to the equivalent of pocket change.’ He’s actually stoked.]

GR: [reading aloud] ‘Dear George - here’s to ‘making tracks.’ Happy Christmas, and congrats on a special year. Your Secret Santa.’ — and then there’s a maple leaf, like a drawing of one. Lance?

JF: Bingo - from Lance.

GR: Oh my God, this is just— this is amazing, Lance, thank you. Christ, I feel bad; I should at least buy him dinner, shouldn’t I? Does he live in Monaco?

[cut]

LS: Oh this is cool.

JF: They say good things come in small packages.

LS: [no need to cut, bloke’s already laughing] Yeah, I heard that.

[is he blushing? Why is this guy blushing?]

LS: Man, I love this time of year.

JF: Christmas?

LS: Yeah. ‘Specially now I’ve got nephews, plural - it’s like an excuse to eat sugar and go crazy. What’re your plans?

JF: Quiet one, I hope. Just family, my boyfriend, and no kids that are ours.

LS: Hell yeah, run and tell that.

[they’re high-fiving. This is going to be edited out, right Mikey? It shouldn’t be - I think my guy just grew a soul for Christmas.]

[cut to present opening - Stroll reveals a carved little box. Who’s giving this guy jewellery?]

LS: Oh man, this is really cool. There’s this little catch on it—

[it’s a cock ring. i bet you fucking eighty specific dollars, Mike, it’s a cock ring.]

[ok no, joking aside, Stroll’s actually looking Shook right now.]

LS: Sorry, can we— sorry, Jo, I need five? Can I just—

[he’s pulling the mic cords out, mom’s spaghetti. Cock. Ring.]

LS: I’ll come back, I just have to—

[and he’s gone. You know what, forget what’s in the box; who gave it to him?]

[seriously Mike, fucking who? The people need to know.]

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continued overleaf—

Chapter Text

Three Months ~ January

George has never been especially adept with languages, aside from the one he speaks. French and Latin at school had been a living hell, and in racing circles, everyone knew English anyway. It’s lazy, he knows - embarrassingly-so, given how almost everyone he works with is at least bilingual, and his fucking boss can speak five— but it starts to needle him even less once it becomes clear he and Alex both are becoming fluent in ‘Emily.’

It was his mum who mentioned it first - that different needs have different cries - but George doesn’t really take it seriously until he picks a squalling Emily out of her bassinet, and goes to change her nappy without even checking first that it’s needed.

Once he’s noticed, it’s impossible to stop. It’s like unlocking God Mode, or at the bare minimum, like accessing the ability to save time, and with it, to be a much better dad. Alex picks up on it around the same time— and as January starts slipping away from them, it doesn’t get ‘easy,’ but whether it’s the established routine, or the fact they’re better-tuned-in, they ring in three months with Emily’s first ‘sleep-through’— and much as George yearns for the days when that meant eight, nine hours as opposed to five, he’s far from mad when he gets to wake up next to Alex, roll over, and see his girl perfectly content, not crying, thumb inserted into her mouth.

Alex ekes his eyes open with a yawn, as George is watching his new favourite show.

“Whasseertime?” Alex mumbles, as George, with a smile, remembers he’s also fluent in ‘husband.’

“Nearly eight,” George says, as he indulges in one of those Really Good stretches. “If you’re asking ‘how?’ you’ll need to ask someone else.”

“Maybe she knows,” Alex says, all morning breath and dodgy hair as he leans in for a kiss, then turns to beam at their daughter. “Did you have a nice sleep, sweetheart?”

Emily kicks her little legs, clearly keen to be free of her zip-up ‘sleeping bag’ prison. It’ll be a matter of time before she’s learned to unzip it herself, George thinks. New as she still is, her personality is starting to emerge: cheerful, chilled out, but surprisingly stubborn… she’s Alex to a tee, and George isn’t sure if that thought’s a lovely one, or if he ought to wish his future self good luck.

“Shall we get you out, love?” George asks, then rolls, half on top of Alex and oblivious to his husband’s complaints. The angle’s useless; it takes two of them to extract Emme once Alex has pulled his hands free, but they manage eventually, and set her down for tummy time, right on George’s chest.

“What do you fancy doing today?” Alex asks, grinning as he snaps photos of Emily lifting her head like a champ, reaching out to grab at George’s face with her chubby hands. “Round of golf? Start a two-week cruise?”

“No ‘Five Guys and a piss-up?’” George shakes his head, then rapidly nods it again so Emily can reach his chin. “Thought we said we wouldn’t get boring.”

“Yeah, no, you’re right,” Alex says. “Load up on beers, and then chestfeed. What could possibly go wrong?”

The banter - the frequency, the grade - is the same as it’s always been. It’s just the topic that’s shifted: the craic is about babies now, or parenting. They chuck nappies, fuck about with Emme’s toys, gossip near-endlessly about other parents, particularly those seen on TV. Essentially they’ve become Those parents - the ones they swore down they’d never become, before realising that the only way to survive this process, to avoid giving in to the crippling anxiety, is to believe with your whole chest you’re doing a far better job than anyone else possibly could.

It’s not all as mercenary as that; George has every faith they’ll become better friends and allies again in time.

Just not yet. And given how competitiveness is, to them, second-nature, he’s decided to be absolutely fine with it.

“I’ve actually got to meet Aleix later,” George says, and although it’s hardly a secret that things, quite literally, have to get ‘back on-track’ now they’re approaching February, it still somehow feels like he’s having to confess to it. “Countdown to testing, and all; it’s going to be at least six days a week, now ‘til Bahrain.”

“No rest for the wicked,” Alex says, cheerfully enough to remind George that the unease is entirely his own problem, and not his husband’s. “Join us for breakfast, at least? Think there’s some of that frittata still lurking.”

He voices it like it’s meant to tempt, and if George is being honest, it works. They’ve not long had Alex’s brother to stay, and his (very successful) culinary exploits are still cropping up labelled ‘LEFTOVERS,’ which George thinks might’ve been Luca’s whole plan from the start.

“Count me in,” he says, then leans around Emily to steal another kiss. She grumbles at him as he moves, and Alex raises his eyebrows, smirking, as he swings out of bed.

Emily’s gurgling is the only sound left in the room once Alex’s footsteps fade down the hall— and though George knows he’s got very little time before he has to be up and doing his bit to help start their day, it’s one perk his work schedule affords him: spending as much time with Emily as possible, for as long as his schedule, hers, and Alex’s, can allow.

In some ways - not many, but some - it’s easier for Alex. He’d made up his mind to retire after ‘28, did so— and though they only began ‘trying’ at Christmas, he was pregnant a month later, and allowing for some inevitable bumps along the road, everything appeared to fall into place.

George isn’t an idiot— nor quite as self-interested as social media would have him be known. He’s well aware Alex’s role in this adventure far outstrips his own. Alex carried her, he gave birth— he looks after her every day whilst George chases the Other dream, the other one they both shared, before Alex surrendered it willingly, and George had to admit it now came second, behind, and in some ways opposed to, ensuring Emily is the happiest she could be.

Is he supposed to give up on it, now he’s a dad? Many examples - Niki, Nico, Schumi, Oscar - say no, and those are just the guys George knows personally. He has a beautiful, healthy baby; shouldn’t that be enough? It feels irrevocably selfish to want more— but George still thinks of himself as a realist.

It can’t possibly be everything, forever. Even if it’s the most important, don’t other things - his career, his marriage, his health - matter too?

George wonders, holding Emily in his arms, if what actually matters is the amount you sacrifice to make it happen. And since he’s currently locked in, another year at least at Mercedes, another shot at that win—

Wouldn’t her life turn out all the better, in the end, if he got it?

It’s an insane thought process, one he entertains only when alone, in the shower, walking to and from the shops, and always, always thinking of his family - Alex, his parents, his siblings and nieces and nephews— and Emme in the middle, at the top.

“Little love,” he murmurs, then, fingers stroking her cheeks, as she does her level best to suck at least one of them into her mouth. “Emme, love—“

He’s not sure what he wants to say, and even less-so what he needs to. The concept is ridiculous either way; she doesn’t understand words yet, let alone emotions— but it’s a perfect example of how ‘could,’ and ‘might,’ and ‘one day’ miss themselves in translation, and George is still gathering the right words when his girl lets out a sudden, piercing, cry.

The return to Earth is sharp, but at least George knows what’s being ‘said.’

“Al?” he shouts. “Food?”

“On my way!” George hears from the kitchen, and he and Emily never speak of it again.

**

Sky Sports F1

Terrifying scenes at Formula 1 pre-season testing today, as candid footage captures a tyre appearing to fly off Kimi Antonelli’s car during a hot lap.

Antonelli, 23, was ultimately unable to avoid the crash that followed, hitting a barrier of the Bahrain circuit at a rumoured g-force rating of fifty in an incident that left the Italian briefly unconscious, and Mercedes team spectators horrified.

A clip that has since been leaked to the popular ‘formuladank’ page on Reddit shows both the crash and the aftermath, in which Antonelli’s teammate, George Russell, abandons his own out-lap, and rushes to the young driver’s aid.

“Guys he’s f*****g out cold,” Russell was heard shouting to the pit wall as help arrived; however, the 31-year-old Brit, and new father, really came into his own when Antonelli regained consciousness, reassuring his fellow alpha as paramedics removed him from the car.

Listen below:

[imbedded soundbyte: russellantontellicrash.mp3__]

It’s ok, mate, you’ve just had a bump. [inaudible] —ok, Kimi, you’re going to be fine, just— no, don’t try and move, alright? I’ll— [inaudible] — yeah, ‘course, mate, I’ll stay. It’s just a knock, okay? They’re going to fix you right up—

Antonelli was ultimately airlifted to a hospital in Bahrain’s capital, Manama, with Russell by his side.

Meanwhile, Mercedes Team Principal Toto Wolff has labelled the crash a ‘freak accident,’ and told Sky today that he has ‘no interest’ in discussing further until Antonelli’s condition has been verified.

The young Italian came close to a first World Championship title last year, when his season-long battle with McLaren’s Oscar Piastri came down to the wire. Piastri ultimately clinched his second consecutive title at the final race in Abu Dhabi. With all eyes on the eightieth Championship title this year, it remains to be seen whether Antonelli will be fit, and whether reigning Champion Piastri will retain his crown, or if the return of Red Bull’s Max Verstappen will slow his roll.

For all the updates as we get them, follow #TestOfKimi on X.

Chapter Text

Four Months ~ February

When George makes it back from Bahrain, a successful testing under his belt, and a clean bill of health for Kimi, Alex can’t exactly deny the mood he’s in.

It’s only natural, is what he tells himself. Emily’s fast asleep, it’s been two weeks since they last saw each other— and though they’re both on a healthy dose of suppressants, they’re still young-ish, and Alex needs his husband, to fuck him, or be fucked, he’s not really sure he cares. It’s the closeness he misses most; the fact that George has perfected, over the years, the art of making him forget his own name is mostly just a bonus.

George’s car is barely off the driveway when Alex jumps him, kisses him like they’re teens with an improved skillset, then all-but drags him theough by whatever body part he can reach.

“This is quite a welcome,” George says, like he’s complaining— thSen goes all wide-eyed when Alex shoves him onto the bed. “Al— Alex, whoa—“ His jaw drops, eyelids fluttering, when Alex immediately tears into his jeans, draws him out of his boxers. “Bloody hell, Al— is Emme—?”

“Asleep,” Alex reports, grinning against George’s lips as he attempts to extract them both from their shirts. “Down for the count; we’ve got all night.”

“Might be seriously overestimating my stamina there,” George says, even as he, quite literally, ‘rises’ to the challenge in Alex’s hand. “Give it a good crack though— Christ.” His head goes back, eyes sliding shut, as Alex strokes him, thumb flicking, already driving his own hips down against George’s thigh. “That’s— that’s good, fuck me—“

“Request?”

“Not exactly,” George breathes out— and by the time he’s flipped them, Alex is no longer sure which way is up, or where the pillows have gone. He lets George spread his legs, work his way up between them until Alex is whining, scent filling the room and driving them forwards. George nips his thigh, sucks purposefully on his own fingers. Alex is absolutely convinced he’s about to get the best head of his life—

And then the baby monitor bursts forth with distressed wails, George freezes on top of him, and he and Alex share a look that says, mutually - ‘I’ve never lost an erection faster.’

“Technically,” Alex says, as he extracts himself from below his husband, “technically, we are now sleep-training.”

“If you can still get it up while that’s going on, power to you,” George says, then reconsiders. “Or, y’know. Jail?”

Jail it is, or at least servitude, bound as they are to their tiny, screeching overlord, who’s looking more and more like George by the day.

It’s what really helps Alex reset, remember that they’ll always have time for sex, but these days - when Emily is truly tiny - are special, and most definitely numbered. She remains George’s Girl through and through, ceasing the grizzling near-immediately when she’s lifted into his arms— and though he sees her every day on FaceTime, it feels truly special, so much better, watching them reunite in person.

“How are you, little love?” George asks, and that just makes Alex smile wider. It’s what he called her the day Alex gave birth; he can picture it, suddenly, George calling her the same when she’s grown, or on her wedding day, or raising kids of her own. “Daddy missed you— and he can’t wait ‘til Monaco.”

He meets Alex’s gaze when he says it— and all of a sudden, Alex has to take a very deep breath. It’s been coming this whole time, he knows. It’s what they agreed, way back when this insanity was just talk, and logistics - a lot of logistics, because George is George, and Alex’s ‘it’ll all work out’ attitude only gets them so far without a mind-numbing amount of rows. Monaco’s their ‘home’ race, at least geographically-speaking. It’ll be the first he takes Emily to, twelve weeks from now, and although there’s still time to work out the details, Alex isn’t sure he’s close to ready.

The thing is, though, Emily is - she completely is, the way she settles for George, the way she clings to him, all tells Alex there’s only so much that พ่อ can do on his own.

“You’d better win,” Alex says, stepping close, leaning his chin on George’s shoulder and smiling at their daughter as she beams back at him. “No pressure— but you can’t let Uncle Kimi take all the credit.”

“‘Uncle Kimi,’” George says, shaking his head, but smiling, as he leans ‘round for a kiss. “He’s a kid himself. That said, I was about twelve when I was ‘Uncle George,’ when Cara had her first one.” He mimics Emily when she opens her mouth, smiling so wide and so proud when their little girl shrieks, and waves her chubby fists in the air. “Makes you think, doesn’t it?”

It does. Alex has found a lot to think about these past months, but this is the first time he’s catching a glimpse of what Emily’s life might look like beyond just ‘them.’ She’s met her cousins, sure— but will she like them, and grow close to them? Then there’s the kids she’s about to meet - Effie, Violet, Jules, and little Carlos III, who already seems to have inherited his dad’s luxurious hair.

Will she have siblings, one day? Alex hasn’t had space inside him to consider it of late, no matter how much they talked about two, or three, or on days of true hubris, maybe even more. It’s a scary prospect, a terrifying one—

A lovely one, all the same, and even more-so when George turns, and Emily is suddenly squashed between them, where Alex can smell her head and think— maybe.

“You alright, Albon?” George asks.

“I’m perfect,” Alex says, and means it.

George is ravenous after the long flight and not-sex, so Alex heats some soup on the stove, cutting big, thick slices of bread whilst George resettles the baby. He’s hungry for something else after, they both are— but rather than tempt fate, Alex climbs into his lap and they make out frenziedly on the couch until a huge yawn catches George off-guard.

“Lando said sleep regression is a thing,” George says after, dressed only in his t-shirt and one sock. It’s quite the Look - Alex shouldn’t find it nearly as attractive as he does. “I guess I naively thought we’d gotten away with it.”

“That’s generous,” Alex snorts. His phone keeps buzzing at him from the arm of the couch, but so far he’s managing to ignore it. “You don’t think that was her way of sending a message? Like— ‘get off him, Daddy, I don’t want siblings.’”

“If so, we should patent it,” George says. “Nothing says ‘birth control’ like an admittedly adorable dose of ‘consequences.’”

Predictably, their attempts to nap on the sofa post-‘workout’ are thwarted when a familiar, mournful cry starts leaking out of the baby monitor at Alex’s side.

“Come on,” George says, and pulls on his discarded boxers before heaving himself upright. “Want to jump in the shower while I put her back down?”

“She’ll want a feed,” Alex says. “I’ll come up with you, let me just—“ He collects his phone, turns it over— and that’s when he notices the stockpile. There’s dozens of notifications onscreen, from PR, the driver chat, even his own publicist, warning him off ‘saying anything before the go-ahead.’

Right at the bottom, there’s a text from a number he doesn’t recognise.

Alex - could I please speak with you? I need some advice. Isack

Why Hadjar’s texting him from what appears to be a burner, Alex has no idea… that is, until he follows an instinct, and flips open Instagram.

“Bloody hell,” he breathes out, when he sees it. “Jesus Christ, Isack— this whole time?”

“What?” George asks, confused. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” Alex says, at length, still scanning the statement. “Do you mind sorting Em out? I think—" He throws George the handset, and watches him read, his own eyes shooting wide. “I’m going to need to make a call.”

**

via Sky Sports F1

“And now onto motorsport - Red Bull’s Isack Hadjar has declared himself an omega— following years of concealing his true status to the public, as well as to international sporting officials.

Hadjar, yet to officially speak to the press, broke the news via Instagram, posting simply:

For this #OmegaRightsMonth I speak for Myself. 

Hadjar’s management would go on to confirm the 25-year-old’s confession, adding that other drivers on the grid have ‘thrown their support behind’ him in reconciling the inevitable response.

Meanwhile the FIA (Federation Internationale de l’Automobile) have launched a full investigation into how Hadjar’s status was able to remain hidden for so long, with many now calling for the Red Bull driver’s disqualification from the current Formula 1 season on grounds of ‘safety concerns.’

Though historically typical, this ‘official’ position was criticised by several key figures in the F1 paddock - among them Red Bull’s Christian Horner, Mercedes’ Toto Wolff, and our own pundit, Nico Rosberg, as caught on the mic before FP1 this weekend.

“He didn’t lie, he just didn’t tell anyone. It’s obviously an insurance issue, but is it a racing one?

“Well, no. How can it possibly be when we have all these omega racers - Verstappen, Vettel, Norris, Albon, Fisichella— if not all World Champions, then certainly race winners, or important players— what Isack has done here is prove once again what we’ve always known: that somebody’s presentation makes no difference to their ability to race cars, and— why does that make you so uncomfortable?

“No, I’m simply asking, why should it matter? Isack Hadjar has surpassed expectations since Day One. No one thought he would come out the gate as he did in 2025, week after week putting that Racing Bull into Q3– and frankly I’m trying to speak your language here, since we should really be beyond needing omegas to perform above the the best of the best in order to ‘earn’ their place on the grid. It’s 2030, we’re celebrating eighty years of this sport— and when you think about it, no one has been ‘lied to,’ because it was never any of our business to begin with.”

Though many online share Rosberg’s view, and were quick to defend Hadjar, questions are also being asked as to why the French-Algerian driver chose to conceal his secondary status whilst driving for Red Bull - a team that has seen eight total WDCs from omega drivers, and are hoping for a ninth this year with the return of Max Verstappen to the grid. Sources close to Hadjar say—"

Chapter Text

Interlude

Two days after their phone call, Isack drives down from Paris.

It’s a matter of convenience, as well as safety: the French press are nowhere near as regulated as the Monegasque, and since Alex still has to be on-hand to feed Emily, he opens their home to the kid, then dumps his kid directly on Isack’s lap.

It’s obvious he has no idea what to do with her once she’s there. Emily’s content enough with being passed around like a ball; Alex just hadn’t expected Isack to hold her like she is one, both hands under her armpits, and a look on his face like Alex has handed him live ammo.

“How are you feeling?” Alex asks - a stupid question, maybe, but a decent starting point. “I know you said on the phone this wasn’t exactly your choice.”

“It was tell or ‘be told,’ I guess,” Isack says, and although he’s been ‘out’ himself for years, pretty much since the start, Alex’s heart breaks for him a little. In all honesty, it’s probably because of that; Alex has felt a lot of things as an omega, in his career as well as his personal life, but ‘unsupported’ has never been one of them.

It’s an immense privilege, one he definitely should have realised sooner— and what little comfort he can offer, now Isack has sought him out, Alex is determined to deliver.

“I’m sorry that happened,” Alex says, feeling something squeeze in his chest again when Isack, gratefully, nods. “If you don’t mind me asking—“

“Ask whatever,” Isack says, and for the first time, Alex realises, he sounds angry. Good. He ought to be, and Alex at least has enough sense to realise it’s not with him. “If it’s ’how,’ the answer is beta impersonation drugs. If it’s ’who,’ or ‘who knew,’ pretty much my entire team - Christian, Arvin, Max.. all of my trainers and nutritionists.” He takes a deep breath, and Alex catches a glimpse, for what might be the first time, of just how very fucking brave this kid is having to be. “And if it’s ’why’—“

“It’s not ‘why,’” Alex says quickly, and takes Emily out of Isack’s arms when she starts to grizzle. “That’s your business. I guess I just—“ It’s hard to put into words, exactly what he wants to ask. In an ideal world, Isack would walk him through it— but that wouldn’t be fair, so he settles for: “No one knew, outside the team? Not even the FIA?”

“It was on Red Bull to declare,” Isack says, shrugging. “For some fucking reason, they agreed not to, Christian and Helmut— for different reasons, I think.”

“Yeah,” Alex says, thinking that it’s got to be a dark day indeed, if Christian fucking Horner is coming down on the right (or at least righter) side of history. “Ask me a million times what goes on in that team, I’d come up different each go.”

“Ah, it’s not so bad really,” Isack says, with all the confidence of a man who’s not yet had Max Verstappen as a full-time teammate. “They keep a lot of secrets for us. It’s not always a good thing, but sometimes—“

Alex doesn’t need to comment on that one. It’s obvious to them both: sometimes secrecy is needed.

“I get it,” Alex says. “Not exactly what you’re going through, but the pressure, the speculation— I get that. And I get that it’s shit.”

“Thanks,” Isack says, and for the first time since arriving, he musters up a small smile. “You more than the other guys, I think - Max, or Lando.”

He makes a good point. It’s funny how microaggressions seem to burrow their way through with all the more tenacity, when one is both an omega, and demonstrably not-white.

“What do you need me to do?” Alex asks. “I don’t care what it is, Isack. All of us will be behind you, but if there’s anything specific…?”

He watches Isack shift on the couch— not necessarily uncomfortable, but the expected awkwardness of stepping outside in an outfit you’d only dared to wear at home.

“When they ask you for a statement,” he says at length, very deliberately ‘when,’ and not ‘if,’ “can you please just say nothing?”

It’s not what Alex expects to hear— but he did say anything, so he nods, and given the partial go-ahead, Isack continues.

“It’s not that I don’t want to fight. I do. I know what you guys have been through in public, and I know what everyone before us— in these seats, in the press—“ He gulps, and Alex doesn’t hesitate, just reaches across the couch and puts his spare wrist against Isack’s. It helps; whether it’s the free comfort, or the omega ‘handshake’ Alex only now realises he’s probably rarely experienced, the kid starts to gather himself.

“It’s all in your own time,” Alex tells him, and shifts himself so Isack has no chance of dropping his gaze. “You understand that, right? None of us should ever be putting pressure on our own.”

“I know,” Isack says. “And maybe I will talk, one day. But not now. Not when the fucking press were the ones who— yeah.” He shakes his head, and Alex can see every bit of the grit in him, the absolute attitude and drive that makes future World Champions. “I’m not giving them shit, so they can make money off of ‘platforming’ omegas, or ‘being progressive.’ Not now.”

“Fair enough,” Alex says, sincerely, and holds onto Isack’s wrist until Emily, clearly tired of being held but unfed, opens her mouth for a proper yell. It’s the perfect opportunity to keep the silence from becoming awkward; Alex swings her ‘round properly into his arms, and then looks sideways at Isack. “You want to grab us some drinks, mate? I’m about to whip out a nipple.”

Isack’s face traverses about six emotions in one go. Fortunately for Alex, he lands eventually on amused, snorts, then gets up to head for the fridge.

“You know you’re not exactly selling this to me.”

“Wasn’t trying to,” Alex says, over his shoulder. He looks down at his daughter, and then around again, at his former colleague. “There’s plenty of ways to be an omega. This is mine. Doesn’t need to be yours.”

“Thanks,” Isack says again, after a beat— and when he returns, several minutes later than it would’ve realistically taken him to get to the kitchen and back, Alex says nothing about the pink rims around his eyes.

“Did you talk to the other guys?” Alex asks, once Em’s sleeping, his nips are away, and Isack can look at him again as a result. “About the whole ‘media statement embargo’ thing?”

“Yeah,” Isack says, “they all agreed.” A smirk passes over his face, sticks there. “Except one. He reached out; we agreed what he was going to say, and to who.”

“Can’t wait for that,” Alex says, and when Isack tells him just who that ‘one’ is, he’s even more excited.

Later, Alex hugs Isack tight before waving him off for his flight to Milton Keynes, training, and pre-season prep. He’s flattered beyond words when the kid pulls back to kiss him on both cheeks, like a true Frenchman.

“It’s a ‘new normal,’” Isack says, when Alex asks if he’s ok. “It’s who I’ve always been, I guess— I guess better, now.” He smiles, then, and the protector in Alex begins to settle. “In time, no?”

“In time,” Alex agrees, then slaps him on the back, because they may be omegas, but they are still, first and foremost, blokes. “Go. Don’t keep Max waiting on the jet.”

“Pah,” Isack ‘says’— but he does leave then, and once his car is out of sight of the balcony, Alex goes to the couch and picks up his phone.

Thank you, guys, he types, to his mum, his siblings, at least three friends, and of course to George. For everything ❤️

Amongst the many replies, there’s one in particular Alex is truly glad to see.

From: George A-R - See you soon 🛬 x

Sooner the better, Alex thinks, as he replies with the same. He dozes off with his hand resting in Emily’s bassinet— and the next thing he’s aware of is the click of the lock from the hall, as everything, such as it is, falls back into place.

**

r/formulajustice

u/uncommon_boat

Sebastian Vettel wrecks Sun journalist over Isack Hadjar  

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u/victorias-poorly-kept

lmao. also transcript for those who need (Seb = SV, The S*n’s Ernie Hesketh = EH):

EH: Sebastian— Sebastian, any comment on Isack Hadjar’s recent confession?

SV: Some, yes.

EH: Care to explain how you feel about Hadjar flouting FIA regulations on health disclosure?

SV: Well, I think Nico [Rosberg] said it the best - it’s really none of our business. 

EH: How would you explain your former team’s decision to keep Hadjar’s secret, despite the blatant risk to other drivers on—

SV: How would I explain? I wouldn’t, Ernie— do you know why? Because it’s not my place to speak for Red Bull, or Isack, just as it wasn’t yours.

EH: Come on, Seb, I was just doing my jo—

SV: Yeah? Well this is me doing mine. Where’s your fucking—

[scuffle, until it’s Seb’s face onscreen, missing his fucking flat-cap.]

SV: Isack Hadjar did not ‘lie.’ He is a racer, and an omega. You and your colleagues are fucking ghouls.

EH: -strong words to say, Sebastian Vettel; are you—

SV: Are you emphasising my name so it will look better on the 'Meta' edit to your five followers? Fuck yourself.

EH: Look, mate, my fucking paper—

SV: Ich wische mir den arsch mit deinen zeitung ab.

[scuffle; shot now shows Seb walking away]

SV: You should catch up, Ernie. Everything now is online anyway.

[scuffle; Ernie crash-out; total cut]

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u/rosemaryTVgH

for those wondering, that was ‘i wipe my ass with your paper.’ 🇩🇪 5️⃣

u/twilightbella9267

lol never change Seb.

Chapter Text

Five months ~ March

George has to leave for Melbourne on the 7th. He put it off for as long as he could, Alex knows, but with the opening race looming, there’s only so much faffing he can manage without the risk of giving Toto an aneurysm.

It’s absolute scenes at the heliport when Alex pulls the car to a stop, and extracts Emily from her car seat as George unloads his bags. Kimi’s meeting them ‘down under,’ but George and Toto are bound for Nice to pick up his jet.

“Don’t be fooled,” Alex says to Emily as they make their way across to departures. “Not all F1 teams do this. Some make you pay for your own petrol.”

“In James’ defence,” George says, “you were an hour late for that junket because you thought you knew better than the sat-nav.”

“This again?” Alex says, as George holds up his hands, snorting with laughter. “Really?”

Emily lets out an excited shriek, and whatever it is she’s trying to communicate, Alex agrees with her. The banter, such as it is, doesn’t sting. What does is knowing it’ll be a good two weeks before they’re all together again— but Alex has had time to prepare for parenting solo, and also can’t justify a wobble over it in front of his husband’s boss, particularly when George has twenty hours of travel ahead of him.

He is, unfortunately, simply going to have to man up.

Toto is waiting at the departure desk, glasses on, laptop bag strapped, when they walk inside. Alex has always been strangely fond of him, in the same way that a lot of people seem to have a favourite Bond Villain, or variety of shark. It’s hard not to see layers to the man, and that’s proves especially true when he greets both Alex and George cordially, then turns a delighted beam upon Emily.

“Say hello,” George encourages, and lifts one of Emily’s little hands to bump against Toto’s fist. The size difference is a joke; Alex and George are 6”1 apiece, but there’s no denying Toto dwarves them both, in both height and handspan. For a moment, Alex wonders if she’s going to scream— but instead she smiles, breaks into babbling, and Toto nods very seriously along with each sound.

“Yes, well said, young lady.” He pats her hand again, then looks up with a smile. “This is the first time I’m seeing her in person. She’s quite lovely.”

In ‘Totoese,’ Alex knows, he may as well have compared their daughter to a Rembrandt. It’s impossible to avoid the mental preen; though Alex, of course, already knows Emily is the most beautiful baby on God’s Earth, it never hurts to have it confirmed.

George gets checked in whilst Alex and Toto make small-talk— but when he’s back, bags stowed and only ten minutes before the scheduled departure, Alex makes a decision.

“Would you take her for a minute?” he asks Toto. “I just need to— check something.”

“Of course,” Toto says, and the brief, instinctive spike of anxiety Alex always feels when handing his baby to someone other than George is sated when she goes into Toto’s arms quite happily. As for Toto, he looks like he couldn’t be happier to have been asked. “We will go over here, I think, yes? Have a look at the helicopters.”

He wanders off, still chatting away, and when Alex turns, it’s to find George at his side, shaking his head in amusement.

“She’s obsessed with him,” he says. “Reckon he moonlights in babysitting?”

“I’d pay him whatever he asked,” Alex admits, then wraps George’s hand up inside his own. “Before you go, can I—“

“Sure,” George says, obviously expecting a speech. It’s nice to know he’d have listened, but Alex has something else in mind for his tongue.

He pulls George towards him by the shirt and kisses him, hoping he’ll remember the move from when they stood at the altar— and when George wraps his hands around Alex’s jaw to deepen it, Alex knows he does, that he’s replaying that moment in his mind, just as Alex is.

There’s plenty he could say once they pull back; he owes George at least one ‘good luck’ for the first race, not to mention a bunch of reassurance. But as is often the case, George is the one who seizes the gap.

“You’re going to do amazingly,” he tells Alex, whispers it really, although there’s no one close enough to overhear them. “Seriously, Al.” He winks. “No one I’d rather leave my baby with.”

“Prick,” Alex says, laughing— but he buries his face in George’s neck anyway, close to his ear. “I’ll take care of her.” It seems ridiculous to even say, save for the fact Alex feels he needs to. “You don’t need to worry about us. I promise.”

“I’m not worried,” George says, which has to be a lie— but for what might be the first time in their relationship, he’s really glad for it. The mask slips a bit; Alex watches his husband catch it halfway off his face. “You’ll let me know, yeah? Anything I miss?”

It’s Alex’s turn to lie then, on one because he doesn’t want to hurt George, but also because—

“You’re not going to miss anything.”

—because neither of them want to acknowledge the very real fact that he will. Emily’s changing every day; it’s like babies download software updates overnight, the speed that they change, wake up with the sudden ability to do things they showed no sign of even attempting before.

It’s not the time— and Alex doesn’t want to waste what little they have left worrying about it. He kisses George again, and holds him, until interrupted by the clearing of a throat, and a baby back in his arms.

They watch together as Daddy and newly-christened Uncle Toto take off, and though part of Alex honestly wants to sink into a pit of FOMO, regular fear, and dismay, that’s simply not an option he has available.

“It’s not that we’re not happy for Daddy,” Alex says towards the backseat as he takes them back up Avenue du Port towards home. “We are— and we’re excited.”

Whilst she’s still this age, at least, Alex doesn’t have to worry about her landing any impact from the nonsense he spits out. With that fully in-mind, he twists in his seat when they’re sat at a red light.

“I know this is both selfish, and potentially disruptive, darling— but would you mind saving any massive leaps in development for the daily FaceTime?”

“Baaaalllghhhhhh,” Emily ‘says’ in response, and with the lights turning green, Alex is forced to take that as tacit agreement.

It’s like he set a portent on its tracks: a week later, Alex is exhausted, and as such, doesn’t have his phone in his hand to video when Emily fully rolls herself over in her bassinet.

She’s never done that before, and Alex is instantly elated.

“Clever girl!” He doesn’t disturb her, just takes hold of her feet, and wiggles them back and forth until she’s laughing with what Alex can only assume is pride. “Oh my God, Em, that was—“

That was something Daddy should’ve seen, but didn’t, and couldn’t— and again, sure, it’s something they both accepted going in, but it’s another to be confronted with it.

Alex thinks about lifting her out of the crib to hold— but doesn’t, because she’s doing her thing, and how he feels shouldn’t impact that. It’s an impossible thing, really, to love someone so much you’d write off your own needs— but that’s parenting, and it’s for her, and in the end, Alex doesn’t try to cover it up.

Emily pulls her trick again halfway through the Australian Grand Prix, and this time, Alex gets to capture it, then send the clip straight to George as he’s hopping off the third place podium.

Congratulations, he sends. She practised for this. We were very excited x

George looks a little strained on scheduled FaceTime that night, but Alex tells himself it’s due to adrenaline.

He has to, really— because if the reality is something different, they’re going to need to do one hell of an adjustment.

**

via Sky Sports F1–

Martin Brundle (MB): —and big news today, ahead of the Chinese Grand Prix: despite missing the opening round in Australia, Red Bull’s Isack Hadjar was today cleared to continue the rest of the season, following what was apparently an open letter sent to the FIA.

We’re told this was written up by the GDPA, Directed of course by George Russell, Anastasia Fowle, and Carlos Sainz— are we to understand, Nico Rosberg, that this letter, not only vouching for Hadjar’s ‘acquittal,’ if you like, but also for a change of regulations regarding omegas in F1, was signed by every single team principal on the current grid?

Nico Rosberg (NR): Yeah, and also by all the current drivers, plus some veterans. I signed myself, of course— I’m hearing many others did too, from Romain Grosjean to Sir Jackie Stewart.

MB: And what do you think that says overall, about the attitude towards FIA regulations, moving forwards?

NR: Well they’ve been on a decline in what’s reasonable, or honestly acceptable, for half a decade now— once again I’ll say that Isack Hadjar is a victim of this situation. He has his right to privacy, and if what Sebastian Vettel said to the press last month is true, then the ‘reveal’ was also completely without his consent. I’m not surprised that drivers, and teams, are fighting back - Hadjar is one of their own.

MB: So he is— and it’s fantastic to welcome him back for FP1 in China today: Isack Hadjar, alongside Max Verstappen, the first ‘omega-only’ team in Formula One history— would you say that’s been a deliberate choice on the team’s part?

NR: No, not really. I don’t believe Red Bull have every had inclusivity in mind, so much as who could win championships— obviously they chose right with Vettel, with Verstappen, and I think now it is obvious they’re pinning their hopes on Hadjar.

MB: Realistically?

NR: I wouldn’t rule it out. Not this year, but Hadjar has shown incredible pace— and as we know, attitude is key. If there’s anyone who’s shown better, on or off the track—

MB: Well that’s a good segue, Nico, as we see George Russell there making his way to the garage— P3 for him last week in Melbourne behind Verstappen and Piastri… what do you think, Nico? Could this be Russell’s year?

NR: I mean, you can never say never, right? The car is fast, the setup clearly works for him— but you could say the same or very similar for a lot of others this year: Oscar Piastri, of course, Max Verstappen back this year— and you know he’ll be fighting tooth and nail for what he’s already said will be his last shot at that fifth Championship— I don’t believe for a second that Russell is incapable— but he’s got a mammoth task ahead of him, and as is often the case, this will come down to mentality. Who has the grit for it, and who doesn’t? We’ll find out very soon, I’m sure.

MB: Many thanks, Nico Rosberg— now to the pitlane at the start of FP1—

Chapter Text

Six Months ~ April

Jeddah is Hot, even in April, and George doesn’t buy any of that shit about dry heat being easier to tolerate. It doesn’t seem to matter the number of countries he visits, or how long he’s been living out of the UK - George is a Brit through and through, and something about the lack of air-con, and the need to build houses that stop pensioners freezing to death come January, is eternally printed on his soul.

He’s got no appetite as a result; he chokes down the meagre amount of yoghurt and granola Aleix will accept as ‘bare minimum,’ then gets to feel sick to his stomach when he sees his colleagues, particularly Fernando, throwing back huge bowls of pasta at the press briefing.

It hits a little different when Alex calls, when he picks up to see Emily in her highchair, eyes fully fixated on a spoonful of puréed ‘something,’ even before Alex can angle it into her mouth.

“There’s my girl,” George says, as the usual feeling - cool water, incredible, very welcome - settles over his shoulders. “Is that food, darling? Are you excited?” And then, as has become the norm: “We’re there already? Really?”

“Whatever gets her off my nipples,” Alex says— and Christ, that’s ‘the norm’ too, far as George sees it, and loves it.

“Better tuck in, then.” George flops back onto the hotel bed, unable to keep the smirk off his face whilst witnessing the expression on Emily’s. “Christ, look at her, Al - that’s you in front of a burger and chips.”

“I don’t even think I get this excited,” Alex says, then starts chuckling himself when Emily lunges her head forwards, aiming for the spoon. “Okay— okay, Em, it’s coming. Jesus Christ, it’s only mashed potato—“

George can’t blame her, in all honesty. Mashed potato is great, even if it’s a baby-friendly version, missing any trace of cream or salt, or anything else that actually makes it good.

“Did พ่อ cook for you, love?” George asks, grinning as Emily gums the spoon clean, her brown eyes wide as saucers. “You’re lucky; he never does that for me.”

“Last time I cooked, you ate three mouthfuls, then ordered a pizza.”

“To be totally fair,” George says, still grinning, “you weren’t supposed to find out about that.”

“Your Daddy’s a genius,” Alex says, already reloading the spoon when Emily starts flapping her arms, impatient for more. “‘You weren’t supposed to find out’ - you ‘hid’ the box in our kitchen bin.”

It’s weird in a way, thinking about how much has changed. Though George wouldn’t trade their life now for anything, it’s funny to remember what it was like to be silly and young, with no responsibilities beyond the ‘stray’ cat Alex insisted on feeding via the balcony of their first flat. George was sorry to leave that flat - it was the first thing that was really ‘theirs,’ and though they’ve lived what feels like dozens of other places since, it’s impossible to not think fondly of where they started out.

It’s the wrong mood to put himself in; reminiscing is dangerous at the best of times when your partner and daughter are on another continent, and when George is forced to leave the hotel room again, it doesn’t take long for the oppressive heat to sour his mood.

He doesn’t like who it makes him. He’s short with a reporter approaching him for interview - a young one too, minimal experience. The kid walks away looking ready to cry, and George immediately feels horrible. It makes him miss Alex even more, into the bargain. Alex gets along with everyone.

“Don’t feel too bad about it,” Oscar says after, having witnessed the interaction first-hand. “Lando went on Rosberg’s podcast last year - pretty sure the whole final section was unbroadcastable.”

“That’s not exactly punching down, though, is it?” George says, and Oscar shrugs, takes a long pull from a chilled bottle of water.

“Alright, so beat yourself up all day. Or, go find the bloke’s network and apologise. Can you afford to lose any sleep?”

“Not with you in the next car,” George says, and finds himself ‘treated’ to one of Piastri’s thin smiles.

They’re not overly close, bar the odd game of padel; come to think of it, George isn’t sure who Oscar is truly tight with, besides Lando, and maybe Pato. Part of him thinks maybe Webber encouraged him to stay aloof - not unfriendly, but guarded, always on the watch for a misstep where he can push his own advantage. Ordinarily, Piastri’s not the one he’d be pouring his heart out to— but he is the only one with a shot at understanding what George is going through, so he slaps on his Big Boy Pants, and just asks.

“Did you— how did you cope, in ‘28?”

To Oscar’s credit, he doesn’t ask George to explain what he means.

“Wasn’t easy,” he says. “Got easier for both of us when Lando started bringing her to races, even if there was a load of heavy-lifting involved.”

“So… ride it out?”

“Pretty much,” Oscar says. “Call them every day, share the milestones. I guess the fact I wasn’t racing the year she was born helped.” He looks sideways at George, an expression George can’t really define on his face. “Don’t reckon I could do what you guys pulled off, leaving for the track when she was really tiny.”

George isn’t sure if Oscar is tacitly judging them— but that’s not really his style, is it? That’s too involved, too much like ‘sweating the small stuff.’ Maybe Lando’s rubbed off on him— or maybe he’s another dad who’s been away from his daughter, and he’s genuinely surprised at how ‘well’ George seems to be coping.

“We did speak earlier,” George says in the end, then— “It was a biggie: Emme’s first solids.”

“I remember that,” Oscar says, smiling again, but with teeth this time, legitimately cheerful. “Lando’s mum blended up a bunch of salmon and pasta, and Vi spewed it all down Lando’s back twenty minutes later. He stank for hours.”

George snorts. It’s just so easy to imagine - Lando swearing, scrubbing his clothes, and reeking of maybe his least favourite smell in the world. “Fuming, was he?”

“Threatened to ‘return’ her,” Oscar says, shaking his head, but still grinning, and George surprises himself when he doesn’t remotely hesitate to grin back. Even a few minutes prior, that would’ve felt an impossible task.

“It’s a crazy time,” he says, and then it’s Oscar’s turn to snort.

“Yeah, no kidding. When’s Alex bringing her over?”

“Next time. ‘Home’ race.”

“Chin up, then,” Oscar says, and really, though he hates to admit it, that might well be the advice George has needed to hear all along. “We’re going to be at home on the week off. You guys should come over.”

“Really?” George asks, surprised, and Oscar almost laughs at him.

“Yeah, really. Be good for the kids to hang out.”

“That won’t be much fun for Violet,” George offers, and Oscar just shrugs.

“Yeah, but she spends all her time with Robbie Webber - Lando thinks she could do with dumbing down.”

“‘Course he does,” George says, and when the pair of them roll their eyes at the same time, he thinks he might just have made it out of this conversation a little richer than he went in.

“See you at quali,” Oscar says as he heads off— and though there’s definitely some unease still simmering beneath the surface, George feels more confident, post-chat, that he’ll style it out.

Last proper practice, after all, before the win he’s promised Emily has to manifest.

**

via Sky Sports F1

DC: — and it’s George Russell, our ‘Mr Saturday,’ putting in a sensational first sector, less than one-hundredth to make up on his teammate— the question is, can he pull it off?

MB: Well it’s got to be on his mind, Crofty, if it’s not on anyone else’s. Decent run into the chicane there, maybe a little wider than he’d have liked— though he can’t have lost more than a tenth at best because he’s steaming, George Russell on a purple first sector, and looking to be an incredible lap overall—

DC: Max Verstappen, currently ahead of both McLarens in second and third— all three will make it through to Q3, but by how much, and in which position, is still to be determined as Russell— turns that second sector purple! What a run for Russell right now—

MB: Just five turns to go, let’s see what he can do— the crowd going wild for Russell and Mercedes—  Oh no— and he’s choked it! George Russell goes spinning into the gravel, lost the back end entirely on the penultimate corner, and this is the result - just heartbreak for everyone in the Mercedes garage, and most of all for George Russell—

DC: You know what, I’m heartbroken for him too - a key race for Russell, and for Mercedes, and it all ends here for the Brit. George Russell in the gravel, now getting out of his car— and you can see the frustration as he does, really fired up, isn’t her?

MB: And so he should be, Crofty - this isn’t how anyone expected the Saudi Arabian Grand Prix to go for Mercedes, so close to McLaren as they are— we know, and George Russell knows, that every point counts, even this early in the season, when the competition is so fierce.

DC: Well this is it, isn’t it - those Papaya boys, Oscar Piastri and Pato O’Ward, they. Are. Fast— and I’ll ask, Martin Brundle, does a frankly rookie error like this add weight to the idea that George Russell might feel intimidated by his much younger, would-be-World-Champion teammate?

MB: Hard to say; Kimi Antonelli is far from a new threat, as far as Russell is concerned— although there he goes, Q2 in Saudi, and putting it in P1, a stunning lap from the Italian as the chequered flag comes out-! Beautiful work as always from Antonelli, truly beautiful on that last sector, as the Mercedes garage, no doubt, resets in more ways than one.

DC: Ten minutes until Q3 says Bernie Collins of Race Control— so we’ll go to the pit lane next, and the press pen, catching up with—

Chapter Text

Seven Months ~ May

George doesn’t win— in fact he finishes ninth because qualifying went terribly, and Monaco being Monaco, there’s basically no chance to make up ground through racing alone.

Alex’s heart sinks for a couple of reasons when the chequered flag flies. As a driver, you go into Monaco somewhat resigned after a poor quali, but the deluded fuck in them all still hopes for a miracle: mass-disqualifications, engine failures across the board, or even a well-timed wall-tap - nothing truly dangerous of course, but just enough to make it a race with actual stakes. There was no miracle this time; George has barely finished inside the points, and although that would sting at the very best of times, Alex knows how very badly he wanted this one to go well. It’s not like Emily will remember it, but it’s also not like that’ll matter to George. Their faces - Em’s and Alex’s - have been on every bloody camera and TV screen across the circuit, and the commentary was speculative from the off: ‘Baby’s first race.’ ‘George Russell, in his first race with a real audience.’ ‘Emily Albon-Russell, here for the first time to watch her dad—'

It had been incessant. Alex has no way of knowing how much of it George heard, has to hope he managed to make it fade into the hum of background noise, and everything you have to block out to keep your focus on racing.

“That was rough,” he says to Emily, as he changes her nappy— in Toto Wolff’s actual office, as directed by the man himself. “Really rough for Daddy— but he still won some points.” He strokes her hair with his spare hand, smiling when she makes a grab for his finger, pulls it towards her mouth. She looks so like George for a moment there that Alex can’t help himself. He fastens her nappy, pulls her little dress back into place, and then lifts her into his arms, pressing kisses to her head where she’s all soft and smells of talc, and ‘baby,’ and ‘home.’ There’s something about talking to a baby that makes you more honest— though whether it’s the guaranteed silence, or whether Alex has had this inside him for a while, with no outlet, he wouldn’t be confident in saying.

“It was rough, but he’s safe. He’s still here with us— and we’re going to see him soon, so I need you to do one thing for me, darling…” He kisses the crown of her head again, and his next words are just a whisper. “Please, please don’t—“

Emily gurgles, and Alex quickly realises how daft this is. She’s not listening. She doesn’t even understand.

Doesn’t stop him trying, though. This is Monaco - hoping for a miracle is par for the fucking course.

It had been Seb Vettel, last summer, who told Alex about separation anxiety— but as with almost all advice you receive before you’ve actually given birth, Alex had figured my kid would never, and then carried on. The reality is he’s eating his words now, has been eating them since Emily hit the milestone right on schedule, and the idea of being held by anyone other than Alex became intolerable. He’s still telling himself it won’t apply to George, not to her Daddy— but he can’t hold onto that thought once he’s in the press pen, then the motorhome again, and there’s people everywhere. It’s too many voices, too many faces— just too much, and when Alex finally catches a glimpse of the face he’s after, Emily is wriggling fit to bust in his arms, and he ends up not thinking, just follows instinct.

He kisses George’s cheek, whispers condolences, then gives him what he really wants - his daughter in his arms.

It’s a beautiful moment, for a moment— and for only a moment, because every one of Alex’s prayers prove themselves unanswered when Emily’s face screws its way up. It’s not George, he knows that; it’s not George, just like it’s not anyone else— it’s simply that he’s Not Alex, and for a beat after she starts screaming, Alex thinks he might be able to salvage this still.

He can’t. George’s face drops, through confusion, and horror, and finally into heartbreak, because he knows her cries, knows when she’s hungry, in need of a change— or fucking miserable, as she is now, distressed in a way he suddenly can’t solve.

His heart seems to break all over again when he hands her back, and she immediately calms— like a worst fear has been realised, and Alex knows he should dig immediately so he can start to help immediately… only he can’t with so many mics listening in, and the cameras have likely already captured the incident - Emily crying, George looking like he wants to.

He’s rushed off by a Mercedes aide moments later, so Alex doesn’t stick around either, just thanks the staff for their hospitality and makes a swift exit, Emily cooing in his arms like nothing’s happened. It’s hard to fight the frustration— but Alex does, because it’s not her fault, is it? She’s not being malicious - she’s seven months old, and it’s their job to comfort her, however their own feelings might bruise in the process.

He just has to hope George sees it the same way. He had figured he knew for sure, but seeing his face today… part of Alex now wonders if he’s got cause for concern.

It’s nothing they can’t handle. Still, the tone is set, and not in a good sense, when George comes home and doesn’t immediately call in from the hallway.

Alex has not long settled Emily; when he goes looking for George, it’s to find him stood at her open bedroom door, but not entering - just watching her in the crib as she sleeps, with an expression on his face Alex can’t read.

“Hey,” Alex says, quietly, so as not to disturb either of them: daughter, or husband. “How’re you doing?”

George snorts a little; Alex does recognise the face that comes with it. “Fantastic. Why do you ask?”

Ah. So they’re here, are they? Alex would love to say he was surprised, but confronted with it, ignorance is impossible. George isn’t just frustrated - he’s fucking combative, and since he likely knows he can’t, reasonably, be cross with Emily, Alex is going to have to bear the brunt. Whatever he says now is going to turn into a row. It’s just a case of how they get there, and since Alex has never been one to back down, nor pander to George’s (fortunately rare) tendency to lash out, he figures he may as well help get it over and done with.

“We’re not doing this here,” Alex says, and pulls Emily’s door shut before turning on his heel, knowing George will follow him to the kitchen. The change of scene, the moments to breathe, ought to circumvent an explosion— and it does. What it also emboldens George to do, however, is cut straight through Alex’s first thought of apologising, expressing sympathy, with a supremely sullen—

“You could’ve warned me.”

— and, well. After that, the gloves, such as they are, come off.

“Interesting,” Alex says, and sees the moment George smells the sarcasm, with it the realisation he’s opened up a sizeable can of worms. “And how was that conversation meant to pan out: ‘hey, my love, no matter what happens this weekend, your daughter’s going to shriek the second you hold her. No big deal, good luck with the race?’”

“I don’t know,” George says, as it becomes clear that rather than step over the de-canned worms, he’d far rather stick his feet in the pile. “You couldn’t have made some sort of effort?”

“I know,” Alex says, “that you didn’t just say ‘effort’ to the person taking care of our baby 24/7.”

“Oh, don’t make it about that.” George pulls his hands from his pockets with a jerk, and it’s then that Alex’s suspicions are confirmed: not only has this row been percolating, it’s been doing so for a While. “You think I’m not well aware you’re here with her, and I’m not? Believe me, Alex, most days it’s all I can fucking think about.”

“We knew this would happen going in,” Alex shoots back. “I retired, you didn’t; that was fine— and for the record, it still is.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, it is,” Alex says. “What’s not fine is you feeling martyred, then taking it out on me. I’m doing everything I can with this, George.” Angry as he is, the love that underpins virtually everything they do rears its head. “I know you are too. Believe me, I do, but she’s going to have a lot of difficult phases. How are you going to feel when she’s a teenager, and doesn’t want to talk to either of us?”

“At least then it would be equal,” George says. He looks as though he regrets it straight away, and good, Alex thinks, as the rage returns, both barrels. He should. “I don’t think you understand what that was like.”

“Just to be clear,” Alex says, “you’re feeling singled out for rejection by someone who can’t do anything for herself beyond shit, and cry?” George doesn’t have an immediate response to that, so Alex seizes the gap. “You’ve not been ‘singled out’ at all: she won’t go to anyone but me. It’s exhausting.” It’s true, and now he’s actually saying it, it’s like realising with his whole body just how close he is to dropping where he stands, at any given minute of the day. “This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, George. Harder than post-surgery, or ‘23 in Qatar— it’s harder than fucking childbirth.”

When George comes dangerously close to an eye-roll, as if to say your perfect excuse for everything, Alex loses it a bit - not explosively, but cruelly, in a way he knows, heart of hearts, he shouldn’t. It’s the ways you can hurt someone you love that spook Alex most - the breadth and depth of hurt you can cause— but he knows his husband like he knew, and knows, his best friend. They can handle this, and George won’t take it personally for long.

For now though, when Alex says “Just because you fucked up quali—“ George doesn’t stick around to hear the end of the sentence. He stalks out of the room, then out of the apartment, slamming both doors in his wake, and all Alex is left with after that, beyond rage, and regret, is the third R: relief, that Emily somehow sleeps on through it all.

He hits the shower in the end, and tries to wash away the whole day, as well as the row. It’s only partially successful; Alex realises, sat on the couch after, that he would normally pick Emily up and breathe his every worry away via the smell of her hair. He can’t do that right now, and it gets him thinking on how fucked up that is as a mere concept. Em’s her own person, and caregiving doesn’t equal ownership of autonomy— yet he and George both are clearly guilty of using her like some sort of mood-regulator, engineering how their feelings land, dependent on her.

It’s probably ‘normal,’ and Alex isn’t about to argue that, even with himself. It shouldn’t be put on her though, should it? They have to be able to ‘rise above,’ to prioritise her, and her feelings, beyond simply shutting a door so she can’t overhear them fighting.

He needs to do better. Alex knows that, as a father, and as a husband— and as the time since George stormed out ekes from thirty minutes to ninety, it’s never been clearer to Alex, what he could - or should - have done, when George was here.

George being George, and George being the man Alex loves - a wonderful human, husband, and father - he doesn’t let the clock tick past two hours. He lets himself back inside quietly, and when Alex goes to meet him halfway, neither of them hesitate to close the gap.

“I’m sorry,” Alex says against his neck, as they sway. “I shouldn’t have said that. And I know this is hard— I can’t imagine how much.”

“No,” George says. “No, you were right.” He pulls back then, but just to talk. He doesn’t let go of Alex’s hands, and Alex finds himself incredibly grateful. “It wasn’t about me.” His face stills a moment, then crumbles. “Al, if you thought I was blaming her—“

“No,” Alex says immediately, then pulls George close again, kisses his head, his cheeks, anywhere he can reach. “No, my love, never.”

It seems to settle something in him - something that’s clearly been percolating, insidiously, during his walk of Monaco’s streets. He’s a little steadier when they pull back again, though still ‘in-touch.’ Neither of them can handle any different right now. Neither of them want to, into the bargain.

“Look at us,” George says finally, and Alex smiles. His accent - the not-quite-northern, not-quite-south quality - only grows more pronounced when he’s emotional. “It’s a proper ballache. I know there’s more important things than a Championship fight—“

“But?” Alex preempts— and he’s right to, because part of George relaxes in his arms once he does, like he’s been given permission. For what, Alex doesn’t know for sure— but he has his suspicions, and they end up ringing true, at least in a sense.

“Am I being a— total dickhead here?” George asks, once Alex has moved them to the couch. The time for fighting is over; now, they just need to pave the way towards sleep. “I love her so much. In a clinical way, almost; no offence, but I think I love her even more than I love you.”

“Right back at you,” Alex says, even as he presses a kiss to his husband’s forehead. “Continue?”

It takes George a minute, but he gets there in the end. As with all things that demand saying, sometimes it takes time for the right words to assemble.

“I’m so fixated on it— and I don’t know if it’s because of me, or because of Kimi, or because my last teammate was Lewis fucking Hamilton.“ He shakes his head - an impressive move whilst lying on Alex’s chest, but he pulls it off. “I know this matters more, Al. I do.”

It’s on the tip of Alex’s tongue to suggest something, even though they signed the ‘do you actually want advice?’ charter years prior. He doesn’t get the chance, though, before George raises his head with something deeply determined in his eyes.

“I’ve already booked a ‘chat.’ Tomorrow.”

“Oh yeah?” it behoves Alex to ask. “With who?”

Chapter Text

Interlude ~

“When I said you guys could always talk to me,” Nico Rosberg says, by way of greeting, “this isn’t exactly what I expected.”

He’s an intense guy, Rosberg - almost weird, George thinks, or at least an acquired taste. As far as the veterans go, he’s no Seb, who everyone loves, nor Raikkonen, who most of them legitimately fear; rather, Rosberg sits somewhere between them - a semi-friendly ghost haunting the track (or maybe just Lewis) by implicit invitation.

“Appreciate you making time,” George says, as Rosberg waves him off with one of his rarer, easier smiles.

“I’m just yanking your chain,” he says, then nods towards what George assumes is the hall to the front room. “Go through. A drink? I have water, of course, or there’s homemade cold brew..?”

George hides a smirk behind his hand (of course Nico Rosberg has a fridge full of ‘homemade cold brew’), but ultimately says he’ll take a water, please, then heads off, as directed, down the corridor.

Rosberg’s home is less clinical than George had imagined: no cryogenic chamber in one corner, for example, and the sofas, two of them, look comfy, with at least four separate cushions worn slightly misshapen by regular occupants. There’s a normal-sized TV, a MacBook sat atop one of those stand-up desks— and the left-hand wall is completely covered with photos, each displayed in its own eclectic, different-sized frame.

George is immediately drawn to them, to the sea of faces, most of which appear to belong to Rosberg’s family. There’s Keke, of course, and Nico’s mum; father and son in their helmets, with their trophies; and Rosberg lifting something far more precious, a baby in his arms— then a toddler, then one of each, a new addition dressed all in blue next to his big sister. The pictures play out the years as George looks along the wall. Rosberg’s babies are proper kids within a few frames, then donning school uniforms, ski suits, party dresses and grown-up bow ties. In what has to be the most recent photo, Rosberg has one arm around his teenage daughter, and the other gripping his son in a headlock as all three laugh, open-mouthed.

It’s a different side of ‘Britney:’ the family man, the husband, who looks far healthier, and smiles much wider, than George ever remembers seeing on the track— and suddenly, George isn’t so sure anymore, just what he’s come here to ask Rosberg, or what he’s hoping he’ll say.

There’s also the spectre he can’t ignore: the unbelievable, but very real, fact Rosberg built and maintained this perfect family home only two or three floors down from where Lewis spends night after night mostly alone— but that, George knows, is a door absolutely none of them want to open. Not even a true masochist would try… and yet Rosberg still hasn’t moved out, not even after—

“They’re not here today,” George hears from behind him, and jumps, almost thinking he’s been caught out. Rosberg’s smiling, though, and when George equates the look with how pleased he feels, whenever someone admires Emily, he finds himself a little more at ease. “The kids, I mean.”

“With their mum?” George asks, and Rosberg nods, handing over a dripping glass of water.

“Yeah, at some event Margot begged and begged to go to.” He shrugs. “Net-win, I guess. I had offered, but Vivi said I’d find it dull— which in-turn, I suppose, works out well for you.”

He grins, shark-like, but George isn’t quite sure how he’s meant to respond. Business as usual.. or ask Rosberg why he’s still got at least two snaps of his wedding day on the photo wall?

“You seem like you get along well,” he blurts out instead, as every straw he clutches at reveals itself to be one of those crap cardboard jobs. “Even—“

“Even though we’re divorced?” Rosberg queries, and Jesus fucking Christ, if the ground could open up and swallow George whole, that would be sound. “Yes, we do. Russell, please tell me you’re not here to ask for advice on how to co-parent like adults.”

“No,” George says, pointedly, and manages to resist saying that, given what he knows about Nico Rosberg, he can’t believe the word ‘divorce’ exists anywhere near the word ‘amicable’ in his dictionary. In any case, it’s not his problem, and the condition of George’s marriage isn’t Rosberg’s. It’d probably do them both good to remember that, George most especially, if this conversation is going to be in any way productive. “It’s a professional query.”

“Then please,” Rosberg says, gesturing towards the couch. He sits down himself in what’s clearly ‘his’ spot, crossing his legs so one ankle rests atop the opposite thigh. “I’m all ears.”

George doesn’t labor the point. He just lays it out: the dream, the constant travel, the pressure, the way he and Alex both went in thinking they could easily balance all that with parenthood. To Rosberg’s credit, he doesn’t laugh, or needle George. He doesn’t make him feel naive, or paranoid, not even when George admits that’s exactly how he feels— and by the time George has started to talk himself in circles, it’s Rosberg that puts out a hand, not to shut him up, but to help him gently slow his roll.

“You don’t need to justify yourself. You’re.. what? Early thirties now?” When George nods, Rosberg grimaces, in a way that’s somehow also a half-smile. “I understand. Believe me, I’ve been there.”

“I know you have,” George says, and although he’s not overly keen to blow smoke up Rosberg’s arse, it’s hard to ignore the elephant in the room, the work and the sheer tenacity that went in… which really is the crux of what George needs to know. “I guess what I’m asking is, if could do those years over again, the same way you already did—?”

“In a heartbeat,” Rosberg says, and a part of George - small, shameful, but awfully sincere - feels so relieved to hear it. He watches Rosberg reach into the pocket of his chinos, pull out his wallet, then flip it open so George can see the photo nestled in there alongside his credit cards and ID. “That final year, a picture was almost all I saw of them.” There’s no emotion near the surface; though George doesn’t doubt it’s in there, maybe it’s how he’s learned to frame this particular chapter, in order to cope. “This is a new one, of course. Erik wasn’t born yet, Margot was one— it was hard being away. For a while after, it was hard to be back.”

“But you’d do it again?” George clarifies, and he must sound truly skeptical, because Rosberg chuckles, just slightly, thumbs tracing over the faces, his son, daughter, and now-ex-wife, in the photograph.

“I would, yes. But not everyone is me—“ He grins, then, both mischievous and wry. “— and if we’re being honest with each other, you don’t want to be.”

“Oh,” George starts, taken aback, “that’s not—“

“Don’t kiss my ass, Russell, you’re bad at it,” Rosberg says, still smiling. “You don’t want to be me. None of you guys do; with the exception of Max, you all want to be Lewis— or Michael. Legends, crowned in glory… and it’s not enough to be ‘great’ when you could still be ‘the best,’ so I do understand.” He takes a long pull from his glass, leaving drops of water on his top lip. “As a driver - as myself - of course I do.”

“And as a dad?” George asks. “What about then?”

“You hear a lot about the sacrifices,” Rosberg says, at length— and for the first time, George gets the feeling this is a conversation he’s had before, with his now-ex, a therapist, or maybe just himself. “From some, it’s all you hear. Everything you’ll have to give up: sleep, sanity, for many people, financial security— independence, time alone, with friends, or ‘just’ your partner…” His face twists itself again, and although all evidence suggests Rosberg’s marriage survived his actual racing career, George has to wonder, then— did it really?

He knows what Rosberg is saying; it’s on the tip of his tongue to fill the gap, until Rosberg snaps his gaze to George’s, and says, plain as day—

“I wasn’t a dad, in 2016.”

George blinks at him. “What d’you mean?”

“Exactly what I said,” Rosberg replies. “I was a father, sure, but I wasn’t a ‘dad.’” He shrugs in that way of his, like he’s speaking simple truth, and not something that, even for his lofty standards, is shockingly blunt. “I don’t think anyone deserves that title, if the sacrifice they’re making is the kid, or kids, themselves.”

George, his throat suddenly dry, chugs half his remaining water in one go.

“I don’t—” He coughs, hard, then tries again, unsure on whose behalf he should be outraged first. “That’s hardly fair to say—"

“You misunderstand,” Rosberg says, as George thinks yeah, I’d bloody better have. “You can race and be a dad, George.” Again with the shrug, only this time he tops it off. “You just won’t win.”

George can’t quite process what he’s hearing. It’s not that he’s arrogant enough— of course he’s considered that it might never happen. Yet at the same time, he’s looking at Rosberg, at the familiar skyline behind him, and wondering if they’ve somehow stepped into the fucking Twilight Zone.

“How are you— somehow guaranteeing that?” George asks, indignant. “Crystal ball, is it? Or a hotline to God?”

“Neither,” Rosberg says, because of course he’s fucking immune to sarcasm. “Just a set of eyes, logic, and common sense.”

“That’s insane,” George splutters. “And wrong. Loads of guys have won a WDC and been good dads.”

“Some have,” Rosberg says. “You won’t. I wouldn’t have.” He tilts his head to one side, thoughtful, almost like he’s contemplating the best way to roast. “You’re like me, George - you’re too in your head. It makes you angry, and entitled, and make mistakes you try and blame others for. It’s not how you win races, and it’s not how you beat others that are playing the game better.” He blinks at George, then, and takes another mouthful of water. “I’d welcome any thoughts.”

George isn’t sure that’s true, not in the way he’d like to phrase them.

“That’s— pretty rude,” he settles on at last, and indulges in one, incredibly cruel thought: at least he’s not hearing this from Lewis. Once upon a time, potentially still, that might’ve fully broken him.

“I’m not being rude,” Rosberg says, and George thinks fucking hell, he actually believes that. “I’m being realistic. Toto won’t say any of this to you, but someone should. Someone should, George, because you could do what Antonelli is doing with that car— but you won’t, in part because you are a thirty-one year old man with a child.”

“Thirty-two,” George mutters, near-mutinous, and for the first time, Rosberg barks a laugh.

“Ok, fine— so let me paint you a picture…” He leans forwards on the couch, with the gaze of Hannibal Lecter, and George has to hope and pray that ‘story time’ for Margot and Erik growing up was slightly less terrifying. “Your first, most important competitor is your teammate, yes?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“So,” Rosberg says, and folds his fingers together. “Look at the grid. The Ferrari isn’t competitive this year, nor the Williams, nor the Audi. O’Ward is nowhere near Piastri; Max Verstappen is the driver of a generation, and simply put, Isack Hadjar isn’t, not yet.”

“And Mercedes?” George asks, salty, for a reason that’s probably quite obvious to Rosberg, the prick. “Me and Kimi? What’s the diagnosis there?”

“You know what it is,” Rosberg says. “You are where in the standings right now? Fifth?”

“Sixth,” George admits. “But that doesn’t mean—"

“Don’t lie to yourself,” Rosberg says. “You think you will make up the gap now, with the grid as it is, and your head always elsewhere?”

“Not elsewhere,” George snaps, and doesn’t miss the triumphant gleam in Rosberg’s eyes, like he’s been after forcing a reaction this whole time. “With my fucking daughter, Nico, Jesus Christ.”

“That is exactly my point,” Rosberg counters. He shrugs again, stance fully open; there’s simply no pretence about him like this, no matter how dearly George would love to believe he’s full of shit. “None of the others are facing the same battle. You want to win this?” He stares until George nods. “Alright. Then forget this year. It’s done, fertig— from next year, if you want a shot, this is what you do.

“Whatever your workout routine is right now, triple it— but not your legs, you need them slim, saves weight. Employ psychological warfare from Day One - torture the kid, it’ll do you good. Next, you study, Russell: everything Antonelli does, thinks, touches, breaks wind against— and then the car, every single bolt, every detail, every word you looked up for that engineering competence test, commit those to memory.”

It goes on and on, interminably. What to do, what not to do, when to scratch your arse in between. At some point, Rosberg begins to resemble a character from a fucking video game, yet he still doesn’t let up.

“— diet’s important, speak to your trainer. You want worse than you have now - better for cutting weight. And speaking of, shave your head. Shave your balls. Take the paint off your fucking helmet—” When he pauses for breath, he’s gone pink, and looks haunted— and a moment later, after Rosberg takes a deep breath, George understands why. “And of course, you neglect your family. Your parents, your partner, your little girl— you don’t see them, or barely. You miss birthdays to work out, to meditate, to focus— because winning is what you focus on now, and you don’t stop, Russell, until the trophy is in your hands, because the minute you do is the minute you lose.”

This time, when he pauses for breath, George thinks he sees it, just a smidgen of the psychosis spoken about— and for a split second he thinks, how could anyone do that? How could anyone want to be like that? Be like—

He breaks through it with a quip, not just because he needs it, but because he thinks, right now, Nico might need it too.

“Well,” George says, his own voice sounding frankly foreign in the air Rosberg has occupied for so long. “If Piastri can do it…”

It works. Rosberg smiles, then chuckles, like he’d plunged depths, then finally broken the surface.

“Oscar Piastri is maybe the best ‘compartmentaliser’ F1 has seen since Niki Lauda.” He pauses a moment, like he’s just spoken the name of God between them— and some ways, George thinks, albeit ridiculous ones, he sort of has. “He also has his Championship.”

George nods, slowly, even as Rosberg leans over the gap between them, and squeezes down on his knee.

“What you have— all you have to think about, George is what would you give, or give up, to win yours.”

**

For the second evening in a row, George finds himself roaming the streets, indulging a fantasy wherein the answers to all his problems simply drop from the sky, and into his open arms.

Rosberg’s a dick… but George knew that going in. He’d barely said anything George actually wanted to hear… but maybe the fact it was needed is more important. George still has no idea what call he’s supposed to make— and that, ultimately, is nobody’s problem but his own.

He could wander the streets for hours with some ease; fortunately, he happens to wander past his own apartment building— and when his gaze goes, automatically, towards the fourth floor, and sees the light on beyond the balcony, he remembers something fairly vital.

It might be his problem to sort, but that doesn’t mean he has to do it alone.

“Thank God,” is Alex’s opening line when George walks through the door. It’s not difficult to guess why: Emily is not only still awake at gone-eight, she’s screaming, and judging by the look on Alex’s face, she’s been doing so for some time. He holds her out, looking desperate, George now realises, in more ways than one. “Can you take her? I’m literally about to piss myself.”

George obliges, and although it still stings a bit, when Emily doubles down on the screaming, it’s like his instincts have shifted. He just wants to comfort her now, whatever it takes— so he follows and idea, and carries her through to their bedroom, cooing softly as he goes. The laundry basket is half-full, and George swipes one of Alex’s t-shirts from the pile with his free hand, laying it over his shoulder, and hoisting Emily up so she settles, cheek-first, against it.

It— sort of works. Emily clearly knows she’s being duped, but surrounded suddenly by Alex’s scent, can only really muster a token protest. She winds down from screeches to low, pissed-off whimpers, and honestly, George kind of gets it.

“I get it,” he tells her, box-stepping gently around the room as he rubs his hand up and down her back. “He smells good, right, Emme? Just like home. Like you’re safe…”

It’s quite the thought, actually. Safety. In many ways, it’s defined the parts of his career less-spoken about - his work with the GPDA, the way he’s always tried to race. He might have to start doing that differently from now on, if Rosberg is right. Admittedly that’s a big ‘if;’ George has heard a lot of ‘advice’ in his time, not all of it useful—  but he went to Rosberg for a reason, didn’t he?  He thinks so, at least, but in the mire of emotion, self-reflection, and Emily still hiccoughing against his shoulder, he’s really not sure anymore.

It’s something no one ever dares tell you about having kids, how you’ll have dreams one day, ambitions, ceilings to reach, that become basement-level in priority, the very second you meet your baby. It makes George think, cradling his... and when she curls a yawn, huge for such a tiny person, into his neck, he gets that same thought again - the ‘why’ of it all, when this is right here.

He hears a noise at the door; it’s Alex, leaning against the frame with a smile, one George instantly returns.

It’s likely not at all what Rosberg intended— but if George has learned one thing, it’s to not waste what he has. He opens his spare arm to Alex, and they put her down to sleep together, George thinking I’m your dad— 

And although that has to be a mere thought for now, some part of him knows it’s going to be vital, maybe very soon.

Chapter Text

georgerussell63

Well.. it’s been A Time ⌛️ A wonderful time, for sure— but equally time to draw it in.

Today I told Toto and the rest of the team at @mercedesamgf1 that I’ll be retiring from Formula 1 at the end of the current season.

Being a Formula 1 driver has been one of the greatest privileges of my life. It was everything I wanted from when I was tiny - and since so few kids truly get to see their dreams come true, I want to dedicate the next ‘few’ years making sure that’s what happens for my own little girl.

To the team, my fellow drivers, and most importantly the fans - thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

As for what’s coming next.. stay tuned 🇬🇧

**

Eight Months ~ June

George gives Toto the news in person during the week’s break, when they’re all back home ahead of Austria. A bit on-the-nose for his home GP, Alex comments, but lets up when he realises George is really, genuinely unnerved.

It’s not Toto’s potential reaction that’s doing it, Alex knows - it’s everything that’s due to come after, and the fact no one, especially not George, has any idea what that might look like. He and Alex both have gotten decent mileage out of ribbing their friends and colleagues, once it became apparent that although all their kids are very much loved, barely any of them were actually planned in advance. It had been Danny Ric who declared ‘open season’ - best accident of my career - and they’d fully run with what followed. Not even Seb and Mark Webber had been exempt from the piss-taking- though Oscar, at his manager's side, had given George such a Look when he cracked that one off that they eventually let it lie. Emily, by comparison, had been meticulously scheduled, long before even winter break of ‘27, when they finally got around to their wedding.

“I don’t mind retiring,” Alex had said, picking at his plate of Hainanese chicken rice in the safely of a Singaporean hotel room. “End of next year feels right— but I can’t see myself never working again, full-stop.”

“Can’t you?” George had answered, his own meal finished, and stretched out on the bed like he was doing it purely for Alex to admire. “I reckon I could.”

“Stay-at-home Dad vibes?” Alex teased. “Socks and sandals?”

“Christ no,” George snorted. “You can appreciate the vision though, right? Power through another few years, pack it in before I’m ‘past it,’ or ‘washed…’”

“I’m not bringing babies to ten years of races,” Alex said, and smiled when George, already preening at the compliment, picked up on what else he’d said.

“Babies?” he queried, grin splitting his face. “As in more than one?”

“Obviously,” Alex replied. “What d’you reckon, is four too many?”

Since that day, a few things have changed. For one, it had taken less than a week after Emily’s birth to decide that yes, in fact, four is far too fucking many— and then there’s George, of course, who is not only ‘packing it in’ several years ahead of the original schedule, but has clearly also realised the concept of having nothing to focus on besides parenthood isn’t quite as alluring as he’d once thought.

“It’s not too late, you know,” Alex says soothingly, when they’re sat in the car outside Toto’s house, and he realises George has gone positively green. “The announcement’s only been drafted— if you want to tell Harry and your family you’ve changed your mind—"

“I haven’t,” George says. He’s picking obsessively at the fibres on his shorts, and squeezes gratefully when Alex picks up his hand instead to hold. “Though I guess now you’re seeing why I wanted you guys to be here.”

“We’ve got you,” Alex assures him, then twists in his seat, because sometimes George responds best to a proverbial Band Aid rip. “Wish Daddy luck, Em - big day!”

George kisses them both, then heads off inside — and though Alex had tentatively planned to wait him out, Emily has other ideas, and starts grizzling around the thirty-minute mark.

“Alright, darling,” Alex soothes, fumbling his phone to let George know they’ll come back for him. The reply comes swiftly, before Alex has even made it off the drive:

From: George A-R — All good. Meet you at lunch? X

It’s far from a bad plan. Alex nabs a table at a kid-friendly spot, and orders some soft, tearable breadsticks to keep Emily busy. The vast majority end up on the floor - she’s just discovered throwing, and has decided it’s great fun to watch Alex, who’s not an asshole, and won’t create mess to be left for their waitress, get up and down from his seat to collect the pieces.

“Once more, and you won’t be having them,” Alex warns her, well aware he’s wasting his breath. They try and talk to her like they would anyone else, but she’s a little way yet (read: years) off learning how consequences work. Still, she’s clearly smart enough to mug him off - albeit with little or no regard for her own wellbeing, because Alex has no sooner put one of the discarded bits of bread back onto the table ‘out of her reach’ when she lunges for it. It’s in her mouth before Alex can stop her, at which point he can only grimace.

“That’s disgusting,” Alex laments, and gives up trying to take it off her when she shrieks in warning. “Bloody hell, Em, the germs—"

“Probably good for her in the long run,” Alex hears over his shoulder. George is grinning at least, which must mean the meeting went well— and a part of Alex he hadn’t even realised was tense seems suddenly to relax. “Immune-building or something. Hey, little love—"

“Did you get a taxi?”

“Nah,” George says, leaning down to kiss Alex before taking the seat opposite. “Toto dropped me off.”

“Went well then?” Alex asks, and George nods, already helping himself to the mineral water Alex ordered.

“Yeah. He was surprised— but sort of not, at the same time?” George snorts a little, clearly amused. “On the record, it was all professional. Off it, he asked if you were pregnant again.”

“How did he know?” Alex quips, faux-shocked— then cracks up when George almost drops his water.

“You’re a twat,” George says, shaking his head with a grin. “Christ— and I just signed on to live with you full-time.”

That he did— and they’re celebrating the fact, so decide it might as well be done in style. They don’t get to eat out much - with George’s on-season diet it’s pretty impractical, and neither of them want to be Those parents, the ones who let their child ruin everyone else’s lunch by screaming. Em’s in a good mood today though, and they decide to indulge: steak for George, a sinful-looking burger for Alex, and a kids’ pasta dish for Emily that she mostly ends up wearing.

“First Father’s Day coming up,” George says once the mains are cleared, and Alex is keeping one hopeful eye on the dessert menu. “How does it work— do we get presents for each other or what?”

“Probably,” Alex says. “Did your mum always sort it for you guys, growing up?”

“Cara, mostly,” George says. “I remember trying extra hard to win if there was a race on the day.” He smiles at the memory, gaze going all soft, as it usually does when he thinks of family. “He used to say that was my present to him: a day together, and a podium finish.”

“Aw,” Alex says, tangling their fingers on the tabletop. “That’s really nice.” Timing, he knows, is everything with these things. “It’s a load of shit, though. I want a Rolex.”

George cracks up, kicks him under the table, but leaves his foot between both of Alex’s. It’s a lovely glimpse of what the rest of their lives might look like, and really far luckier than Alex ever thought he’d get to be. Falling in love with your best friend isn’t for the faint of heart; strong though his is, Alex is immeasurably grateful he chose George to hold it.

That proves especially true two weeks later, when Alex wakes up to breakfast, and a Rolex box that contains a photo of George, shirtless.

Amidst the laughter, and impromptu dump-tackle, that follow, it takes Alex almost an hour to realise George has stashed the actual watch in their sock drawer.

**

Transcript - ‘Father’s Day ‘Press Conference’ 2030.’ 

Participants, in order of questioning: Eglė Hülkenberg (EH) & Nico Hülkenberg (NH); Oscar Piastri (OP) & Lando Norris (LN); Rebecca Donaldson-Sainz (RDS) & Carlos Sainz (CS); Daniel Ricciardo (DR) & Max Verstappen (MV); Alex Albon (AA) & George Russell (GR); Alexandra St Mleux (ASM) & Charles Leclerc (CL); Mark Webber (MW) & Sebastian Vettel (SV).

Editor’s Note: Do your thing, Lachy. Mike.

Transcriber Note: you got it boss.

Transcriber Note (2): oh shit you got webber involved? say no fucking more.

Question, EH: Now we’re expecting a second girl, what’s the most important tip you’d give our daughter about having a sister?

Answer, NH: Well I have one myself, so I would say— it depends on if Stephanie is watching. [group laughter] No, I would say to get onboard. She is nine already, so it will be a big adjustment— but your siblings are your first best friends.

[nah y’know what, strong answer. love ya, sis.]

[reset]

Question, OP: How many nappies did you change in the first year of our daughter’s life, and have I changed more than you?

[oh shit, i’m seated.]

Answer, LN: Uh.. [giggle; That fucking giggle, you know the one.] I dunno. Who wrote these questions?

OP: No one you know.

LN: [can you get a fine for just mouthing the word ‘dick,’ guys? someone ask the FIA.] [cut for laughter] Yeah, okay. Uh, Osc changed more.

Interjection, CS: How many more?

LN: Can’t remember. All a blur, really.

[what do we reckon, lads? more than one, less than ten? how often do babies shit anyway?]

LN: Hang on, why am I even up here? Everyone else—

OP: I had the better questions.

[reset]

Question, RDS: What’s been your steepest learning curve so far, specifically about having a son…?

Answer, CS: [cut for laughter] Ah, my wife is asking about the time our son peed into my mouth, yes?

[oh sweet vivacious lord.]

RBS: Might’ve been, yeah.

CS: Okay, so no one tells me, yeah, but baby boys, when you take the diaper off—

Interjection, CL: Ha! And you had the mouth— the mouth open?

CS: Yeah, it was— [im not even going to try and describe the mime sainz just pulled off. be fucking amazed if it makes it to air, but I hope it does.] I got to know my boy a lot better for that.

CL: He peed into your mouth?

CS: He peed in my mouth, yes.

Interjection, MW: It happens.

[yeah gonna have to cut here, folks - Rebecca, Leclerc and Vettel are laughing too loud for the audio.]

[reset]

Question, DR: G’day, Papa. Does Effie speak more Dutch, or more ‘Aussie?’

Answer, MV: She’s pretty talkative; there are of course some words she knows in both languages. I won’t repeat them in front of the cameras.

Interjection, SV: Ernsthaft?

MV: Natürlich. Kennen sie Daniel? Oder mich?

[yeah nah, no idea what that was, but he’s talking about ‘cunt’ right? all stand for the anthem.]

[reset]

Question, AA: This is our first Father’s Day - what would you say has been the best part so far?

Answer, GR: [there he is. be still, my burning loins.] I mean, obviously the presents. [cut to laugh] No— although Emily did get me a lovely new set of golf clubs, it’s got to be the way she smiled when Alex brought her to see me, after the race. [cut to ‘awwwwws.’ for fuck sake, Mike, who’s cutting onions?] Yeah, she just beams, it’s amazing. She’s at this really cute age. Every day she’s a bit bigger, a bit more beautiful—

[oh you’re wasted on Albon you handsome bastard. have my babies, I’ll let you. my missus will understand.]

GR: It’s great. It’s really great. As Alex said, this is our first Father’s Day, and I’ve done this already in private— but I do also want to thank Alex properly for making this happen, for bringing Emme all the way out here. It feels really special. Al— thank you.

[fuck sake, albon’s actually going up to the table— oh and they’re kissing, nice, in front of my salad. someone’s getting a handy tonight, and no i won’t stop mike, this is the best form of entertainment since you deleted netflix and you know it.

[reset]

Question, ASM: I know this is an important day for you. Who would you like to dedicate your podium to, today?

Answer, CL: To Jules, of course— to both of them. And to my dad. Obviously I always think of him today— and I’m very glad now that I can make these memories with my own son.

[reset]

Question, MW: [oh here we fucking go mike, now we’re cooking.] Bloody hell, become a pundit, they said— Sebastian, we’ve finished the ‘Terrible Twos,’ only to be shocked by the reality of having a ‘Threenager’— seriously, Seb? 

Answer, SV: I have no comment.

[pretty sure vettel just winked at him. whatever combative sexual shit this is, I want it bottled.]

MW: … What would you say has been the biggest lesson you’ve learned, during your three-ish years as a father?

SV: Well, if that was the question I was being asked—

MW: It is.

SV: Then I would say it’s probably to not leave my husband unattended, to let our son consume a whole bag of those… cake decorating things? The ones made of sugar— [hundreds and thousands?] hundreds and thousands, yes. [oh, words right out of my mouth.] Rainbow vomit everywhere, Mark— would you care to comment?

MW: Yeah, ok. Guess I walked right into that one, didn’t I?

[you did. oh boy you did, webs. who’s next anyway?]

|

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continued overleaf

Chapter Text

Nine Months ~ July

Silverstone is a big weekend for everyone. George’s begins for real when he’s mid-shower, and Alex bangs suddenly on the bathroom door with what sounds like both fists at once.

George would always have been alarmed; now he’s a dad, it’s almost impressive how fast and how hard the total panic hits. He all-but breaks his neck diving out of the shower, dripping wet and completely nude as he shoves his way back into the hotel room. Alex has his back to the door, and George practically runs right into him. “What? Al, for God’s sake, what happ—“

It’s like a bomb goes off in his head - not an explosion, but a slow swell, gathering intensity - when he follows Alex’s delighted grin to the floor in front of them. Emily is sat on her bum by the coffee table, two chubby hands gripping the edge of it, and two eyes utterly fixed on her goal.

“Oh my God,” George breathes, gripping Alex’s arm as he struggles into shorts with the other hand. “Is she going to—“

“Sssh.” Alex swats at him lightly, but lets his hand stay put. “Don’t throw her off, she might stop.”

He’s right, because she has track-record. Two months prior, blessedly on a rest weekend, Emme decided it was time to crawl - no preamble, no shuffling, or dragging herself on her belly, just straight from tummy time to ambulatory, and predictably enough, both George and Alex had lost their fucking minds. The commotion startled her; there’d been tears, then an abject refusal to repeat the trick, and though George had near-enough gone to pieces, convinced they’d inflicted trauma, Alex was more skeptical. He’d coaxed George behind the couch and out of sight, then left a tempting toy some two metres from Emily’s playmat, and George had watched from around a cushion as his daughter - his sweet, beautiful, fucking conniving baby girl - seemed to check the coast was clear of excitable parents before setting off rapidly towards the toy.

He’d since learned - or more accurately, re-learned - that Alex’s instinct when it comes to cunning should never be overlooked.

As yet, Emme doesn’t seem to be aware of her audience. She has a good go, bending her knees with feet flat, and straining to pull up, her little face twisting with effort.

“Fancy a bet?” Alex murmurs, barely audible, even in the silent room. “Ten quid - either she stands, or she shits…”

George smothers laughter with his spare hand.  There’s all the rhyme and reason in the world, according to social media at least, to take these moments super seriously— and even though he’s well established it breaks his heart to miss them, he’s also found there’s far more fun to be had with a light touch.

Emily doesn’t shit… or maybe she does, and they just don’t think about it any further after her second attempt yields exactly the result she wanted. She hauls up again with her hands, her legs go straight— and then suddenly she’s standing, no help from anyone, standing… and then swept off her feet as both her parents abruptly forget the lessons they learned, the vow of silence shattered entirely by excitement.

It’s the way it should be, George thinks, as he peppers her face with kisses, well dones, and clever girls, sucking up all the minimal space between them all.

He catches Alex’s eye in the middle of it all, meets him halfway for a kiss that mostly fails due to how wide they’re both grinning— and when they pull back, their whole world still in their arms, George has never found it easier to reflect that he made exactly the right choice.

He carries the good feeling with him to the track. He doesn’t win, of course he doesn’t— but Kimi finishes second (Verstappen ahead and Sainz behind), so George, still high off the real win of his weekend, is more than happy to celebrate with the team. He’s packing up his stuff in his driver’s room after, when there’s a knock at the door - not Alex, as he’d expected, or even one of the staff.

“Hello,” Kimi Antonelli says instead, hair still tacky with podium champagne. He glances briefly over George’s shoulder, like he’s checking the coast is clear before asking: “Could I—?”

“Sure mate,” George says, though he can’t exactly hide his surprise. Things haven’t been awkward since his announcement— but they also haven’t exactly been comfortable, and George is old and (allegedly) wise enough to tell when he’s being treated with kid gloves. It doesn’t make munch sense from his perspective; if anything, the time for that would’ve been before he decided to pack it in, or even five years ago, when George was still front of midfield, yet all of Toto’s pep talks were being reserved for the new (quite literal) kid on the block.

Kimi’s a man now, although George can fully sympathise with the fact that, at twenty-three, he still doesn’t really look like one. He’d tried a bit of groomed stubble for a while, before clearly realising it suited him about as well as that fucking moustache suited Seb— and he’s fighting for the Championship this year, but to George, in part, he’s still that kid, still the rookie who was never quite ‘his.’

“What’s up?” George asks, stepping around Kimi once he gets inside, the door shut, but makes it clear he has no plans to sit down. They’re both still in need hydrating; he grabs twin water bottles from the fridge, and after half a dozen grateful gulps, it loosens Kimi’s tongue in more ways than one.

“They told me today, who will be my new teammate,” he says, and at long last, George understands the furtiveness. Not only does Kimi likely think this is a sore topic for him, they can’t be overheard discussing it, not by staff, not by the media— hell, Kimi could probably get into a decent degree of trouble for telling George. “It is going to be Noah.”

“Strømsted?” George queries, and Kimi nods. “Makes sense. He’s been in reserve, what— two years?”

“Yes,” Kimi says, and offers nothing more. It’s almost eerie to watch. The Kimi George knows is a fucking motormouth, save for when he’s freaked out— and it’s right about then George understands, this was never about breaking the news to him. Why would it be, his superego eventually asks him. It’s not as if the kid ever saw you as a threat.

“Well, you know he’s good,” George says, whilst trying not to shake his head. The audacity would be hilarious, if it wasn’t… well. Fucking audacious. “Believe it or not, mate, that’s what you want: a teammate who can score points.”

“I know this,” Kimi says, looking genuinely confused. It doesn’t break, either, not even when George realises his own (second) faux pas, and Kimi powers right on through. He’s just that European, and George is just that British. “I know he’s good, George— this is not what scares me.”

“Then what does?” George asks, genuinely perplexed, Kimi starts pacing, wringing his hands and murmuring Italian inflections like this is the Vatican— or at least that very camp film version with Voldemort, and Stanley Tucci. “Seriously, mate—“

“Because!” Kimi explodes suddenly, incredibly loud in the tiny room. It’s very unlike him, and George’s eyebrows are halfway up to his hairline by the time he realises that hadn’t been the end of the kid’s sentence. He watches Kimi tug on his own hair, wrenching himself back under control, before continuing. “Because— I don’t know what I am supposed to do. Toto, he tells me I am the leader now, or I will be soon— I don’t know how to do this.”

He shrugs helplessly, and— well. George can speak to that fear, at least, and not least because he knows, heart of hearts, he was never the best ‘mentor’ himself. They never really ‘got’ one another, is his best-worst excuse - got on, sure, but George’s own ambitions had eclipsed most everything else in a pre-Emily world, whilst Kimi had clearly taken to Max, his potty mouth, and four WDC’s, in the last year alone like he never had with George in close to six. Then there was Lewis, of course, George’s shining example— and he had been, in so many ways, save for the fact it was impossible to get truly close to him, high (and haunted) as he was.

It doesn’t come naturally to George, not any of it. Alex teases him sometimes, says he can be the picture-perfect youngest child— and it’s only through some serious reflection that George has come to realise how very right he is. He’s aware of his flaws these days, like Alex is aware of his own; they’ve built a marriage out of that honesty, a partnership, a family— and that example sort of pushes George forward, to lay himself bare and be honest.

“Look,” he says, and wonders how it’s possible to feel so old, and so young, secure, superior, untethered, unsure, all at once. “There’s not really a ‘knack’ to it - you go in assuming it’ll happen at some point, and cross your fingers that whoever you end up with is A, competent, and B, not a complete tosser.”

There’s a deep breath required after, even if George has to throw in a brief, explanatory gesture to explain his slang.

“If it’s an apology you need—“

“No,” Kimi interrupts, and Jesus, if George had beheaded Andrea Bocelli in front of him, there’d have been a less-vehement reaction. “George, you—“

“If it’s an apology,” George cuts across, “if that’s what you need to make sense of this, I’ll give you one.” He steps closer, and when Kimi doesn’t flinch, his hand goes down on the kid’s shoulder. “But if you came here for advice— someone told me recently that you have to own it. Whatever you do, however the fuck we’re ‘supposed’ to navigate this— all that actually matters is that you don’t have any regrets.”

He watches Kimi take that onboard, like there’s an endless stream of text flying past the whites of his eyes. George can only imagine what that text might say; he himself only wanted one thing at twenty-three, not even Alex, really, which seems both hilarious and embarrassing to look back on now, but in many respects, that’s the whole point. They have to be prime-focussed, have no choice but to give into that tunnel vision, because as Rosberg rightly said, the second you let that dream slip is the second you wave goodbye as it passes.

“For what it’s worth,” George says, as Kimi’s mind percolates like espresso, “having literally just offered to give an apology— it would’ve been insincere.”

“Good that you didn’t, then,” Kimi observes, but there’s a ghost of his familiar smile to see now, so George knows the worst is over. “I am glad we don’t lie to each other.”

“That’s something, at least,” George agrees, and then decides he’s going to see that one through to its conclusion. “Truth is, I don’t regret any of it. Not this, not us, not walking away.”

“You walked forwards, I think,” Kimi says, “not away.” He smiles properly then, and George glimpses a couple of things: not just a future World Champion, but also exactly the kind of teammate Noah Strømsted is about to gain.

Maybe he’ll be the first to do it all. If anyone can, it’s probably Kimi.

Before they can say their goodbyes properly, George’s phone starts buzzing where he’s tossed it on the sofa.

“Sorry,” he says, after scanning the text. “Don’t want to cut you short, but Alex has the baby ready.”

“Tuo principessa,” Kimi says, beaming. “Go, please. I am fine.”

It’s not his last day, as it were, but it’s a goodbye nonetheless, so George wraps his arms around Kimi like he would in the paddock— and in doing so realises he’s got an opportunity here, to show the kid that whatever choices he ends up making, it all comes good in the end.

He suggests Kimi walks with him, pleased when he agrees, then finishes throwing the rest of his gear into his rucksack.

“Might as well tell Toto the jig is up,” George comments as he leads the way through Mercedes hospitality in search of Alex. “No need to let me know now, is there?”

“He will do anyway,” Kimi says, and yeah, in fairness, Toto might be 99% business and rye bread, but he’s not the type to hold grudges. “And he has something else to say, too.”

“Oh?” George asks, interest piqued, but Kimi just smiles.

“I think you will like it,” he says, and it’s on the tip of George’s tongue to ask more questions, but they’re very much exposed here, and he spots Alex with Emily before getting the chance to probe.

“Brought someone to say hello,” George says, watching as Kimi seems almost to blossom upwards. It’s the alpha in him, reacting to whatever sense of safety and satisfaction he can feel coming off George in the presence of his family. It only gets more apparent when Alex hands him the baby; Kimi’s a natural, and Emily, now thankfully over her ‘no one but Alex’ phase, goes over quite happily.

“She’s getting massive,” Alex murmurs, and although George is half-convinced they’re just used to seeing Emme with bigger people than Kimi, he can’t exactly deny it either.

“Scary,” he replies, and Alex just reaches out for his hand, squeezing softly. He knows what Alex is asking: are you ok? Is this?

In both cases, George is pretty well certain the answer is yes. The excitement in the air is familiar: summer break is approaching, and so far there’s been no clear domination on-track. It could be anyone’s— but George knows whose he is, and just like they’re going to have to hand over the world to Emily one day, he’s got every confidence that what they’ve handed over here will be safe with the next generation.

He gets some confirmation the next day, when they wake up blissfully late in the spare bed at his parents’, and there’s a WhatsApp from Kimi on his phone.

From: Kimi Antonelli — When I crashed and I hit my head— I don’t remember much, but I will always remember you there. Grazie mille, George. for everything. And I wish you all of the luck. K

Yeah, George thinks, locking his phone and burying a smile against Alex’s shoulder. Everything’s in steady hands.

**

Via Green News—

by Jessica Adeoye

Toto Wolff and Mercedes announce backing of first ever Omega drivers’ academy in F1

In a first for motorsport - and in fact any sport - Mercedes appear to have Done The Thing— that is, publicly acknowledging a group who have won a clear 45% of the Formula 1 Driver World Championship titles since 2010.

Driver Academies aren’t a new thing— but although one would be TEMPTED to say Toto half-inched the idea of a field-leveller from his (cooler, hotter, and as it turns out, gayer) ex-wife Susie, one also have to grit one’s teeth and acknowledge this is the first of its kind: a fully-funded racing academy for omegas, backed by some seriously big names.

Though the bulk of the cash comes from long-time Mercedes sponsors Petronas (rare W for Big Oil?), the paddock’s pockets are also being scraped, with rumours that Oscar Piastri, alongside Lando Norris, and both of their dads, have chipped in, as have Lewis Hamilton, and his long-term ‘something,’ Nico Rosberg.

On his team’s sudden ‘awokening’ (or ‘PR move’ for the cynics), Toto Wolff said the following:

“We have not yet had the opportunity to promote and showcase omega talent through our young drivers’ programme, or the flagship team. With Noah [Strømsted] in the seat from next year, we obviously change this— and hope to make up for lost time.”

Hilariously enough, Wolff also seemed to confirm he knows they’ve been caught slipping by, of all people, the likes of Christian fucking Horner:

“I can admit it’s something our rivals have embraced before us. I think you see this in recent history. Red Bull for example, two omegas, eight championships […] and this year too, with Isack Hadjar, that whole situation— myself and the board, we consulted [with stakeholders] and hope now we will find ourselves on the right side of history.”

Beyond the many, many talking points Toto’s given us there, what sticks out for me is how quickly this all came about. Isack Hadjar’s outing (not ‘situation,’ Toto, Jesus Christ) was less than six months ago, yet Mercedes have already materialised a whole driver academy. Has this been brewing for a while behind closed doors? And if that is the case, how should we feel about it? I’m not one to shit on progress (please spare me the comments with your anti-affirmative action bull lmao), but I’m also forcing myself to ask: would this have looked different, or even been better, coming from a different team?

From Red Bull (of Vettel, Verstappen, Hadjar fame), or even McLaren, looking to atone after That lawsuit in 2027, this could’ve been a masterstroke. From Mercedes - a team that’s run a (barring any nondisclosures) 100% alpha lineup since 2010 - the move looks calculated, insincere, and brimming over with the same ‘rainbow capitalism’ that floods high streets each June.

That’s not to say I’m uninterested. One might even describe me as ‘sat,’ and with Mercedes’ first ever omega entering the paddock next year, I’m willing to stay in my lane for now.

Progress may be slow, but time, the tenacious bitch, marches on.

Chapter Text

Ten Months ~ August

The first half of summer break is a Trial.

It starts when Alex’s tolerance for his suppressants reaches its limit. He’s sore, flighty, breaking out in spots, and in such a perpetually foul mood that George comes dangerously close to taking his own life in his hands and telling him so— but thankfully it doesn’t come to that. Instead, Alex comes to him red-faced, some twenty minutes after a row over nothing, and says he’s coming off the pills.

What follows is probably inevitable: Alex has never felt 100% ‘alright’ on suppressants, and whether that means he’s extra sensitive to a hormone shift, or if God just has it out for them, he goes into heat roughly two days later.

It’s a nightmare, in many respects. They can’t have Emily in the house while this plays out, and George quickly realises, with all parents and siblings at least one flight away, that he needs to call on some closer reinforcements.

“You sure that’s everything?” George asks for what’s probably the eleventh time and counting, and still clinging to Emily like that isn’t a deeply, deeply counterproductive move. “All the nappies, wipes, her food— anything else?”

“I mean, if there is,” Lando says, leaning against the door of his and Oscar’s apartment as he throws a pointed thumb behind his shoulder, “d’you really think we won’t have it in there?”

He makes a good point. From what George witnessed when they last visited - or hell, what he can currently glimpse through the open doorway - the Norris-Piastri household is more than equipped to take on a second little girl for a day or two.

It’s like something (or someone) conspires to prove the point: as George tries to come up with a reply, Violet runs into frame behind Lando, full-tilt on her little legs. She pauses only as long as it takes to throw off her pants and t-shirt, then takes off again, pursued seconds later by a fucking hell, Vi, really? — and then Oscar chasing her down, which would’ve had George laughing in any other scenario.

Not this one, though. Not when circumstance is forcing him to leave his child with a man he once saw piss into his own helmet ‘for a laugh,’ and not when he’s got a husband at home who needs him.

It’s a weird one, leaving a ‘heat site’ during. George is biologically set up to ‘help,’ as it were, whilst in the vicinity, but away from it, it’s like sex is the furthest thing from his mind. In place of it is anxiety, or panic if he doesn’t keep a check on it— and since part of him seems to know that’s the last thing any of them need right now, George finds it in him to hand Emily over, and even to go for a bit of a quip.

“Looks like fun in there.”

“Yeah,” Lando says, even as Violet’s outraged screams start reverberating off the walls. The indignity of it, truly - to be three, and forced to wear clothes. “Yours being under one, this almost feels like a holiday. Bye then?” he adds, when George most definitely lingers. “Haven’t you got somewhere else to be?”

George does— and when he and Alex both rock up to collect Emily two days later, it’s Alex who ends up saying it first.

“I don’t think she missed us at all,” he comments, whilst George jokingly checks his child for scratches, broken bones, or the off-chance that the chuckling, bouncing baby in Alex’s arms has been somehow body-snatched.

“Did we miss anything?”

“Oh yeah, loads,” Lando says. “First steps, first words— what else was there, Osc?”

“First hot lap,” Oscar says, deadpan, and without hesitation. “We figured we’d take the load off your plates and stick her in Vi’s go-kart.”

“He’s rubbed off on you, you know,” Alex says, nudging Lando with his shoulder. “You should be more careful. Last thing this world needs is two of him.”

“Oh I reckon we’ve got that covered,” Oscar says drily, but he’s grinning as he lifts a prone Violet up off the floor by her ankles, lightly shaking her until she squeals with laughter. “Yeah, you. Just like Daddy, aren’t you?”

“I’m not!”

“You bloody are,” Oscar says. He drops her on the couch, then scoops her up properly, a wriggling, giggling muddle of pastel clothing and sandy-coloured ringlets. “You look like him, you act like him— you even sound like him.”

“Yeah, hey, check this out,” Lando smirks, then calls out. “Hey, Vi-Vi— what’s Uncle Oli?”

“Muppet,” Violet says proudly, as all four adults crack up. There’s really no denying it - she’s even got Lando’s puppy-eyed expression down as she turns it beseechingly upon Oscar. “Dad, can I have juice?”

“Missing a word there, mate?”

“Pleeeeease?”

“Good job,” Oscar tells her, then lets himself be dragged from the room. “Catch you guys later?”

“Thanks, Oscar,” George says, “we owe you.”

“Big time,” Alex confirms, then turns to George. “Think I’ll go with him and grab the sippy cups.”

He heads after Oscar, Emily on one hip, and with both partners and both daughters now absent, George realises it’s the first time in a pretty long time he’s been on his own with Lando. It’s nice, really - just like old times, and instantly familiar, save for all the reasons everything is now drastically fucking different.

“So,” Lando says, nudging George with his bare foot from where he’s slumped on the couch. “Ten races left. Freaking out yet?”

“Me?” George quips. “Never.” But it’s Lando, so the bravado only has to last so long. “Not yet. Don’t think I’ve had time, to be honest.”

“It’ll get you,” Lando says, and George finds he doesn’t really feel like arguing there. “The trick is staying busy, at least until it actually sinks in.”

If anyone would know his shit on this, George reckons, it’s most probably Lando. No one had known initially, why Lando never made it back into the car after having Violet. The ‘party line’ was focused on a delayed, but still anticipated, return— but just as the 2029 season was due to kick off, Lando announced he was throwing in the towel for good. George still remembers his statement near word-for-word, speaking out about the pain he was still in, the possibly permanent damage to his abdominals post-c-section. It was all laid bare, no PR piece, or burying the lead - just Lando all over, and he’d never once faltered, not when questioned, not when judged, or lifted up. To George, it had seemed a superhuman display of bravery. It still does, thinking back on it— and the point is, there’s almost no one George would trust more, to advise on how to make peace with himself.

“It’s coming up fast,” George admits, as he finishes shoving Emily’s toys into the nappy bag, then joins Lando on the couch. He keeps hold of George Pig, mind you, enjoying how his presence makes Lando smirk. “D’you ever feel like time just— disappears?”

“Uh, yeah?” Lando snorts. “The fuck do you mean I’ve got a three-year-old? We have to go looking at schools before Christmas.”

“Fucking hell,” George says, floored. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Lando shakes his head. “I mean, it’s cool, too. She’s a proper little person now— you get to teach them stuff, and you actually realise how much they love you back.”

“That’s lovely,” George says, meaning it. He reaches along the couch to give his old mate’s shoulder a squeeze. “Seriously, Lando. It’s lovely. She’s lovely.”

“Yeah,” Lando grins, “she is a bit.” Then he manages to shrug without fully dislodging George’s hand. “‘Course she also crashes out twice a day, and shits like a rugby player, but I guess you can’t have it all.”

Violet certainly does crash out. She starts crying near-hysterically once she figures out her new friend is leaving, real, genuine tears boiling over in her big hazel eyes— and by the time George and Alex finally make it back to their own home, it’s not just a crotchety Emily who’s in need of a nap.

“This was a fucking Week,” Alex says later, in the last ten minutes before they have to wake Emme up, lest her nighttime schedule be wrecked. “Seriously. We need to plan better next time.”

“Yeah,” George agrees, stifling a huge yawn against the crook of his elbow. Heats are never exactly ‘fun’ so much as overwhelming, the mental toll as well as the physical. They’d tried to buy themselves a year to get everything else in-hand, and for Alex’s body to readjust to birth control, but as it’s said of good intentions… “Time was, we could’ve taken a holiday to recover.”

“You know,” Alex says, after a beat, “we potentially still could.” 

“Nice idea,” George says. “Doesn’t exactly scream ‘relaxing’ though, does it? Holiday with a baby is just parenting with better weather.”

“We literally live in Monaco,” Alex snorts— but then he wriggles out of George’s arms and sits up, cross-legged, on the bed. “I’m not suggesting we take her with us, George. I’m suggesting the opposite, really.”

“You— seriously?” George asks, leaning up on his elbows. It’s not that he hasn’t thought about it - the old days, memories of summer breaks the way they used to spend them - but alongside getting drunk, and uninterrupted sleep, it’s fallen into a category of things George just assumed they’d have to put on hiatus. “You think we’re there?”

“I mean, you saw her today,” Alex says. “And Oscar said she was good as gold, no meltdowns, no anxiety—“ He leans forwards, pillowing his chin in cupped hands. “Honestly, I don’t think it’s even a question of ‘is she ready?’”

“It’s ’are we?’” George finishes, and Christ, isn’t that one hell of a thinking point. As with all things Emily does, and will do, George is well aware they’re playing catch-up to her whims. Everything is new to her, and exciting by default, whilst George has slowly adjusted to a feeling of fear he suspects will be permanent. “Christ, Al… I don’t know.”

“If you’re not happy, we don’t even have to discuss it,” Alex says, and wraps one of his hands around George’s ankle. “If it was actually happening, I don’t know how I’d feel either.”

“I think you do,” George points out gently. He hates to do it, but it’s necessary. “Alex— I get it, yeah? But this week was hard enough, and we didn’t really have a choice.”

It’s another natural consequence, albeit an unfortunate one, of their failure to prepare. Becoming parents is the quickest route George has ever glimpsed to shoving one’s own needs aside— and the result is burnout.

“Yeah, ok,” Alex says, eventually. “But if the guilt starts with needing sleep, or a shower, where the fuck does it end?” He falls suddenly silent, and it’s all George can do to get him into his arms as quick as possible.

He only realises how very deeply Alex is feeling it when he buries his face against George’s neck, breaths catching en-route out. It’s always startling when it happens; of the two of them, George is the crier, but there are days, and there are moments, when it all catches up, and this is evidently one.

“Let it out, love,” George advises, then strokes Alex’s back as he obeys. It goes on a while; when Alex’s breathing slows, George suspects it’s because he’s exhausted— and Christ, that’s maybe the most reasonable concept they’ve hit all day.

“Sorry,” Alex says, inevitably, once he’s able to raise his face. He knows by now George won’t have any of it, but he tries anyway, scrubbing at his eyes, and snot-covered face, to get rid of the evidence. “Sorry. That was—“

“Needed?” George suggests, and following a brief, mutinous pause, when Alex nods his agreement— “Good. Now, here’s what we’re going to do.” He gathers Alex’s hands up in his own, mind not only changed, but made up. “I’ll ring ‘round the family, see who can come out and stay here. You, meanwhile, are going to get online, and find us a ridiculously bougie hotel.”

He sees it for a second, the way it lights up something truly knackered in Alex’s eyes, before the shutters come down again.

“George, come on,” Alex says, shaking his head. “No. I don’t need— I don’t even know why I fucking suggested it.”

“You suggested it because you need a break,” George says, and is often the way, the ‘right’ words seem to assemble themselves, unprompted. “Al— no one could be a better dad to our girl than you.”

“George—“

“No seriously,” George insists, cutting clear across him. “She’s fed, she’s clothed, she’s loved beyond words— that’s not going to vanish because you took a weekender.” He pulls Alex towards him, pressing their foreheads, not breaking his gaze. “You’ve moved Heaven and Earth for me this year. Why was that?”

“Is that a real question?” Alex snorts, but he’s not snotty, nor sarky, so George chalks it up to a W. “Be for fucking real, Georgie.”

“I am,” George says, grinning and poking at Alex’s ribs, aware he’s wheedling— but it’s fun to do when Alex is onboard, and when he’s more or less guaranteed to give George exactly what he’s after. “Go on, Al, feed me the line…”

“Fine...” Alex shakes his head, but he’s returning George’s grin before completing even one tut. “Because I love you. That better, you egotistical prick?”

“Loads,” George smirks, then closes the gap, kisses Alex slow and sweet, and without any intent beyond the obvious. He’s so very fucking lucky, George thinks she ought to remember that, and nurture it - nurture the people who make it so - at every possible opportunity. “Let me help, yeah? I’m here now. By Christmas, I’ll be here for the rest of our lives.”

“You always were,” Alex murmurs, then pulls back before George can change his tune on the whole ‘without intent’ thing. Probably for the best, in reality - neither of them have energy right for a push-up, let alone a shag. “Alright. A weekender?”

“A weekender,” George echoes, then leans close to whisper. “A fancy hotel, Alex. A big, beautiful bed, perfect for sleeping.”

“That,” Alex admits, “might be the hottest thing you’ve ever said.”

By evening of the next day, George has ‘convinced’ his parents to fly over and spend the upcoming weekend in sunny Monaco with their granddaughter. Alex, meanwhile, puts a ludicrously-priced hotel suite on their shared credit card, and then an extra charge for a ‘couple’s massage and walking tour.’

“Far be it for me to complain,” George says to Lando that evening, when he’s at theirs again to collect a stack of highly favoured toys they inevitably left behind in the chaos of departure, “a weekend away is a weekend away, but I hadn’t really factored in that we’d be going sightseeing.”

“You won’t be,” Lando snorts. “Unless the ‘sight’ is Alex’s—“

George shuts the door in his face.

Of course, it turns out Lando is spot-on. Come Friday night, the hotel is objectively gorgeous; George ordered ahead for champagne, and they sip it in twin white robes, fresh from a very handsy shower, as the sun sets over what is still familiar terrain— but a very different side of it, one they’ve never truly seen before now.

George’s husband, by comparison, is a version he remembers very well, albeit one he’s not seen for a while. It’s his absolute pleasure to take him to bed, and take him apart, and if he says so himself, he does rather an excellent job of it.

He doesn’t realise until later that he’s awoken a monster.

“Good job this is only a weekend,” George says the next morning, still early doors, after waking up to Alex sliding down his body to the foot of the bed, a question on his lips George answered, well.. enthusiastically. “No way I can keep this up long-term anymore.” He gestures downwards, somewhat futilely. “Or that.” 

“Not with that attitude,” Alex says, and as is often the case, he proves himself right, and George, hilariously wrong. They go once more before ordering a room service breakfast, then sleep for what turns out to be longer than both the masseuse, and the walking tour group, are willing to wait.

“You know, I think I’m going to make a rule,” George says later - much later - once they’ve both agreed a walk around Monte Carlo, at their own pace, might do them some good, even if it’s simply to locate dinner. “Every time one of us makes a stupid or pointless purchase, we personally and publicly donate the same amount to charity.”

“Deal,” Alex says, as the total lack of hesitation serves to remind George, yet again, of how very besotted he still is. “Start a tab, I’ll look at recipients.”

They’ve rarely ever come at the city from this angle before, walking with purpose from the marina, as opposed to towards. It’s early evening, the height of summer— George forgets sometimes that the true locals are those who’ve lived here since birth, and are only just now crawling off the yachts or the beach in search of dinner, as opposed to his remit, which often involves a mandatory cold shower and reset. It’s like they’re actually visiting their home, and the feeling licks up into George’s spine, and spirit, ‘til he wants to behave like they’re twenty-one, and spin Alex under his arm. He doesn’t— but he does take photos, dozens of them, then stops them at an ice cream stall that seems just right, and laughs and laughs as they trade flavours, and kisses, and truly neither one of them realises how very close to home they are, until Alex stops short, suddenly, in front of a very familiar   set of steps.

It was a novelty, when they found their new flat, the big, somewhat ancient stone staircase leading from the street to, practically, their front door. A visual, historical stopgap between new Monaco and the old, they’d raced each other up and down it, dragged themselves whilst pissed, and more recently stressed over how the fuck to traverse it safely with Emily, and George can’t explain it in words, but—

But there’s a chill to the streets, suddenly, that makes George realise he’d far rather be eating ice cream in bed.

“Alex,” he starts, but when he looks up, it’s to see his husband already throwing what’s left of his cone into the trash.

“Beat you to the top?”

— and as George speeds back towards the hotel to fetch their luggage, all he can think is how lucky— how lucky to have this, to have it all, for as long as we can—

**

via Motorsport News

Former F1 Champion Suffers Stroke

Messages of support are pouring in for Formula One legend Keke Rosberg, who reportedly suffered a stroke at his family home this weekend.

Rosberg, 81, was admitted to hospital in Monaco, where doctors rushed to provide the 1982 World Champion with swift, essential care.

A statement released by the Rosberg Family - and predominantly by Keke’s son Nico (WDC 2016) - states:

‘We’d like to convey our heartfelt thanks to everyone thinking of Dad, and sending him their best wishes.

Though we’re told it’s still too early to say if there will be any lasting damage, his condition is stable, and he remains under temporary sedation in hospital.

We ask for your understanding, and respect for his privacy, during this time.’

— MORE via MotorSportConnected on X below—