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midway-ans · 1 month ago

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It’s been one pretty bad race weekend, yeah? Well, for that, and because I’m on bed rest, last night was horrific, and also I’m only now getting the joke about seeing a psychologist before you need a psychiatrist, I present a short silly daydream where spaniels are matchmakers. And crayons eaters.

Rated T, 3.7 words. TW: a doggie pukes a lot here.

George’s Tuesday began at 6:03 a.m. with the sound of retching.

He shot upright in bed, his sleep-mussed curls sticking to his forehead, just in time to see Sprocket, his caramel-colored cocker spaniel, hurl a suspiciously neon-green puddle onto the cream rug. Again.

“No, Sprocket, no-” George scrambled out of bed, bare feet slapping against hardwood, and lunged for the dog. Sprocket whimpered, his big, liquid eyes rolling apologetically as George scooped him up. “Oh, buddy, it’s okay, it’s - Christ, that’s vile-”

His phone buzzed on the nightstand. Ignoring it, George sprinted to the kitchen, Sprocket cradled like a furry, vomiting infant. He fumbled for paper towels, bleach spray, and his rapidly dying dignity. The phone kept buzzing.

“What?” he snapped, answering on speaker as he dabbed at the rug.

“George, thank God!” his sister’s voice crackled, frantic. “There’s been an accident. Simon’s mum fell, broke her hip - we’ve got to drive to Manchester now. I need you to get Daisy from school at 3, take her to piano at 5, and make sure she finishes her maths homework-”

“Cara, wait-” George stared at the phone, bleach fumes burning his nostrils. “Sprocket’s sick. Like, Projectile Exorcist sick. I’ve got to get him to the vet-”

“George, please,” Cara hissed. “You’re her godfather. An uncle. I’ll text you the allergy list - no peanuts, no gluten, no dairy substitutes with soy lecithin-”

“Soy what-?”

“-and she’s on that new vegan keto thing, so check the labels. Love you!”

The line died. George groaned, tilting his head back at the ceiling. His boss, Marjorie, would evaporate him if he bailed on the client call today. But Sprocket chose that moment to gag again, and George’s resolve crumbled.

“Fine. Fine,” he muttered, speed-dialing work. “Marj? Yeah, uh… food poisoning. Me, not the dog. Working from home. Yes. Yes, the Henderson pitch deck’s almost - mmhmm-”

He hung up, scrubbed the rug raw, and bundled Sprocket into the passenger seat of his battered Honda Civic, a plastic bucket wedged between the dog’s paws.

“You will not ruin these upholstery,” George warned, white-knuckling the steering wheel as he merged into London traffic. Sprocket burped mournfully.

10:09 a.m. - Greenwich Village Veterinary Clinic

George burst through the clinic doors like a hurricane in a cashmere sweater, Sprocket drooping in his arms.

“He’s vomiting bile and I think he ate a Lego-”

“Mate.”

The voice was deep, unhurried, velvet wrapped in steel.

George turned.

The man lounging in the waiting room chair looked like he’d been sculpted by a Renaissance artist with a thing for chaos. Dark skin gleamed under the clinic’s fluorescents, tattoos swirling down his arms - geometric patterns, script in languages George couldn’t place. His hair was a crown of tight braids gathered into a sleek bun, his jawline sharp enough to cut glass. And his eyes, Christ, deep, heavy-lidded, and currently pinning George with amused disdain.

“You’re in my slot,” the man said, nodding to the squish-faced bulldog snoring in his lap. “Roscoe’s 10:15.”

“I - what?” George blinked, adjusting Sprocket’s limp weight. “No, I called ahead - emergency-”

“My emergency,” the man arched a brow. “Roscoe’s toenail’s splitting. Agony, innit?”

The bulldog snorted, drooling on his owner’s tailored charcoal slacks.

“Look, I’m sorry,” George stammered, cheeks flushing. “But my dog’s actually sick-”

“And my dog’s actually old. Manners cost nothing, yeah?” the man’s lips twitched - plush, annoyingly perfect lips, George noted - as he rose, Roscoe cradled effortlessly. “You could’ve said, ‘Pardon me, sir, my spaniel’s mid-apocalypse’-”

“Sir?” George scoffed, sidestepping him to bang on the vet’s door. “You’re not my sir-”

“Lewis!” the vet called, swinging the door open. “Bring Roscoe in - oh. George?”

“Hi, Dr. Loxley-” George bulldozed past Lewis, Sprocket in tow. “He’s green. Literally-”

Lewis chuckled behind him, low and warm.

“Good luck, Sir George.”

Sprocket, it turned out, had ingested half a crayon (“The red one, see?” Dr. Loxley held up the X-ray) and needed monitoring. George slumped against the clinic wall, dog in arms, as Lewis sauntered out of the exam room, Roscoe waddling beside him.

“Survived?” Lewis smirked, rolling up his sleeves to reveal more ink - a constellation, a quote in cursive.

“He’s fine. I’m dead,” George muttered, fumbling for his keys. “I’ve got to pick up Daisy, start a work call, and somehow not poison her with soy… something-”

Lewis tilted his head, studying George.

“Single dad?”

“What? No - I’m - Cara’s my sister-”

“Ah. Babysitter,” Lewis nodded, pulling a card from his wallet. “Here. For next time.”

George stared at the embossed black rectangle. Lewis Hamilton. Senior Portfolio Manager. Hamilton & Associates.

“What’s this?”

“So you can apologize properly. Dinner’s traditional,” Lewis winked, hoisting Roscoe into a designer pet carrier. “Good luck with the… chaos.”

George opened his mouth - to protest, to laugh, to something - but his phone blared: 11:40 - ZOOM CALL.

“Shit-” he bolted, Sprocket bouncing in his arms. Lewis’ laughter followed him into the parking lot, a rich, lingering sound that clung to George’s skin long after he peeled out onto the road.

12:11 p.m. - George’s Living Room

Laptop buzzed to life like a vengeful hornet, its screen splintering into a grid of judgmental faces. He’d shoved his coffee table aside to create a ‘professional’ backdrop - a sagging bookshelf stacked with marketing textbooks and a wilting fern - but the chaos was unavoidable. Sprocket lay draped over the arm of the couch, his fur matted, a half-empty bucket strategically placed beneath his chin.

“Russell. Finally,” Marjorie’s voice crackled through the speakers, her virtual background a jarringly serene Maldives beach. Her real background, George knew, was a cubicle plastered with Post-its that read “FAILURE IS NOT AN OPTION” in Comic Sans. “We’re reviewing the Henderson deliverables. Your slides. Now.”

“Right, yes-” George fumbled to share his screen, accidentally flipping to a tab titled “Is My Dog Dying???” He slammed the mouse, cheeks burning. “Technical hiccup. One sec-”

Blarrrgh

Sprocket lurched forward, heaving a neon-orange puddle into the bucket. The sound echoed through George’s tinny laptop mic.

Marjorie’s pixelated face froze mid-scowl. “What. Was. That.”

“Uh-” George muted himself, lunging to wipe Sprocket’s muzzle with a tea towel. “Espresso machine!” he barked, unmuting. “Faulty valve. Very… Italian.”

Alex’s face popped up in the corner, his grin wolfish.

“Espresso machine, sure. Tell Sprocket I said guarisci presto,” a private message pinged on George’s screen:

Alex: Mate, your hair looks like a seagull nest. Also, your “espresso machine” just yeeted something green.

George flipped off his camera, earning a snort from Priya, the team’s graphic designer.

“Focus, people!” Marjorie snapped. “George, slide twelve. The analytics. Explain them.”

George stared at his screen. Slide twelve was a placeholder titled INSERT MAGIC HERE.

“Right! The, uh… metrics!” he cleared his throat, adopting what he hoped was a ‘I definitely did this’ tone. “As you can see, the… synergistic engagement across Q2 platforms has, um, optimized the… conversion funnel.”

Alex: Synergistic engagement? Are you having a stroke?

Sprocket whimpered, crawling onto George’s lap. The camera caught the dog’s tail thumping against the keyboard.

“Russell-” Marjorie’s voice sharpened. “Why is there a paw on the screen?”

“Team-building exercise!” George croaked, shoving Sprocket aside. “Innovative… cross-departmental collaboration.”

“With the dog?” Priya snorted.

“He’s our… canine UX consultant.”

Alex: Promote him. He’s better at this than you.

George kicked the bucket under the desk. It tipped.

Splash.

“Oh god-” George muted again, diving to sop up viscous puddle water with his sleeve. Sprocket licked his ear apologetically. Marjorie’s voice cut through the chaos.

“Russell, are you drunk?”

“No! Just - passionate!” he unmuted, sweating through his shirt. “About… Henderson’s vision!”

A new message flashed:

Priya: Is your dog… glowing?

George glanced down. Sprocket’s vomit had stained his trousers a concerning shade of radioactive lime.

“Right!” George clapped, too loudly. “I’ll - circulate the revised deck by EOD. Gotta… fix this espresso machine!”

He slammed the laptop shut.

Silence. Then, from the couch:

Blurp.

George buried his face in his hands.

“You’re fired, Sprocket.”

And no matter how much he needed to scream in an empty room, twenty minutes later George’s Honda screeched into the pickup lane, Sprocket lolling in the passenger seat like a furry ragdoll. Daisy stood alone by the curb, her neon-pink backpack screaming preteen disdain. She folded her arms as George stumbled out, his shirt half-untucked, hair wild from frantic windshield-wiper hand-combing.

“You’re eighteen minutes late,” she announced, tapping her glitter-coated watch. “Mrs. Carter said next time, she’s reporting you to the ‘authorities’.”

“Authorities?” George wheezed, scooping Sprocket into his arms. The dog’s head lolled pathetically, drool pooling on George’s sleeve. “What, like MI5? Interpol?”

“Social authorities,” Daisy corrected, wrinkling her nose at Sprocket. “Is he… alive?”

“Debatable,” George muttered, shoving the car door shut with his hip. “C’mon, we’ve got piano at five, and I need to figure out what ‘vegan keto pesto’ even is-”

“Well, well. If it isn’t London’s Most Disastrous Uncle.”

Alex materialized beside them, his smirk as sharp as his tailored blazer. His nephew, Eli - a lanky 13-year-old with earbuds permanently fused to his skull - slouched behind him, eyes glued to his phone. Alex’s gaze flicked from George’s sweat-drenched forehead to Sprocket’s half-lidded eyes.

“Christ, mate. You look like you’ve been through a washing machine. And lost.”

“Your sympathy’s overwhelming,” George snapped, adjusting Sprocket’s sagging body. “Why are you here?”

“Uncle duties,” Alex said, jerking a thumb at Eli. “Mum’s off ‘finding herself’ in Bali. Again. But you? This is next-level,” he leaned in, faux-whispering to Daisy, “Has he always been this… frazzled?”

The girl nodded solemnly.

“He once forgot how to use a microwave.”

“Traitor,” George hissed, steering her toward the car.

A peal of laughter cut through the parking lot chaos.

George turned.

Lewis stood ten feet away, crouched to catch a girl as she barreled into his arms. She was all unruly dark curls and glittery sneakers, her giggles echoing as Lewis spun her in a circle before setting her down.

“Papa, stop - I’m not five!” she protested, though her grin betrayed her.

“Could’ve fooled me, Lilah,” Lewis teased, smoothing her flyaway hair. His tattoos peeked out from beneath rolled-up sleeves, ink against umber skin, as he slung her backpack over one shoulder. “C’mon, let’s beat traffic. Roscoe’s got a playdate with Mrs. Higgins’ poodle.”

Lilah groaned.

“He hates that poodle.”

“Hate’s a strong word. He’s… selectively social.”

Lewis straightened, his gaze drifting - then locking on George. A smirk curled his lips.

“Oh no,” George whispered.

“Oh yes,” Alex murmured, leaning in.

Lewis strode over, Lilah’s hand in his, his stride languid and confident. The afternoon sun caught the silver hoops in his ears, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his fitted Henley clung to his shoulders like it owed him money.

“Well. If it isn’t Sir Vomit-a-Lot.”

Daisy snorted. Alex’s eyebrows shot up.

“Lewis,” George hissed, cheeks burning. “It’s - it’s George. And this is not my normal-”

“Clearly,” Lewis strode over, Lilah in tow. His cologne hit George first - sandalwood and something citrus, sharp and stupidly expensive. “You’ve upgraded from vet emergencies to… babysitting?”

“Niece,” George corrected, too quickly. “Daisy. Daisy, this is… Lewis. From the vet. And his daughter-”

“Lilah!” the girl chirped, eyeing Sprocket. “Is your dog gonna die?”

“Lilah,” Lewis chided, though he was laughing. “Tact, baby.”

“He’s fine,” George said, shifting Sprocket higher. “Just a crayon-related existential crisis.”

Lewis’s laugh was warm, disarming.

“Parenting pro tip? Hide the art supplies,” he glanced at his watch - a sleek, silver thing that probably cost more than George’s car. “We’d better run. See you around, George.”

He guided Lilah toward a glossy black Porsche idling at the curb, its engine purring like a contented panther.

Alex whistled.

“That’s your vet guy? Bloody hell, he’s like a GQ cover stole a personality.”

George blinked.

“You know him?”

“Everyone knows Lewis. Richmond’s hottest divorcee,” Alex said, winking. “Works in finance, volunteers at the animal shelter, single-handedly fuels the school mums’ group chat and is the sole reason the PTA attendance tripled. Why? You into silver foxes?”

“He’s not silver-”

“Oh, he’s gold, mate. Solid 24-karat.” Alex clapped his shoulder.

“He’s just… a guy. With a dog. And a car that’s compensating for something,” George lied, shoving Daisy into the Honda. The girl peered over the seat.

“Uncle George? You’re all red.”

“Seatbelt,” George snapped, peeling out of the lot.

4:15 p.m. - George’s Kitchen

George stared at Cara’s text like it was a bomb threat.

NO DAIRY. NO GLUTEN. NO SOY LECITHIN. NO FUN.

“What even is soy lecithin?” he muttered, squinting at a tub of vegan pesto. Sprocket, now sprawled on the kitchen floor like a discarded rug, let out a groan that mirrored George’s internal scream. Daisy hovered at his elbow, skepticism etched into her 12-year-old soul.

“Mum usually makes zucchini noodles with cashew cheese,” she said, tapping her phone. “But you probably don’t know what cashews are.”

“I’m not medieval,” George snapped, dumping a bag of pre-spiralized veggie noodles into a pan. “Cashews are… those crunchy things that aren’t almonds.”

“Wow. Gordon Ramsay over here.”

The pesto sizzled ominously. George added a handful of cherry tomatoes, praying they’d mask the fact that the sauce smelled like lawn clippings. Sprocket lurched to his feet, sniffed the air, and promptly vomited into the fruit bowl.

“Classy,” Daisy said.

“You’re welcome,” George shot back, plating the dubious masterpiece. “Bon appétit.”

Daisy poked at her food.

“This looks like something Sprocket threw up.”

“He thinks it’s art.”

At 4:42 p.m. George white-knuckled the steering wheel, Sprocket panting in the backseat with a bucket wedged between his paws. Daisy fiddled with the radio, landing on a pop song that made George feel approximately 1,000 years old.

“Piano starts at 5:00 sharp,” she said. “Miss Pembroke hates latecomers. Hates them.”

“I’ll teleport us,” George deadpanned, swerving around a double-decker bus.

“You’re worse than Mum at driving.”

“Your mum rear-ended a tram.”

“At least she didn’t blame the dog.”

Sprocket burped. The Honda swerved.

5:07 p.m. - St. Cecilia’s School of Music

The lobby of St. Cecilia’s was a cathedral of quiet desperation. Mahogany panels drank in the dim glow of crystal chandeliers, their light pooling on plush velvet armchairs worn thin by anxious parents. George slumped in one, Sprocket sprawled at his feet like a discarded fur coat, still tinged faintly green. A toddler across the room pointed and stage-whispered, “Mummy, that dog looks sad.”

George’s phone buzzed.

Unknown Number: Surviving the vegan keto apocalypse?

He stared. The number wasn’t saved, but the smirk practically radiated through the screen. Lewis. Of course Alex had sold him out. He could picture his traitorous friend cackling over a pint, trading George’s digits for the sheer chaos of it.

George: Depends. Are you here to arrest me for pesto crimes?

Lewis: Only if you used soy lecithin.

George: I don’t even know what that is.

Lewis: Smart man.

George bit his lip, stifling a grin. The chandelier above him flickered, casting prismatic shadows over his screen.

Lewis: How’s the patient?

George: Alive. Regretful. You?

Lewis: Roscoe’s plotting a coup against Mrs. Higgins’ poodle. Standard Tuesday.

A ripple of laughter escaped George’s throat, sharp and sudden in the hushed lobby. An elderly woman knitting a scarf shaped like a treble clef shot him a glare. He mouthed sorry, cheeks flushing.

George: Why’d you text me?

The three dots pulsed. Stopped. Pulsed again.

Lewis: Thought you could use a distraction.

George: From the chaos?

Lewis: From the silence.

George’s shoulders loosened, the tension leaching out of him like air from a punctured balloon. Through the practice room window, Daisy’s piano piece swelled - Chopin’s Nocturne No. 2, all aching grace and clumsy adolescent fingers. For a moment, the lobby felt softer. Warmer.

George: Silence is overrated.

Lewis: So is sanity.

George: Solid, for a man texting a stranger about soy lecithin.

Lewis: Stranger? Harsh. I’ve seen your dog’s insides. We’re practically married.

George’s laugh burst out again before he could stifle it - a bright, startled sound that echoed off the vaulted ceilings. The piano moms swiveled, their judgmental gazes sharpening. Sprocket lifted his head, thumped his tail once, and passed gas loudly.

George: Now the whole lobby thinks I’m insane. Thanks.

Lewis: An improvement, then.

The stiffness eased, replaced by a giddy lightness. George slumped back, phone glowing in the dimming light.

6:15 p.m. - George’s car

Daisy slumped into the passenger seat with the dramatic flair of a Shakespearean heroine, her neon-pink backpack exploding with sheet music and half-eaten vegan keto snacks. The post-piano high had evaporated, leaving behind the stormy aura of preteen disillusionment.

“Miss Pembroke said I’m ‘technically proficient but emotionally stunted’,” she announced, scowling at her reflection in the car window. “What does that even mean?”

George buckled Sprocket - now a lethargic but less-green lump - into the backseat before sliding behind the wheel.

“It means you play Mozart like a robot,” he said, dodging her elbow as he started the engine. “And robots don’t get scholarships. Congrats.”

“You’re emotionally stunted,” Daisy shot back, folding her arms.

“Accurate. My therapist calls it ‘arrested development’,” George glanced in the rearview mirror, where Sprocket’s tail gave a half-hearted thump. “See? Even the dog agrees.”

The Honda Civic coughed to life, its exhaust pipe rattling like a dying chainsaw as they pulled onto the road. Daisy cranked the radio to a pop station, and George winced as a synth-heavy anthem about heartbreak and glitter erupted at full volume.

“This is worse than Sprocket’s vomiting,” he muttered.

“You’re just jealous because your music is all… sad man with a guitar,” Daisy said, rolling her eyes.

“Sad men with guitars built this country. Respect your elders, Dais,” George retorted, swerving around a pothole.

“Respect my playlist.”

7:02 p.m. - Driveway

Cara’s silver Mercedes careened into the driveway like a meteorite, screeching to a halt inches from George’s prized (and already-dented) recycling bins. She exploded from the driver’s seat, her usually pristine blonde curls resembling a bird’s nest, her mascara smudged into raccoon-chic shadows under her eyes.

“George! Thank you - Simon’s mum’s stable, but the drive back was hell - M25 traffic, a literal riot at the service station-”

“Mum!” Daisy launched herself at Cara, who staggered back under the force of the hug.

“Oh, darling, I’m so sorry-” Cara pressed a kiss to Daisy’s forehead, then glared at George over her shoulder. “Did he feed you gluten? Tell me he didn’t feed you gluten-”

“He tried,” Daisy said solemnly. “But the pesto fought back.”

George leaned against the Honda, arms crossed.

“Your daughter’s a food critic now. Review: ‘Two stars. Dog vomit added texture’.”

Cara straightened, guilt and exhaustion warring on her face. She dug into her designer tote - stuffed with emergency dental floss, hand sanitizer, and what looked like a taser - and thrust a crumpled £50 note at George.

“Wine. Spa day. Anything. You’re a saint.”

George eyed the money.

“I’ll settle for a coma. Or a medal. ‘Survived 12 Hours of Russell Family Chaos’.”

“I’ll commission a plaque,” Cara said, herding Daisy toward the Mercedes. “Dais, love, grab your cello - no, not the backpack, the cello’s in the - George, why is there kale in your front seat?”

“It’s a garnish. For the trauma.”

Cara paused, softening.

“…Thank you. Really.”

George shrugged, suddenly self-conscious.

“It’s what uncles are for. Besides, Sprocket did most of the work.”

As if on cue, the spaniel waddled over, tail wagging in slow motion, his fur 80% less radioactive. Daisy knelt to scratch his ears.

“Bye, Sprocket. Try not to eat any more art supplies.”

“No promises,” George said.

Cara buckled Daisy into the Mercedes, then turned back, lowering her voice.

“Simon’s mum asked about you. She’s got a niece - 27, marine biologist, loves dogs-”

“Cara.”

“What? You’re ‘emotionally stunted,’ not dead!”

“Out. Out.”

The house exhaled. Quiet seeped into the corners, broken only by Sprocket’s snores and the hum of the refrigerator. George slumped onto the couch, phone in hand, the glow of the screen cutting through the dimness.

George: Duty’s done. Daisy’s back with Cara. I’m officially a free man.

Lewis: Define ‘free’.

The phone buzzed before George could type a reply - Lewis Hamilton flashed on the screen. George’s thumb hovered, pulse quickening. He hit answer.

“Free,” Lewis’s voice purred through the speaker, smooth and warm as aged whiskey. “Sounds like a myth invented by people who’ve never babysat.”

George laughed, tension unwinding.

“Free means a bath, bed, and whatever trash TV hasn’t been canceled yet.”

“Trash TV?” Lewis clucked his tongue. “That’s how you reward surviving the day? You deserve better, George.”

“Oh yeah? What’s your idea of ‘better’?”

“The Black Hart. Eight p.m.. Let me buy you a drink.”

George hesitated. The Black Hart was all dark wood and dim lighting, the kind of place where conversations lingered and secrets spilled, a place where Lewis would own the room by breathing.

“I’m covered in dog drool and existential dread. Not exactly pub-ready.”

“Shower, then,” Lewis said, the words deliberate, slow. “I’ll wait.”

There it was - that molten caramel tone, simmering with a confidence that made George’s spine tingle. He exhaled.

“One drink. And you’re buying.”

“Deal.”

The shower scalded away the day’s chaos, steam curling around the bathroom as George scrubbed until his skin pinked. He toweled off, staring at his closet like it held the answers to life’s mysteries.

Alex: So. You letting Lewis wine-and-dine you yet?

George rolled his eyes.

George: You gave him my number. Judas.

Alex: You’re welcome. Wear the black lace.

George: Not happening.

Alex: Coward.

George smirked, bypassing his usual rotation of sensible jumpers and pressed shirts. At the back of the closet hung a slate-gray cashmere sweater - oversized, butter-soft, with a collar loose enough to slip off one shoulder. His boss had banned it after he’d worn it to a client meeting last winter (“You look like you’ve given up, Russell”). Paired with charcoal slacks that clung just right, it was a quiet rebellion.

Alex: Breaking News: Lewis just posted a black-tie pic that’s basically a UNESCO World Heritage Site for Hotness. You’re bringing a water pistol to a volcano.

George: Good thing I’m not here to extinguish anything.

Alex: Today.

#gewis #gewis fic #george russell #lewis hamilton #alex albon #f1

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