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“ Drivers can’t ever be ill. When you show up to the track, you always have to be 100%.”
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George.
George wakes up Friday with a tickle in throat.
It’s nothing odd. They’re in France, it’s allergy season, George usually ends up sneezing every other word when he forgets to take his Zyrtec.
Aleix gives him a long hard look once they’ve sat down for breakfast. George picks at his cheerios with a frown. “What?”
Aleix raises an eyebrow and George blushes. He sounds like he swallowed a frog.
“Okay I know how I sound, but I swear I feel fine.” George instantly jumps on the defensive. If he’d known what his voice sounded like he’d never have opened his mouth.
Its the truth too, he really does feel fine. Sure he’s a little tired, but that’s jetlag.
His trainer continues to stare. “Do you want any strawberries?”
“No,” George says instantly. He’s not really hungry, hence the bland cereal. His stomach seems to be okay with it at least.
“So you don’t have an appetite, you look like death warmed over, and you sound like you were gargling salt water for two hours, but you want me to believe you’re fine?” Aleix says, stabbing several slices of strawberries and popping them into his mouth.
George groans. “Yes, because I am. I have plenty appetite, I just don’t want strawberries.”
“They’re your favorite fruit,” Aleix frowns. “You yell at me whenever I try to steal a few.”
“I don’t yell .”
“Last time you nearly stabbed me with a fork.” Aleix continues, musing as if George isn’t there. “And what, I suppose you’re going to try and say you’re not pale, that’s your skin tone?”
“I’m whiter than a piece of WonderBread, Aleix,” George says dryly. “I’m always pale.”
Aleix hums. “What’s your excuse for the voice thing then?”
George shrugs. “Allergies? I really don’t know. I feel fine.”
“Did you take your meds for-” Aleix stops as George leans to the side and sneezes three times in quick succession. “Never mind.”
“Sorry,” George sniffles. Aleix hands him a napkin. “I took my last one in Austria and I forgot to refill my travel bottle while I was home.”
“You know,” Aleix pushes his chair back, putting a cover on his coffee cup. “They do sell this stuff in places other than England? You could’ve asked me to get some.”
George spoons some more cereal into his mouth and tries not to grin. “Why would I do that when I can just complain about it?”
Aleix waps George lightly on the arm with his hat. “You are a child. I’m going to go to the pharmacy, anything else you happened to forget at home?”
“Giant thing of caramel wafers would be nice,” George says cheekily, laughing when Aleix seems ready to murder him.
“Eat your cereal. We should get going once I get back.”
“Yes mum.”
.
There is a chance, perhaps, that Aleix may have had a point.
While he was being truthful to Aleix at the time of his question - he did feel fine, he did assume it was allergies - there’s the distinct possibility now that George was dead wrong.
He took an antihistamine, the tickle in his throat went away for the most part. He’s not coughing, and the slight wheeze he got going up the stairs to Toto’s office has gone away.
The tiredness though. That’s only gotten worse, and it’s making it hard to focus.
For maybe the sixth or seventh time George finds himself blinking back into the conversation, trying desperately to catch the context and figure out if he’s supposed to be speaking.
Its strange, since he slept like a rock last night. He shouldn't be this tired and he certainly shouldn’t have this much of a problem trying to focus. His eyes refuse to focus, so instead he decides to pick a spot on Toto’s desk and try to listen.
“…looks like we might have rain on Sunday, but the forecasts changed eight times since yesterday so who knows at this point.”
Lewis shrugs. “Nothing we can’t handle, right George?”
He startles despite his best efforts. Lewis frowns, but Toto gives him a small smile. “Are we boring you?”
“No! Well,” George attempts a smile back. “I save my weather talk for when I’m knitting sweaters with Aleix and Angela.”
The frown is wiped from Lewis’ face immediately. “Is that what you two were doing last week?”
“More or less,” George giggles. They were actually discussing what to do for Lewis’ very late birthday party next month, but hey. Scheming requires a certain amount of tact in Mercedes. Everyone here’s a bunch of gossips.
“Anyway,” Toto stands from his chair. “I have to go call Susie before I get yelled at again.”
“I think you should get a tattoo that says ‘stop forgetting to call your wife’,” George laughs, going to stand with the two of them.
It takes him three tries to successfully get to his feet. Lewis gives him another odd look, reaching out to steady George briefly. “You okay?”
George glances at Toto who’s already got a phone to his ear. “Yeah I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? Because you looked a little lost during out talk.”
Lewis’ brow is furrowed with concern and George could swear Lewis’ eyes glitter.
Regular fucking disney prince for a teammate. George is not equipped to deal with this.
“Oh!” George scrambles for an answer. “Yeah, I…I didn’t sleep great last night is all. I’m fine though.”
It doesn’t abate Lewis’ worry. “You sound a bit off too.”
George shifts his feet, pulling at the hem of his shirt. “Yeah, Aleix said the same thing. It’s just allergies though, I took some meds. Should’ve heard me this morning, I was way worse.”
Lewis raises an eyebrow. “Allergies.”
“Yeah, mate.”
“Aleix said that?”
“Yes?” George raises an eyebrow back. Technically Aleix said something like that. “Why all the questions?”
“Just want to make sure you’re okay to drive Georgie,” Lewis says as they walk towards the drivers rooms. “You shouldn’t drive sick.”
“Oh okay, Mister ‘I have a forty degree fever but I’ll do qualifying anyway’. Tell me all about being too sick to drive.”
Lewis looks stricken, halfway in the doorframe. “That’s not what-”
“George!” Michael calls his name, and George winces. He’s late.
He pats Lewis on the shoulder and offers a quick goodbye before scuttling off to debrief.
For some reason he feels like Lewis’ eyes are on him the whole way.
…
Yeah, about that ‘little tickle’.
He managed FP1 and FP2 rather well. FP3 was hard, but he’d already done his work. That’s what Toto said anyway, when George apologized for an absolutely abysmal session. He got the data in one and two, and hey, at least he didn’t crash in three.
Toto’s a nice boss when he wants to be.
It probably helped that George looked about as miserable as he felt, unable to hide his tiredness and embarrassment. By that point even he could hear how his voice was croaky, and the tickle in his throat was back although it was more like a pain.
That little tickle decided to evolve overnight into something much more hideous.
George blinks slowly at the wall of his motorhome. His eyes are sticky. His phone alarm has been going off every five minutes for the last half hour. He knows he should turn it off, at least, but he can’t stay awake long enough to get himself to roll over.
This is not good.
His alarm blares again and George manages to slap around until he finds his phone. He’s able to move if he keeps his eyes closed, and he taps around blindly until the alarm shuts off.
Today is qualifying. He is almost definitely going to be late, and it’s the day after a shitty practice session when he should be getting there early to review.
If he still has a job after this its going to be a miracle.
Someone’s knocking on the door of his trailer home. Probably Aleix.
Hopefully Aleix, because if that’s anyone else from Mercedes then it’s a lot later than he thought and he’s also about to get fired.
“-eorge?”
Oh good, it is Aleix.
“‘M up,” George mumbles. “Please don’t yell, I’m awake.”
“I don’t yell,” Aleix murmurs. The bed dips next to him and Aleix palms George’s forehead. “You’re sick.”
“You don’t say.”
Aleix flicks him. “You can’t get sarcastic with me when you can’t even open your eyes.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” George rolls over and coughs into his pillow. “How late am I?”
Aleix’s movements pause. “Um.”
George peels his eyes open, wincing at the burn. Aleix purses his lips. “Quali is in two hours.”
It takes him a long a minutes to do the mental math in his head. “Oh so like- that’s not horrible.”
“It’s not good mate.”
“S’fine,” George squirms to the edge of the bed and throws his legs over the side, pushing himself up with the help of the headboard. “Just an hour and a half late.”
“I think Toto will make an exception.” Aleix says it with a tone that reads as Toto better make an exception, or Aleix will make problems.
“Here,” Aleix holds his water bottle in front of him. George sips from the long straw, then takes the Tylenol from his trainer. Aleix stares George down until he drinks more.
“Spent an hour looking for you in the hospitality before Michael said he hadn’t seen you.”
“Sorry.”
“Eh,” Aleix tosses George his shirt. “I’m just glad you’re not hungover.”
George smiles to himself and pulls the shirt over his head. The last time he was hungover was when he got dragged to an after party and ended up trying to match Pierre in shots. Aleix knows this - and he also knows that George is an absolute bear to deal with when he’s hungover.
They decide to forgo changing out of his sweatpants, since George will need to change into his race gear soon anyway and they don’t really look like sweatpants. He can probably get away with it.
George manages his socks by himself, which is an absolute win, but nearly looses his vision when he tries to get his shoes on.
Aleix doesn’t even comment as he passes George his slides.
“Thanks,” George murmurs, fiddling with his phone.
Aleix doesn’t even look up. “For what? Taking you care of you is my job.”
George hums. “For being gentle about it.”
Aleix freezes in the middle of stuffing a sweatshirt into his backpack. He gives George the side eye. “Okay, mate, now I’m really worried.”
“Hush up and accept the thank you,” George huffs, and Aleix grins, shouldering the pack.
“C’mon then,” Aleix heaves him to his feet. “Lets see if we can get you breakfast before Toto tells you he’s not mad, he’s just disappointed.”
…
It is not funny at all that those are the exact words out of Toto’s mouth.
George sips at his black coffee and stares at the floor, ashamed as Toto reminds him of the importance of showing up for his team. Yesterday needs to be a fluke, not a habit. There’s sixteen hundred people who work their asses off for this, not so George can shirk his own responsibilities.
George can’t find it in him to try and explain that he feels like death warmed over. He keeps his head down and takes it best he can.
Toto has a point though. It shouldn’t matter that he feels awful. Lewis felt awful, probably felt worse , and he still drove. He didn't complain about it, he didn't skip debriefs, he didn’t quit .
George earned this seat, he worked his ass off to do so. He isn’t going to lose it because his immune system took a vacation.
When Toto is done, George doesn’t say anything except to nod, apologize, and promise to do better in qualifying. Toto looks taken aback by his response, and George wonders briefly if he might have missed something.
Toto frowns, starts to say more but then cuts himself off with a glance at his watch. George takes it as his queue to get his ass to his strategy meeting so they can speed run the plan for today.
Maybe the coffee kicks in, or maybe George figures out how to get his muddled brain to focus, but he manages to stay alert and present for most of that meeting and the next. Especially since it was a wider team meeting, so Lewis was sitting across from him.
He doesn’t want Lewis to think he can’t do this. He doesn’t want anyone in Mercedes to think he can’t do this, or that he’s taking any of this for granted. The expectations here are incredibly high, he knows that. He knows that those expectations don’t singularly apply to him, but to every member of this team.
The way this team works, is that they work for each other. They all want to be the best, every day, because anything less would feel like failure. That’s what George feels like, huddled in his jacket knowing damn well he was late this morning. Like he failed every single person who’s here, who got here on time and early to work their ass off to get his car ready.
The least he can do is give them a good qualifying result.
The thing is, even if all that didn’t exist, there’s a reason George is refusing to tell Toto he’s sick.
Its a stupid reason, but it’s there regardless.
It’s simply that he knows Lewis has done better while going through worse. He watched that stupid Drive to Survive episode (more times than he’d care to admit, honestly) and he remembers, being at Williams and thinking ‘If I ever get to Mercedes, I have to be able to do that. I have to be just like him .’
Here’s his chance to prove it. I can be like Lewis, I can push through it.
He doesn’t know that he’s going to be able to get pole though.
Getting in the car is easy enough. His black fireproofs which usually make him sweat more are keeping him perfectly warm today, and his seat feels heavenly for all of five minutes.
Which is to say, being in a position where he feels almost like he’s laying down is fantastic.
Having to press the pedals is not.
He can do this. He can do this.
The car seems to purr under him, apparently taking into account how shitty George is feeling. He starts earlier than Lewis, and the older driver gave him a good luck pat on the helmet before he got in.
Apparently it worked, because George manages to not only keep it on track the entire time, but both his fast laps are…fast. Like really fast.
Like, if it weren’t for the fact that Lewis, Max, and Charles still had to go, he’d be on pole.
“ Nice job George ,” Michael says. “ Thats you’re fastest lap in a Mercedes.”
George can’t help it, he bursts out laughing.
Of course it is. Of fucking course it is.
“Cheers mate,” he replies, still giggling as he pulls into the pits. The mechanics swarm his car and he turns off the engine, letting his head fall against the headrest.
Now that it’s over, his already exhausted body is properly complaining about what George just put it through. It takes a lot to drive an F1 car, even for something as short as qualifying.
His head’s pounding, although thats not a new development, more of a resurging issue. His head hurt from this morning too, but the Tylenol Aleix gave him was enough to knock it down some, along with his fever.
That Tylenol is no longer doing it’s job.
His hands shake as he pulls the steering wheel out, and his arm feels like lead as he tries to hand it to one of the engineers. He broke into a sweat at some point but has since stopped and it’s made him acutely aware of how cold he’s gotten. Or maybe it’s a cold sweat. Either way he’s shaky and uncomfortable and would really love a sweatshirt right now.
“ George, I’ve got to talk with Toto for a minute ,” Michael comes over the radio once more. “ Meet you in debrief?”
“Sounds good mate,” George replies, wincing at how raspy his voice is. He undoes his seatbelt slowly, the streamlining insert long since removed so he can easily get out.
He gets his legs out from their confinements and stands on the seat briefly.
The whole garage spins. George gets vertigo so bad he wacks his hip on the halo in an effort to correct himself.
With an iron grip on the halo, George swings a leg over over the side of the car.
Oh, bad idea. Bad, bad. He should’ve stayed in the car longer. He should’ve given himself a second to stand more slowly or to stay standing for a minute with the halo to protect him. Because immediately trying to get out of the car like that results in his hearing going fuzzy and the concrete floor of the garage rushing up to meet his face very quickly.
Lucky for him, he doesn’t actually hit the ground.
There’s hands on his chest and arms almost instantly, helping him out of the car as he stumbles forward. His legs are useless, numb and weak, and he’s acutely aware of how hard he’s breathing. It echoes in his ears for a long minute, drowning everything out.
“Easy, easy,” Someone is talking to him and over his head. It’s confusing. “Give him a second.”
George swallows thickly. He can’t get sick in the helmet, and his arms are too busy clinging to the people around him to push his helmet off.
A strong hand lays on his chest, fingers spread wide to hold him steady. It’s the first thing that really cuts through the static, because he can feel his chest rise and fall against the touch.
“George? Can you hear me?”
He knows that voice. That voice isn’t usually associated with George, that voice is-
Shit. Bono .
Lewis is definitely going to hear about it now, and if Lewis hears about then Toto will hear about it and George doesn’t want him to hear about it. He has to prove to Toto that he can be Mercedes second driver, he has to prove that Toto didn’t make a mistake. He can stand next to Lewis, he can .
He just can’t talk right now or he really might get sick.
“George?”
He nods slowly, carefully. It’s Bono on his right, two of his engineering team on his left. The sounds of the garage fades back in. Glancing around quickly shows that most activity on his side has stopped, his team looking at him with concern. He slowly works to get his feet back under him.
“I’m,” George’s tongue is heavy. “I- I’m-”
“If you finish that sentence with ‘fine’ or any variation thereof, I’m going to kill you.” Bono hisses. Aleix appears in front of him with a chilled water bottle and a worried look on his face. “What happened?”
“He passed out getting out of the car,” Bono answers instantly, and George stands out of spite and spite alone.
“I did not ,” he snaps. It’s hard to breathe. “I just got dizzy is all.”
Bono gives him a look , and George is reminded that this is Lewis’ race engineer. The man would not be where he is if he wasn’t stubborn.
He’s Lewis’ race engineer , and if he’s not with Lewis then that must mean Lewis is done qualifying.
Shit.
George wilts slightly. “I swear, I didn’t. I really just got dizzy.”
Aleix narrows his eyes. “It’s not that hot outside,” he says casually, slashing through George’s one good excuse and knowing damn well Bono will have heard it and will report back to Lewis. “But we’ll take it easy this afternoon anyway.”
“Fine,” George huffs, reaching for Aleix. His trainer quickly moves to meet him, wrapping an arm around his waist when George wobbles.
“I got him, thank you Bono,” Aleix murmurs, and George winces. He glances over at the blond haired man, his expression still pinched with worry. “When Lewis is done I’ll have him check up on you, okay?”
“No!” George yelps, tripping over his own feet in an effort to stop. “I mean, he- you don’t have to tell him about this, right?” He asks nervously.
Bono gives him an odd look. “I’m sure he’ll be worried about you.”
“Exactly,” George pants. He really needs to sit down. “I don’t want him focused on anything but the race tomorrow. I’m fine, honestly.”
Aleix gives a withering look, tugging at his waist. “I’ll keep you updated.” He promises Bono, then quickly escorts George from the garage.
He sort of loses it on the way to the hospitality. Aleix is nice enough to carry his helmet and other shit, and to rub his back when he gets sick behind the Red Bull hospitality.
Puking his guts up in front of Christian Hornier was not his list of things to do this weekend, but here he is.
The TP is nice enough to not say anything, and even silently hands Aleix a damp towel which feels heavenly on George’s neck. Aleix apologies, and Christian just shrugs as if this is a regular occurance, drivers getting sick next to their building.
Shit, maybe it is.
Aleix pulls him up when George gets more than a minute reprieve between dry heaves. “Oh yeah, totally fine.”
“Shut up,” George moans. “You can’t be mean to me.”
“Or what?”
“I’ll puke on your shoes.”
Aleix snorts. “You don’t have anything left to puke.”
He is, unfortunately, correct.
Aleix gets him to his driver's room where he’s able to rinse his mouth, sip his water, and then immediately gag into a trash can. At least he’s got privacy.
“Let me know when you’re done!” Aleix calls from the hall. “I’ll take your temp.”
It scares him how gleeful Aleix sounds.
Hugging the trash bin to his chest, George climbs onto the massage table and curls around it. Laying down feels so good, although it doesn’t help his nausea. He’s given up on that. If riding his stomach of everything in it doesn’t make him less nauseous, nothing will.
He must fall asleep, because the next thing he knows the lights are off and there’s a thin blanket over his shoulders. His trash bin is gone. The towel is still over his neck, although it’s no longer cool. Someone stuffed a rolled up towel under his head as a makeshift pillow.
The gesture is enough to make his eyes burn.
There’s a light knock on the door. The person clearly doesn’t expect an answer, since the door swings open immediately after. He hears Aleix’s voice and lets his eyes slide shut, assuming it’s just his trainer.
“Fuck,” a voice hisses that is certainly not Aleix. “He drove like that?”
“I swear he didn’t look this bad when he got in the car.” Aleix says, fiddling with something in George’s arm. When George peels his eyes open he sees it’s an IV.
He frowns. “When did I get that?”
Aleix yelps, jolting backwards, thankfully not taking the IV with him. “Jesus Christ George!”
George grins. “Morning.”
“It’s night, but that’s a good try,” A new voice interrupts. George manages to focus on Angela’s face as she takes over checking on him. Lewis is standing in the doorway, looking torn between relief and worry.
“Hi Ange.”
“Hey Georgie,” Angela smiles at him. “I take it you feel better.”
George nods, glancing at the empty IV bag. “Glad I was asleep for that though.”
“Yeah,” Angela moves her body to block George’s view of his arm. “You were out like a light.”
Lewis is watching Angela and Aleix work, pale. “Shouldn’t the nurse do that?”
“Yes,” Angela says, then steps back leaving Aleix to press a cotton ball to the back of George’s hand. “All done.”
Lewis makes a noise in the back of his throat. “How do you know how to do that?”
“I’ve practiced on you enough times,” Angela says casually. Lewis looks at George, ‘what the fuck did she just say’ written across his face. God she’s scary. He loves her for it.
“Thank you Angela,” George coughs, slowly sitting up with the help of his own trainer.
Angela stuff everything into a biohazard bag which, again , where did it come from and why does she have it. “Uh huh,” she hands George a Merc water bottle. “Watered down Gatorade. And just be glad I didn’t put the IV in .”
“Well, it’s sort of illegal,” Lewis points out. “Seeing as you’re not a nurse or other certified medical professional.”
“Yes yes, George’s veins thank you,” Aleix waves a hand at the two of them. “And we’re very grateful for the med staff here. Now get out and let me annoy my driver.”
Angela laughs, dragging Lewis down the hall. Aleix waits until they’re out of ear shot before looking at George. “Now that your crush is out of the room, you gonna tell me how you really feel?”
George feels his face flush. “What?” He squeaks.
“You think I’m blind George?” Aleix sticks the cotton ball down with a piece of medical tape. “Be honest with me.”
“I’m okay,” He says, watching Aleix move two fingers to his wrist. Its not a lie either, he really does feel a lot better. “I definitely feel better than I did getting out of the car.”
Aleix grumbles something under his breath, but seems satisfied with George’s pulse. He passes George his slides. “This doesn’t mean you race tomorrow.”
George nods, toeing off his racing shoes and completely ignoring his trainer. “Sure.”
“I mean it George. Just because you feel better now doesn’t mean I’m going to be okay putting you in a car for two hours tomorrow.”
“I said sure!” He laughs, slowly sliding off the table and to his feet. “And it won’t be two hours.”
Aleix groans and pushes him towards the door. “Shut up and drink your water. Drivers, I swear. You’re all a bunch of children.”
…
He doesn’t sleep well that night, constantly tossing and turning in a cycle of too hot-freezing cold. Aleix had dosed him with Tylenol again before he left, but it doesn’t do much past the first couple hours.
When Aleix wakes George in the morning, he can barely sit up. He has to give Aleix a weird half hug thing, and Aleix has to pull him up just so he can get into a sitting position.
“George, I…” Aleix shakes his head, warning in his voice. “I can’t tell you it’s a good idea to race. I can’t condone it.”
“I can race,” George pants, gripping the back of Aleix’s shirt. “I can- can race.”
Aleix shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
George presses his forehead into Aleix’s chest. “I have to. If I can race, then I have to. I’m a fucking Mercedes driver, I race when I’m sick.”
He feels his trainer tense up, but Aleix doesn’t say anything else. He helps George get ready for the day, lips pressed into a thin line. Coaxing George into eating some dry cheerios (why has this become his go-to food to eat when sick?) Aleix makes him put his fire proofs on under his jumper and sweats.
“Shouldn’t I…um,” George presses his palm to his forehead. His head hurts and his thoughts feel thick. “Wear something else? Or- change later?”
“I think it’s easiest if we just have you ready to put on your race suit,” Aleix says waspishly. “So that way you don’t pass out trying to put one some pants.” He’s certainly not happy about George racing but- he has to.
He can do this. He’s going to do this.
George sips his way through his waterbottle twice by the time they’re done with the pre-race meeting. It works well, the straw in his mouth keeping him from falling asleep with the headset on.
Not falling asleep is always a good thing, except that he misses most of the strategy. His screen keeps blurring and his head feels like a bowling ball on his neck.
That’s a problem.
Aleix is right about the race suit. He has to sit in a chair to get it on, and they barely get through half his exercises before he has to go to the car. He sees Toto going to the garage and nearly walks into a wall trying to straighten up.
Toto of course notices, giving him a very strange look. George can’t even offer him an explanation, because as far as he knows, Toto doesn’t know that he’s sick.
George would like to keep it that way if he can. It’ll be an easier conversation to have after he’s recovered. Toto might even be proud of him for pushing through his illness.
He needs to get through the race first though. He’s more than a little nervous about it, especially considering how his body dealt with qualifying yesterday. That was less than ten laps in a car. That was a miniature sprint race without any of the usual racing parts.
This is…more than that.
George bites his lip to hold in a groan as he settles into the car. Micheal talks to him over the radio while they push the car out onto track, running through the strats they discussed. Lewis is in front of him, they’re going to wait a bit before deciding if George is defending or overtaking.
His hands are shaking on the steering wheel when the lights go out.
It’s a normal blast of adrenaline that comes with starting a race, and it’s enough that the first few laps are okay. His skin is racing and he is acutely aware of his heart beating because it sends fireworks through his chest. Every time. Every beat.
By lap ten, everyone’s settled, and George knows that his job is going to be defending Lewis’ position. He’s barely holding his lines around corners, there’s no way he’s going to have the pace to start overtaking. He heads it off early, telling Michael outright.
Michael doesn’t question him, doesn’t say much in response. Just a short “ Copy , George ” that sounds weird to George’s ears. He supposes it’s a weird thing, for a driver to tell the team less than fifteen laps in that he doesn’t want to try overtaking.
It occurs to him that maybe he shouldn’t have said that over the radio. He doesn’t know why, though, it’s nothing bad although he’ll have to explain it to media. That won’t be that difficult, he-
His tires shudder over a rumble strip.
“Fuck!” George yells, white knuckling the steering wheel and desperately trying to get the car under control. He went into that turn way to fast, and now his tyres are unable to find grip. His front end recovered but his back end slides, and then he’s sideways and there’s another car-
Spinning is not fun in the best of circumstances. With the way his head is right now, he nearly passes out. It’s not the McLaren’s fault, they just caught George’s front wing. George’s car was already unbalanced and the impact makes his W-13 imitate a top.
He actually can’t keep his eyes open. He’s whirling around in the blind, and his body reacts on instinct. Screaming through gritted teeth he manages to turn the wheel and press the gas and brake in time to stop the car before he hits the wall. He has no idea how or what he did, but he’s stopped and the only thing clearly wrong with his car is the front wing.
George’s chest heaves against the seatbelt. There’s bits of gravel in his seat, small pieces of rubber and debris that his car kicked up. His arm stings with pain from where he hit it against the side of the car.
“ George you okay?” Michaels voice comes across the radio as his mistake slowly sets in.
Keeping his eyes closed, he moves his fingers to turn the engine off. “Yeah,” he croaks. “I’m alright.”
There’s a sense of dawning horror and dread, realizing that he crashed out. He wonders if they’ll flag it, or just pull out a safety car. Christ he hopes whoever was in the McLaren is okay.
Fifteen laps. Less than fifteen laps actually.
He wants to curse himself out, but the radio is still on and he’s caused enough problems this weekend. The media are going to have a fucking field day with this and Toto is going to have to explain why his new driver forgot how to fucking drive on top of openly admitting the team strategy over comms.
The marshalls swarm his car, something he only notices because one of them taps his helmet. “Can you move?” He yells, and George nods slowly. The same marshall unclips his seatbelt and help George stand.
His halo is the only thing that keeps him standing. Several more sets of hands join the pair already keeping him upright, and they basically lift him out of the car to the ground.
Two marshals flank him, one of George’s arms over each of their shoulders. The medical car zooms over, taking the corner in a much more controlled manor than George did. Despite insisting he’s fine, he gets sat on the back bumper of the Mercedes’. They check him over, give him a basic concussion test, then he gets corralled into the back seat.
The drive back to the garage is in silence. He watches his poor car get lifted onto a truck in the rear view mirror. “Did they red flag it?”
One of the medical officers nods. “Your front wing caused some carnage, mate.”
George leans forward, his throat thick. “Did anyone else crash? Are they okay?”
“Everyone’s fine, just a lot of punctures. They want to sweep the track before starting again.”
Well that makes George feel a bit better, at least. “The McLaren?”
The guy in the passenger seat who’s been talking to George turns and grins at him as they come to a stop at the side of the paddock. “I don’t know how happy Danny Ric is going to be with you.”
George groans, thumping his head back against the seat. It shouldn’t hurt at much as it does, especially since his helmet is still on. He thanks them for the ride and slips out of the back seat, skirting around medical and avoiding anyone who might make him go.
By the time he gets back to Mercedes, the cars are back out on the track in formation, each individual team surrounding their drivers, keeping the tyres warm and the brakes cool.
George watches his car get rolled into the garage. His mechanic team is not out on track waiting for restart, they’re running through different checks, attaching various chords to different ports and downloading data.
He’s been numb with adrenaline and maybe some semblance of shock since the crash. That only breaks when he realizes that they’re checking to see if they can fix his car and restart.
It comes crashing in then, how badly he’s fucked up. Not just because he’s caused serious damage to a very expensive car and put them back in the championship points - that’s the obvious thing. But also not telling Toto or his team that he was sick?
That’s a fuck up. Because if they can fix this car, they’re going to expect him to drive it again. George is barely standing.
Toto is the first to notice him, because of course he is. The team principal was looking at the broken car, but quickly stops to march over to George with a sharp frown. He pulls George to the side, and although the touch is gentle George shrinks from it. His skin hurts with the contact.
“Is there something you want to tell me?” Toto ask quietly, eyes dark and serious. “Because that was not a hard corner.”
“I know,” George answers, biting his lip to keep the tremor from his voice. It doesn’t work. “I don’t know what happened, I-”
Toto raises a hand and George shuts up. “We will talk in debrief. I don’t want to give the camera’s more content.”
George swallows thickly. His chest hurts and he has his hands clenched into fists to keep them from shaking. “Toto, I- I know you’re disappointed. I didn’t mean to-”
“George, I said we will talk later.”
“There’s no way we can restart,” One the pit team interrupts, seemingly oblivious to the tension between the driver and TP. “It’s more than the front wing, the front brakes aren’t responding as they should.”
George feels a wash of relief, closely followed by guilt. “Sorry,” he manages through a trembling jaw. He’s not about to cry. He’s not, he’s just- he’s so cold . If he wasn’t, maybe he’d have the energy to feel anything past shame.
Toto shakes his head, clearly not happy to have the discussion now. George reaches up to wipe at his face and hits his helmet instead. “I’ll go get changed.”
No one tries to stop him.
.
If he thought things were bad before, what he’s dealing with now is unbearable.
Getting to the hospitality feels like deja vu from yesterday. He deteriorates on the way there, and by the time he sees the black glossy siding and Mercedes logo, he’s convinced that the ground is on a permanent tilt.
He’s weaving unsteadily when he gets to the side door. Lucky for him there’s basically no one there, so no one sees him crawl up the stairs to his room.
He has to try changing out of his race gear on the floor of his drivers room because he can’t stand. His legs quite literally will not let him stay standing. It hurts and he’s so far beyond caring about his dignity that he gives up on it.
The floor is a better option anyway. Aleix doesn’t even question it when he comes in and finds George with his head between his knees.
“I’m actually happy to find you on the ground,” Aleix huffs, breathing hard. He must’ve sprinted from the garage to hospitality. “Mainly because you’re conscious and not bleeding.”
George waves a hand. “I thought…it would be better. Not as far to fall.”
“If you didn’t look like refried death, I would feel pride in how much you’ve absorbed from me,” His trainer helps him pull his suit all the way off. “Do you want to go back to the trailer? Take a shower?”
George shakes his head slowly. “I have to debrief.”
“Toto said-“
“I have to debrief,” George hisses. “I fucked up enough this weekend, I think I owe it to my team to be there. At least then I can say sorry in person.”
“George,” Aleix says softly. “You’re sick. You’re very sick. They’re going to understand that.”
“They’re going to understand that I don’t deserve my seat!” George yells, then to his absolute horror , starts crying. “Lewis could do it, Lewis has done it, and I’m supposed to be as good as him. I’m supposed to be-” He hiccups so hard it shakes him.
“You’re supposed to be learning,” Aleix says sternly, wrapping an arm around George’s shoulders. “Toto knew that when he signed you. The team knew that going in, and no one blames you. You’re going to make mistakes; Toto believes in you so much he wants you to make them with Mercedes.”
As quickly as the tears started, they stop. He’s too tired to cry. Or perhaps too dehydrated. “I’m supposed to be better,” he whimpers. “I’m supposed to be better than this.”
“George, who is telling you this? You’re sick , you-“ Aleix stops suddenly. He pulls his arm away and presses his palm to George’s forehead. “ Fuck .”
“What?” George sniffles, dragging his sleeve under his nose. Aleix rockets to his feet, running to the door where he pauses briefly.
“Stay right here George.”
“But-”
“Do not leave this room!” Aleix yells, hurdling down the corridor and leaving George alone on the floor.
George stares at the open doorway for a few minutes, shivering just in his fireproofs. His sweatshirt peaks enticingly out of his bag, and after another long moment he drags himself across the carpet to get it.
It’s a little short on him for some reason, but the shoulders are loose which is fantastic. It smells nice, like spicy aftershave or something. It huge and it’s warm and it’s soft, it’s the softest thing he’s ever felt in his life. He doesn’t remember his sweatshirt being this wonderful but he chalks it up to the fever he must have and pulls the hood up.
Very nice. This is very nice.
It feels like another hour goes by, and Aleix still hasn’t returned. His legs are starting to cramp from being on the floor for so long. His throat is so dry it feels like it’s closing.
Water would be good. A warmer room would be good as well.
He knows Aleix said to stay here, but George is really feeling awful and he wants something to drink. It’s Aleix’s fault for taking so long.
George uses the doorframe to get to his feet and by some miracle is able to stumble out of the drivers room. He was planning on going to the cafe, but as he trails down the hall he realizes he went in the wrong direction. The hallway is too bright, and oddly shiney for some reason. Like there’s an obnoxious lense glare on everything.
It makes it very hard to see where he’s going. He hits the back stairwell and falls through the door, but figures he might as well go up. There’s Toto’s office and several different conference rooms which might have mini-fridges that might contain water. The stairs will definitely be easier than back tracking.
Mainly because there’s a railing. A nice heavy metal railing that is freezing against his palms but that he clings to anyway. It’s darker in the stairwell too, and if it weren’t for the fact that the concrete is like ice against his skin, he’d have laid down on the landing and stayed there.
The upstairs hallway appears before him. He doesn’t remember getting to the top of the stairs.
It’s just as bright as downstairs. Less shiny though, more…blurry. Very, very blurry.
He’s suddenly aware of how hard it is to keep his eyes open. The conference rooms are at the end of the hall but Toto’s office is somewhere closer. He thinks.
Feeling along the wall, George makes his way forward slowly. When he hits a name plaque, he had to stare it at for over a minute before making out that nope, it’s not the right office.
This would be a lot easier if he could stop shaking.
Another couple of steps. Wrong door. Step, step, drop to one knee to retch and have nothing come up. Back to his feet. Another few steps and- yes, here.
Toto’s office is wonderfully, blissfully, warm.
Unlike the rest of the hospitality which seems to have it’s AC on full blast, Toto kept his door closed and AC off. George shuts the door behind to preserve the warm air and dives, immediately, for the small black couch in the corner.
This is good, George thinks hazily. He can lay down here, and this way Toto can just come up to his office and George will already be there. Toto won’t have to go looking for him. They can have their conversation right here. George can get stern words thrown his way from right here on this soft, squishy, pleather gift from god.
After his nap.
His body doesn’t seem to be on the same page at his brain though, because he’s trembling so hard that he actually can’t fall asleep. His teeth are chattering like he’s in a walk in freezer. The slightly warmer air was nice for a moment, but now that he’s stopped moving it’s not enough.
His sweat is drying grossly, making him even colder. His core muscles are almost spasming in an effort to make heat and it makes him feel strange. He’s not nauseous but it’s just- it’s not a good feeling. He wants it to stop.
The sweatshirt is not enough now. He wishes he had a blanket, a decorative throw, anything . Something for his legs at least. He curls in a ball as best he can but it doesn’t help.
George has the vague notion that something is wrong with him. He shouldn’t be feeling this way. He’s never been sick like this, body so out of control that his arms and legs twitch without his consent, muscles spasming horribly.
He wants it to stop. He wants Aleix to come back, or for Michael to find him, or Toto even. Just- someone. Someone so he’s not alone up here like this. He’s scared and he’s alone and he doesn’t want to be.
It’s too hard to think past the pain, so he lays there in misery, shaking and shivering and hoping someone, anyone finds him.
He doesn’t know how long he stays there when there’s a commotion outside his door.
George tries to say something. Make a noise. Anything.
The thing that comes out of his mouth is not a word, but it’s certainly loud enough to get the attention of whatever made that noise.
The glass door slides open. “George?!”
He racks his brain, trying to figure out who’s voice it is. Lucky for him, he doesn’t have to think too hard before the very concerned face of his team principal is in his field of vision.
“I c-can’t stop s-sh-shaking,” George chatters. “Toto, I- I’m s-so cold.”
“Shh, it’s okay liebling,” Toto brushes his hair back. “It’s alright, I’m going to get you help.”
“Please,” George sobs. “D-don’t- don’t leave m-me.”
Toto croons, keeping his hand moving through Goerge’s hair. “I won’t, I won’t. I promise.” He says something to someone behind the couch. “George, how long have you been like this?”
“I went- y-you s-s-said to-”
Toto’s face drops, dawning realization. “You’ve been here since the crash? George, that was hours ago.”
“Aleix told me,” George wheezes, curling his arms around his chest. “I wanted some- something to drink.”
Toto hushes him gently. Keeping one hand on George’s shoulder, Toto leans back and yells something. George should understand what he’s saying but his hearing is fuzzy. He so badly wants to close his eyes, but he thinks that might scare Toto.
His vision gets blurry, unfocused again. It’s not like he needs to see Toto’s desk anyway.
He can’t refocus though. Even when Toto is talking to him, shaking him, even when Lewis is in front of him, yelling at George. Even when he’s moving, being lifted up and the only thing he can see is the dark material of Lewis’ race suit. He knows the letters say ‘AMG - Petronas’ , but he can’t read them.
That’s bad, he knows. That’s bad.
They’re in a car. Someone is talking to him.
Lewis .
“Just breathe, keep breathing George,” Lewis says. George blinks. Is he not breathing? His chest is tight but he thinks he'd know if he wasn’t breathing. “We’re gonna get you help. Just hang on for me okay? We’re almost there.”
There must be a hospital. George keeps moving, but he’s laying down, and there’s something hard over his face that’s hard and plastic and uncomfortable. He’s so cold. He can’t feel his hands. All he knows is that Lewis isn’t next to him anymore and neither is Toto.
George doesn’t have a reason to stay awake. So he doesn’t.
…
When George wakes up, he has the distinct feeling it’s not the first time.
There’s vague memories of before, but they’re blurred colors and uncomfortable sensations. He doesn’t know what’s happened or when he was awake, but he must’ve been. He must’ve woken up before, because he feels totally different than he did in Toto’s office.
That he remembers.
He keeps his eyes closed for a long while and tries to take stock of his body. There’s a comfortable weight over him that combines with a soft but firm surface he’s lying on to form the idea of a bed. Not a hospital bed, he thinks, but not his own.
He’s not shaking anymore. There’s a big thing. In fact, he’s not cold either. A little chilled maybe, but nothing like the way he was at the race. He’s never been that cold in his life. But then, he’s never been that sick before either.
His head still aches, but that’s all it is, an ache. It’s not a throb that hurt so bad it makes it hard to think. And isn’t that a novelty, being able to think clearly. He can focus on things, like how his muscles are sore and he’d really like to drink several glasses of water right now. Six or seven should be enough.
There’s no obvious noise in the room to indicate he’s being watched, so George makes an effort to figure out where the hell he is.
George peels his eyes open to a beige ceiling.
He frowns, confused. That doesn’t seem very characteristic of a hospital, although he’s sure he was in one at one point. In fact, clues would suggest he’s not in a medical facility at all.
The painted ceiling is one, the dark wood ceiling light is another, and the low hum of a stand fan being the only sound is the final clue.
He slowly rolls his head to the side. There’s a nightstand which holds a lamp, a notepad and pen, and what looks like an entire pharmacy. Several prescriptions. His vision is too blurry still to make out the words, but he’d bet they have his name on it.
A low thrum of concern shoots through him, because it would seem he was still out of it enough to miss leaving the hospital entirely. Not only that, but the blurry vision and slight chill makes him think that the fever hasn’t left yet.
He vaguely recalls his mum saying that fevers that last longer than a couple days are the dangerous ones, but George has no idea how long it’s been. There’s no one in the bedroom he’s currently occupying, but he hears some clattering in the hall.
George decides to entertain the idea of getting up. He’s even able to push himself into a sitting position with one try. He’s sure whoevers outside can tell him whats going on. Maybe he can get some water too. It feels like all he’s done is drink water, but he’s still so thirsty.
Legs go over the edge. He wiggles his toes on the plush carpet, vague familiarity niggling at his brain. It feels like he’s been here before, but he can’t remember why.
Despite his body’s protests - he’s cold again now that he’s not under the blankets, his muscles are sore but they also feel weak - George goes to stand up.
He blinks his eyes open to a dark green sweater and lots of swearing in German.
George frowns. The person holding him gets him sitting on the floor, then they turn to yell behind him. Oddly, it sounds like they’re saying ‘Toto’ .
George puffs out a breath, the fabric of the sweater sliding across his cheek. “‘S this cashmere?”
“You idiot ,” they hiss. “Why didn’t you call for help?”
He frowns. His brain feels full of mud again. “Feels like cashmere.”
New voice, larger hands. He closes his eyes as he’s lifted from the floor and deposited back on the bed. He doesn’t like the movement, but then something clicks when a hand brushes his hair back. “Toto?”
The Mercedes team principal hums, tucking the covers around him like he’s a small child. George kind of feels like one, especially when he opens his eyes again and sees Susie bustling about the room like a worried mother.
Because she is a worried mother. Because George is in the Wolff’s guest bedroom that he occupied when they threw him a party for signing and he got so drunk he couldn’t talk.
Susie must see the stricken look on his face, because she holds up a finger. “Don’t even think about apologizing. I’ve half a mind to keep you here for the next year until you demonstrate you know how to take care of yourself, and if you start on with this ‘oh im fine’ shit, I swear I will tape you this bed.”
George’s instinctive reaction to Susie being angry is to apologize, so instead he snaps his jaw shut and nods mutely. Susie leaves the room, muttering angrily. Toto has his hand over his mouth, clearly trying not to smile.
The door clicks shut behind her. George fidgets until he’s sat up against the headboard. “Sorry.”
Toto waves a hand. “She’s been waiting to yell at you since I called her in France, so I would just be grateful that was all you got.”
George picks at the blanket. “Still feel like shit.”
“Which is why she went light on you,” Toto chuckles, but it’s somber still. “Your fever is almost gone, but still there.”
“That makes sense,” George muses, unsure where to go in this conversation. He doesn’t remember anything besides bits of what happened in Toto’s office. Between there and now he's got nothing. “What…happened to me?”
Toto’s face shutters, memories flying past his eyes. He doesn’t respond right away, standing and getting Geroge a glass of water instead. George never asked, but he’s sure if he’s here recovering then there must have been some doctors orders on how to take care of him.
The two sit in silence for a moment, Toto perched on the edge of the bed, gathering his words, George taking small sips from the glass to try and not get sick. His stomach feels empty and achy. Considering the amount of times he threw up, he’s not to keen on doing it again.
“You were sick,” Toto says finally. “You were really sick.”
George blinks at him. That feels sort of obvious.
Toto doesn’t lose his seriousness. “As in, a fever so high the doctors were afraid you were going to start having seizures. That level of sick.”
George feels like the bed dips under him. “ Oh .”
Seizures. He knew he was messed up but he never thought it could get that bad .
“Yes, ‘oh’. But it didn’t have to get that far, and it wouldn’t have gotten that far if you would have told me you were sick! George you have any idea how dangerous that was?! You could have died!”
Toto is legitimately distressed, and George feels even more confused. “I wouldn’t have died -”
“You drove a formula one car with a forty one degree fever!” Toto hisses. “That could have very easily resulted in serious injury or worse. And did you miss the ‘almost having seizures’ part? If the doctors couldn’t get it under control you…there could have been consequences George.”
“I didn’t know,” George admits, thoroughly cowed. “I really thought it was just the flu.”
Toto sighs. “For all we know it was just the flu. You barely had other symptoms besides the fever. That we knew of anyway, since you even kept Aleix in the dark about how you were feeling.”
“I told him!” George yelps, almost choking on the water. “He knew!”
“He knew you were sick, but he didn’t know that you didn’t tell me ,” Toto corrects. “I found out from Lewis, who was asking because Bono said that he had to catch you after qualifying when you collapsed .”
He wants to argue it - he didn’t collapse, he got a little dizzy is all - but the look on his TP’s face tells him that arguing would be a bad, bad idea. “Aleix knew though.”
Toto looks like he wants to strangle George. “ Regardless , the fact that you didn’t tell anyone else speaks to a concerning lack of self worth.”
A jolt of fear and surprise shoots through George then. Of all the ways he thought this would go down, the idea that anyone would see it as him not valuing his life never crossed his mind. “No, that’s not it, that’s- I- Toto I swear, it wasn’t that, I just- I thought I could push through it.” he stammers in a panic. He needs Toto to understand, that wasn’t it.
“Yes, but- why, George?!” Toto takes the empty glass out of George’s hand and puts it on the nightstand. “Even if you thought you could race through it which - you should not have - that doesn’t explain why you wouldn’t tell me! Or Michael, or even Lewis for that matter! Why would you put yourself through this, why would you put yourself in such danger to race just to-”
“Because Lewis did it!” George blurts out, interrupting. “Because Lewis did it and he got fucking pole and I’m supposed to be able to do the same, I’m supposed to show up for this team and get you results regardless of how I’m feeling!”
Toto stares at him, eyes wide and jaw slack with shock. George crosses his arms around his stomach, shivering slightly. He’s tired still and he wants to go back to sleep, but he also doesn’t want Toto believing that George doesn’t care about himself.
“George,” Toto says softly, and George drops his eyes. “Lewis told us the moment he started feeling off. And he did so, because it was necessary for us to be able to help him. Yes, Lewis had the ultimate call, but to a point. If Angela had told me that she didn’t think Lewis should race, then I would have pulled him.”
George shakes his head. “The championship-”
“Does not matter in comparison to your life .” Toto says loudly, voice like steel. George drops his gaze to the bedspread, biting his lip. “I would have pulled Lewis if I thought it was going to be too dangerous, and I don’t care if he would have hated me for it. I don’t ever want to lose a driver, and I certainly will not lose someone to something that I could have prevented.”
George resolutely keeps his gaze on the blankets instead of responding. Toto takes that as queue to keep going.
“You’re my responsibility George,” he says, gentle again. “Yes, you have a responsibility to the team, but you are my driver . I am to a degree responsible for your well being, just as I am for Lewis’.”
“Is that why I’m here?” George asks quietly. “Instead of my flat?”
“No, you are here because someone had to take care of you, and Susie threatened bodily harm to me if I didn’t have you discharged to our care.”
George manages a small smile at that. Toto pats his leg. “Go back to sleep George, we’ll get you something for dinner. And do not try to get up again on your own.” Toto stands with a groan. “I do not need to find you passed out on the floor. Again .”
He hums, sliding down to lay flat again. Toto leaves the door open as he exits, a pointed look sent to George as he goes.
It was different in Williams. Not that it was bad, he loved that team, but he didn’t have a pre-existing relationship with the team principals. He’s known Toto since he was fifteen. It’s a different dynamic for sure.
To hear Toto say you’re my responsibility in that way that makes it so clear he cares about George - it’s a lot.
It’s a lot and he’s exhausted and fevered still so that’s his excuse for the tears that slip from his eyes.
George rolls on his side, buries his face in the pillow and breathes slow. It’s a lot, because he knows that when Toto says ‘ you’re my responsibility ’, he’s really saying ‘ I care about you ’. When he said he was concerned about George’s self-preservation, he was saying ‘I’m worried’ and ‘ I want you to be okay’ .
Because if Toto didn’t mean those things, he wouldn’t have asked. He wouldn’t have chewed George out about taking care of himself. He certainly wouldn’t have traveled with George from France to put George up in his own guest bedroom of his house in Austria.
He knew Toto cared about him, but he didn’t expect this to be the result of racing while sick. He thought Toto would be happy with him for pushing through, especially if he’d been able to finish the race.
From their talk, he gets the feeling that Toto would have been just as upset. Even if he finished in the points, even if he podiumed, Toto would have been upset that George didn’t tell him.
George didn’t even think about Lewis telling Toto when he was sick. It makes a lot of sense there too - Toto checked on Lewis regularly, and he knows from Angela that she talked to Toto a lot, giving him as much of a professional opinion as she could. They worked to manage the problem.
George didn’t give Toto that. He spun out during the race because he was too sick to drive and got really fucking lucky that no one else got hurt because of it. Never mind that he could have been hurt - he might’ve hurt someone else. It doesn’t take a lot to make a F1 car crash.
Whenever he feels well enough to ask for his phone, he’s gonna send Daniel a two paragraph apology, sources cited. Fuck, he needs to call his parents too. His mom is probably pacing a hole in the floor. He’s sure Lando at least has spammed his phone, and there might be a few more texts from drivers that he should reply to.
He can tell people “hey, I’m alive and semi-coherent, thanks for your concern ” and also, depending on the person, “ sorry for being an idiot, I incorrectly interpreted the expectations of my new team ”.
Lewis will be getting both of those. And a metric tonne of those vegan chocolates that taste fucking amazing.
A chill wracks his body, reminding him that he will be doing none of those things right now. Despite how much better he feels, he’s still sick. Also his baseline for ‘bad’ was bad enough to induce a hospital stay. So better , is relative.
George decides it’s too much to deal with right now, so he closes his eyes and wills himself to sleep.
.
.
.
Lewis .
“He said what ?!”
Lewis buries his face in his hands, but he has to agree with Susie. He loves George, he does, but sometimes he wants to knock him upside the head. The other driver can be an absolute idiot sometimes.
Toto sighs. “He said that the reason he didn’t tell me or anyone, was that Lewis managed to drive while sick. That in fact, Lewis did it and pushed through it to get pole.”
He can feel Susie’s eyes on him. Lewis shakes his head. “I didn’t know he- I mean I knew that he thought he could push through it, and I knew that he looked up to me, but I didn’t know he was gonna push it this far .”
That’s the truth too. He knows George looks up to him, and he was as careful as he could be to make sure that he set a good example. He tried to help George adjust as much as he could and in the process they’ve become good friends.
It wasn’t until Friday that Lewis realized he might have fucked up a little. He and Toto fucked up actually.
“Oh okay, Mister ‘I have a forty degree fever but I’ll do qualifying anyway’. Tell me all about being too sick to drive.”
George was gone before Lewis could tell him “ No, that’s not the point, I shouldn’t have drove then and you shouldn’t drive now, George, wait- ”
He tried to talk to George on Saturday, but George was late and he had to focus on driving. George put in a fantastic lap too, so good Lewis almost felt a bit bad about beating him. He rolled back to the garage, thinking that George had been fine and they were going to have a good weekend and then Bono looked him straight in the eye and told him that George passed out getting out of the car.
Race day was a blur. If media asks him about it after the break, he’ll say it too - he had to look up the race results, because he didn’t know where everyone finished.
Hearing a red flag called is one thing. Having Toto come over the radio to inform him that the red flag was caused by George? When Lewis is already worried about him driving?
He was about ready to get out of his car just to check on him, and the only reason he didn’t was Bono’s voice in his ear, telling him that George was okay. He even told Lewis that George was released from medical.
It wasn’t until the end of the race, where Lewis podiumed but didn’t go to the ceremony, that they realized - no, George didn’t get released from medical because he never went to medical. Aleix was freaking out because it’d been over an hour and no one could find George.
Lewis thought that George was hurt, but Aleix informed them no, not hurt, but so sick it was dangerous. So sick that Aleix only left him to get someone that could get him car, so he could get George to a hospital.
In that moment, he learned that the Mercedes hospitality has way to many places a George shaped human could hide. The whole entire team stopped what they were doing to look for him, and in the end it was Toto who correctly discovered his hiding spot.
Finding George in that room - it’s not something he’s ever going to forget.
Toto was yelling and Aleix was yelling and Bono was yelling and it was so loud but all Lewis could focus on was George.
Eyes glazed over and blank, there was no recognition in George’s face when Lewis crouched in front of him. It was one of the scariest moments of his life.
He sips his cup of tea, rubbing at his forehead and trying to forget the heat that flooded from George’s skin when Lewis carried him to the car. “At least he’s been coherent. I was worried, if he didn’t come around soon that we’d have to take him back to the hospital.”
Susie puts a hand on Lewis’ arm. “I was about to get the car ready before he tried to get out of bed.”
Toto snorts from where he’s leaning against the counter top. “I thought you were going to take his head off.”
“Still might,” Susie retorts, looking down at her watch. “I’m going to see if he’s up. Get some food in him.”
She exits the kitchen, leaving the two men in silence. Lewis studies his tea and wonders how they got into this mess. “I didn’t think he would…I thought he’d have told you, at least.”
“Yes, well,” Toto uncrosses his arms to shove his hands in his pockets. “I think we cleared up that issue. It won’t be happening again.”
“Doesn’t change the fact that he did all this because of me .” Lewis says, pulling at the back of his neck. George got discharged from the hospital yesterday. He was so out of it still he doesn’t remember the trip, which is good, because that means George doesn’t remember how he clung to Lewis on the plane.
George and him have gotten to be good friends, but that doesn’t mean that George has left his idolization of Lewis behind him.
Which - usually it just serves to make Lewis feel really old , but - sometimes it means that George will say or do something that he thinks is embarrassing. George then withdraws from Lewis for a while, despite the fact that Lewis does not care and often thinks it’s funny.
So if George remembered cuddling with Lewis like Lewis was an oversized teddy bear, he’d probably refuse to talk to Lewis for the rest of the season.
“Lewis, I hope you know that I do not blame you for anything that happened,” Toto’s voice brings him out of his thoughts. When Lewis nods, Toto continues. “To some degree I don’t think it’s fair to completely blame George for this either.”
Lewis raises an eyebrow. Toto shrugs. “I don’t know about you, but when I get sick I don’t think that it’s going to be so bad that I’ll need to be admitted to the hospital. It’s fair to assume that George thought he had the flu and that it would be hard but that he could push through it. He didn’t handle it correctly regardless, but-”
“No I get it,” Lewis glances towards the hall. “Val thinks I should talk to him.”
“Valteri called you?”
“Yeah, he said something about being the teammate to a seven time world champion causing him to set unfair and unrealistic expectations for himself that had a serious impact on his mental health despite me never actually saying or doing anything that would imply those expectations were real.”
Toto blinks at him. Lewis hides his smile behind his mug. “Valteri said all that?”
“Something along those lines.” There was actually a lot more swearing involved and Val called him a bonehead, which is a new one for the Finn. “I don’t know what to say to him.”
“Tell him it’s okay to not be you ,” Susie interjects, making Lewis jump so bad he spills his tea everywhere. He never heard her come back down the stairs. “I think that’s what he’s mostly caught up on.”
“He’s awake?” Toto asks.
Susie digs in the refrigerator and comes out with a container of soup. “Yes, but he’s grumpy. I assume food will help that. And I bet knowing that Lewis isn’t mad at him will also help.”
“Why would I be- never mind,” Lewis sighs, pushing his chair back. “I’ll go…say…something to him I guess.”
“Good luck,” Toto mutters, earning a thwap on the arm from Susie.
Lewis trudges his way upstairs, bracing himself as he goes and scrambling to figure out what to say. The door is open and George is sat up in bed, tapping away at his phone. He must hear Lewis coming and correctly assumes it’s not Susie. “Toto, I- oh shit.” George drops his phone in surprise. “Uh. Hey mate, I didn’t know you were here.”
Lewis hums, drinking in the sight of George, awake and coherent. “I’m stopping by before I go on holiday.”
George nods, and Lewis notices that George has yet to actually look at Lewis yet. “You should disregard that last text then.”
Lewis frowns in confusion just as his phone chimes. He reaches for it automatically, then stop at George’s slightly panicked look. “Why am I disregarding it?”
“Ah- because you’re here, and I can apologize to you in person,” George fidgets. “You know, for…fucking up the race.”
Fucking up the race.
George really just said that. He almost fucking died and he thinks he fucked up the race for Lewis .
Lewis knows his eyes are soft as he looks at George. “I guess we need to talk, huh?”
George looks up in a panic, eyes flitting around the room. “Lewis I swear if I’d known it was going to get that bad, I wouldn’t have- I would have told someone, I wouldn’t have-”
“George, please take a breath,” Lewis crosses the room. “I know, okay? I’m not mad.”
“Oh,” George blushes, and it’s so strange how there’s a burst of happiness in his chest when he sees color back on George’s face. “Sorry, Susie just finished chewing me out and Toto kinda scared me when we talked earlier so I was just- I was expecting it, I guess.”
They sit in awkward silence for a long moment. Lewis fidgets. “I uh… I don’t actually know what I’m supposed to say here.”
Something flashes across George’s face and he drops his gaze, pulling at a piece of lint on the bedspread. “I’m sorry. I think I remember you being there, so I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“That is not what I want you to be sorry for,” Lewis says sharply, suddenly finding that he does have the words. “You’re my friend and I care about you.”
George shakes his head. “Still.”
“Mate, I’m not going to lie and say you didn’t scare the shit out of me, but if you’re going to apologize for anything, then you can apologize for not telling me.”
“You had a race to focus on!” George cries. “How was I supposed to know it was a super bug that was going to turn my internal temperature to boiling?!”
Lewis really might throttle him. “You- oh my god, George, are you still rattled in the head? The race was not as important to me as you are.”
George inhales sharply and something flashes across his face, but it’s gone so quickly Lewis can’t be sure what it is.
After a moment of quiet, George speaks quietly. “I really didn’t think about it like- like how Toto sees it. You know? I was focusing on racing, I wasn’t doing it because I didn’t care about myself.”
“I know,” Lewis begrudges, because he does know. He understands how George was able to make sense out of pushing through illness- Lewis doesn’t know a single driver who hasn’t .
Which is not a good thing, per say, but Lewis understands where George got the idea from. The expectation that he needed to get through it without telling anyone - that’s where Lewis stops understanding.
“I know you didn’t do this to intentionally hurt yourself,” Lewis clarifies, to which George gives him a frown. “And I know it’s been enough of a hell that you’re not going to do it again.”
George snorts, rubbing at one of his eyes. “I’m going to be reporting the smallest shit to Toto now. He’s gonna learn if I so much as get a papercut.”
That at least makes Lewis feels better. He’s not great at dealing with mistakes, but being able to plan and prepare for the future, so that those mistakes don’t happen again - that’s how he deals with them.
Lewis points to the other side of the bed, a question on his face. George grins and pats the bed. “Step into my office.”
“Shut up,” Lewis crawls onto the other side of the bed, letting George lean against him once he’s settled against the headboard. After a moment of hesitation, he wraps an arm around George’s shoulders. The younger driver makes a happy noise as he makes himself comfortable against Lewis’ side and Lewis does his best to ignore the warmth in his chest.
Lewis doesn’t like that he can still feel the heat coming off George’s skin despite the layer of clothing between them, but it’s better than before.
“George,” he murmurs, after enough time has passe that he’s not sure George is still awake. “Georgie?”
George hums, half awake. Lewis takes it as an okay to ask. “Did you…did you really do all this because of me?”
It takes a while - so long that Lewis thinks George feel asleep - but eventually he answers, voice quiet and slurred with sleep. “Wanted to you to be proud of me.”
The words punch him in the gut. Lewis thumps his head back against the headboard. “I’m already proud of you George.”
George doesn’t reply. Looking down shows that he’s fallen back asleep. Lewis can’t help but smile fondly
That’s alright. He’ll wait till George is awake to tell him again, and if that doesn’t stick, he’ll repeat it until George believes it.
However long it takes.