Chapter Text
chapter 0
Interlagos ends in champagne on the top step for the second time in his career for George Russell. Charles and Oscar are there too, all three elated at strategy working their way for once. The alpha in red to his left looks like he finally can take a breath, cool lemon saturating the air, until Oscar decides to chuck the last of his bottle down the Monegasque's neck. The high pitched yelp and swipe at the beta soon turns into play fighting all the way to the cool down room. George sinks into the bench, hat off and hair plastered to his head, Osc and Charles collapsed on the floor, still halfheartedly kicking each other in the shins, their scents light with teasing.
George watches with bored amusement until Charles jolts, gasping at the screen, where the replay shows a red bull careening off track. George squints; hadn't it been Isaac? No, Charles' soft curse in Italian and the bold number 3 on the nose confirming George's suspicion: it was the 4-time champion omega who had gotten knocked out of the running by Colapinto. Oscar winces sympathetically; "oh, that's gotta hurt." "And in one of his best tracks, too," uttered the Ferrari driver.
It was a wet race. More Max's specialty than George's really, but that doesn't matter much if an alpine rams into you at turn 4. The commentators gleefully descend on the replay again as it loops,
"and it looks like Max Verstappen is out of the running for a points finish at Interlagos-" "Out of the running for finishing at all with that damage!" "Yes indeed. Better luck next"
George filters it out, noticing now the way Max hesitates before getting out of the seat, how his feet seem unsure of where the ground is before a steward reaches him. He'll send a text in the group chat to check on the omega later, no matter how light the hit is, it shakes you up all the same. Then a FIA representative is calling them down for media and George focuses on how Angela wants him to talk about lap 23.
Nobody likes media. Max hates it more than most - with good reason - George thinks. The thought of the fiery Dutchman nearly ripping an interviewer's ear off after asking how many championships he wanted before he would settle down with some kids brings a smile to his face as he scrolls on his phone. They are asking Lando questions about him and Carlos' overtake now, George waiting for his turn, when one mic gets too far into the mclaren driver's personal space. "But Carlos is known for driving more aggressively, shouldn't you have considered giving him space before the dive bomb?" Lando pushes the mic away and begins to answer "I drive just as hard as any alpha on the grid, when it comes to space, I give noth-" the mic is shoved right back and George can't help but let out a sharp rumble as he snaps a photo of the journalist. She blinks, harsh eyebrows lifting, as George calmly turns to Lando and says "you can finish answering that or not, she'll be banned by the time we're done here." The usually calming chamomile and rain scent turns acrid as he turns to the reporter, and with obviously false politeness, "be sure to check your email in the next half hour, we'll be in touch." As he walks away, he can smell Lando's citrus and chocolate settle back to its usual levels.
As he fills out an email to Amelia about that "reporter," a red suit settles next to him, eucalyptus proud and composed. "Lando had it covered." Lewis looked at George, who steadily ignored him, fingers working at the screen.
"I know."
"Then why the snapping?"
"I'm GPDA, just because he has it handled doesn't mean there shouldn't be repercussions. I just wanted him to know…"
George finally looked Lewis in the eye.
"It's not a big deal. I should've honestly just let Lando handle it."
Knowing Lando, he would have just stormed off, and ten minutes later he'd be curled up in his mates arms while Carlos confusedly bandaged a new scratch on his arm. Poor Carlos. Oh well.
"Oh i don't think Lando's too mad. Him and Liam are pretty shaken up about Max anyway, I'm sure he appreciates not having to put up with shitty reporters."
At this, George startles, twisting towards the Ferrari driver. "How is Max?"
Hamilton shrugs. "I heard he isn't critical, but that's all Red Bull gave me. Not surprised, really."
Red Bull was notorious for protecting Max. Their number one driver spoke his mind when in public, and minded his business privately in private, and Red Bull was supportive in both spheres. One of the first teams to build around an omega since Jenson and Nico, both of which never lasted for 4 championships, and neither starting newly presented, practically a pup. Max ran that garage like a madman, but it worked for them.
Most of George's interactions with the man were them yelling at each other, trying to ram each other off track, or George tiredly trying to resolve 'inchidents' in the media pen via email at 2 AM in his hotel kitchen. Most the time it was the interviewer's fault, but Max' explosive tempers didn't exactly help.
(Now might not be the time to mention that whenever Max's comments were targeted at George, he might have been more slow to help take down comments and motions for the FIA, but sue him, if Verstappen was gonna spew nonsense, he really couldn't expect George to help clean up the mess his threats made. At least he was aware how petty it was.)
"That's good. He looked shaky getting out."
"You, watching out for Verstappen? That's new." Lewis was now looking at his former teammate with something akin to concern, or maybe amusement. "Did you hit the wall too?"
"Ahh, shove off" George grumbled, weakly pushing at the older alpha's shoulder. He could feel his ears burning, though, which only meant Lewis laughed, ruffled his hair, and walked off, leaving George with the distinct impression Lewis had won… whatever it was they were talking about.