Yeah, I like Monza. More than Monte Carlo? Maybe. Weather's a bit temperamental and the taxes are ridiculous, but the food's better and-
Shit, there're the Red Bulls. Faster, come on. Gentle on the tires, don't want a third.
"Easy on the tires, George, coming in for another pit stop will throw it away," the engineer's voice crackles through the ear piece and George smirks.
I shouldn't like the G force as much as I do.
"Roger that," he replies and he's not entirely sure why he's chosen this moment to remember all those blasted war films Anthony would watch on a Sunday afternoon, lying on the sofa with a mug of tea in one hand and a plate of biscuits balancing on his stomach. Now he's got a ridiculous image in his head of himself flying a Spitfire in dogfights and freewheeling and heroically delivering the smoking plane back to base while being chased by-
No, focus. Come on. La Curva di Lesmos. Slow down a little, don't bloody let the Ferrari pass. Curva di Lesmos. Curva. Curva. God that sounds almost sexy. No. No.
The Ferrari overtakes on a late apex, comes zooming past in a blur of red bodywork and Italian gloss. Bemused and confused, George blinks, doesn't hear whatever Martin is screaming himself hoarse about down his earphone. Somewhere, there are race commentators yelling into microphones, gesturing to audiences back home; punters slashing odds and suffocating under gamblers wanting to place bets or change bets. George sees the track as the embodiment of equations for apexes and acceleration; sees the steering wheel buttons, gauges and dials; the road stretching out ahead of him and the bastard who's going to be taking his Championship. He hears hot rubber screeching over tarmac, acceleration rushes and breaking screeches, static crackles over the ear piece.
Pounding blood echoes in his head but he's so nearly there.
So.
Bloody.
Close.
"Don't fail us now, kid! And don't bloody well ignore me next time," Martin's shouting and grumbling intermittently, and George chuckles.
Nearly there. Come on, Crawley. Jesus Christ, get in there!
And then there's clear space between him and the Ferrari, greying tarmac with running tyre treads before the chequered flag waves and everything erupts. The next few minutes pass bizarrely, the world oddly muted one minute and then uncomfortably loud the next; swarming crowds who all want to be with him, touch him, celebrate and cheer with him as he clambers none too gracefully out of his baby, his pride and joy.
He's so drenched in sweat that he feels dry and one he's removed his helmet, the Italian breeze laps gently at his hairline. Cameras are shoved in his face, lenses glaring in the sunlight and shutters popping obnoxiously, but he's looking for one face among the hundreds. One brown head.
Where are you? Come on, where are you?
Then she's there, brown hair flying as she rushes towards him, the pride in her eyes almost unbearable.
"Georgie," she squeals as they embrace, despite his sodden kit and the steering wheel held precariously in one hand, and there isn't much more than she can say before she's awash with tears. He isn't much better.
"You did it," she chokes out, "you bloody well did it.
Not long after, when the hysteria has settled a little and he's been doused with champagne, rather than sweat, the cameras are back.
"George, in your second season, you're the youngest F1 Champion in history. How does that feel?" All the questions are variations on that theme but the BBC sneaks in first and the other reporters look put-out as they wait for a second-hand answer.
"Um," his usual coherency and eloquence have vanished when he needs them most, and he's left bereft on the winner's podium, empty champagne bottle in one hand and the other working its way through his limp hair. The crowds look on expectantly; two brown eyes find his, will him on. He swallows and starts again. "It's- it's unbelievable. Beyond words, wholly beyond words. It's absolutely incredible, I don't know when- or if- it'll sink in."
The photographic onslaught continues and another question sneaks through the shouts. "How will you celebrate?" It's Sky Sports, he vaguely recognises the reporter.
He laughs, holds the champagne bottle aloft. "A little more of this, I should think." Everyone laughs with him; she rolls his eyes at him and he smirks.
"The girl with you earlier. That your girlfriend?" He doesn't recognise the reporter but he recognises Sybbie's sneer. "No," he smiles, "she's far too good for me." He leaves it at that, lets them fathom that puzzle.
"Have your family been supportive?" Eurosport and this one leaves a sinking feeling in his stomach. He waits a fraction too long to respond and low murmurs break out in the crowd. Sybbie's gaze is mournful now and his mind is now full of seething arguments that left them both in tears, of Uncle Tom's interventions and Anthony's placations. Of karting and then F3 races when he stood waiting in the rain for someone- anyone- to come and take him home because she wouldn't. Of cold Christmas cards and a draughty flat with absurdly high rent, but one that let him be near the team base.
"I will not have you doing this! Use some common sense and just think, George. You honestly expect me to accept this? That this is what you want to do with your life? For God's sake, you are the Earl of Grantham and aside from that, you bloody well know why I won't let you do this."
"Let me? I'm 20, I'll do this if I want to and your opinion be damned. What is it you always say, we're stuck with the choices we make? You've made your choices and they screwed you over. I'm making mine and I've no intention of spending the next 10 years wishing that I'd gone ahead and done this. You can't see the wood for the trees and you can't see that I'm not Dad."
In the ensuing silence, he thinks of Arctic winds that brush against ice and bring a swift death; he decides this must be worse, must be colder and more dangerous. She stands in front of him, flushed from arguing and her eyes glinting dangerously. The peripheral vision that he's worked so hard to improve tells him Anthony's shifting towards her; that Tom's slap bang in the middle of them and Sybbie is walking to stand behind him. As always.
"Fine," she says but it's not a word of surrender. It's a battle standard being raised, a battle cry issuing forth. "I'm not going to tell you to leave your own house but I don't want to see you."
He leaves swiftly and signs his name on the contract's dotted line the next morning.
He's jolted back to the present, aware that he's been out for too long. "My family," he starts, not entirely sure how to continue. "I'm sure my family have followed today's race." There's a bitter taste in his mouth that has nothing to do with energy bars or champagne.
The barrage continues but finally (thank God), the questions are over and the celebrations continue. He moves off from the enclosure and brings the crowd, too, as Sybbie elbows her way to the front to walk in step with him. As he disappears inside, his peripheral vision tells him there's a dark haired woman still standing in the enclosure, but the space is deserted when he turns around to look and he's not surprised.
A/N: because, in my headcanon, George is quite clearly an F1 driver (for McLaren, Martin Whitmarsh is their current Team Principal) and Mary, for obvious reasons, isn't too keen on that particular career path.