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milflewis · 2 days

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ok but mob au

“You really didn’t know who I work for?”

When Yuki found out that Pierre’s boss is the Sebastian Vettel, the Lion of Singapore, and the unofficial heir to Schumacher & Co., he had only raised his eyebrows. Pierre took that to mean he had already figured it out.

Yuki blinks at him. “No.”

“But.” Pierre frowns. “Why did you — I always have so many knives on me! Is this not weird to you?” He gestures at his jacket which hangs open, showing four different perfectly sharpened blades tucked into the lining.

Yuki shrugs. “You are French, yes? You like to cut things. Like cheese.”

Pierre mouths wordlessly. Cheese.

“Anyway,” Yuki adds. “You are weird, so. This would not be weird.”

The first time Sebastian meets Lewis, his runners are wet with Michael’s blood and Lewis’s hands are pressing his head into the glass door. His face aches, nose throbbing.

“Can I help you?” he says, or tries to say. It comes out vaguely smushed.

He pushes back a little just to see. Lewis lets him move half an inch before shoving him back.

“Jesus, Hamilton,” Sebastian hears Michael say. His voice cracks roughly. Sebastian nearly cried when the doctor told him Michael survived the surgery, that they got all the bullets out and he was in recovery. He swallows thickly, as the relief makes him all dizzy even now. “I know you got out today but c’mon, let him go. This is Sebastian — I talked about him.”

The hands on Sebastian’s neck disappear and he’s rubbing at his jaw when he turns around. “Ow,” Seabastian tells Michael. His cheeks are pale and his chest is wrapped in white bandages but his eyes are alert and he is grinning.

“Sebastian, this is Lewis Hamilton. Lewis, Sebastian Vettel. Mika says we are all friends here.”

He pats Mika’s ankle that is propped up on the bed beside his hip. Mika’s eyes stay closed, arms folded in his chair, chin on his chest. There are dark bruises under his eyes under now.

“Right. If Mika says so.”

Lewis steps back towards Michael’s bed, grabbing the duffle bag from where it was leaning against the wall. Sebastian looks at his bare arms, the tattoos that go all the way down to his fingers, the rings there. His jeans sit low on his hips. He needs a shave. Sebastian recognises him from his mugshot, even of his hair is longer now and his face is more lined.

They hadn’t had the time to arrange for Michael to share a cell with someone affiliated with them, and when they had got in contact with him, a week later, he had settled in well enough with his cell mate. By Michael standards at least.

Does not talk much, Michael had told Sebastian over the phone. Likes his fucking singing though. Stares at the picture of his dog. Do you think he is lonely?

When Sebastian had brought it up with Mika, the best person for this kind of thing when Corinna is away, Mika had only shrugged, and told him that he doesn’t think it is just Hamilton that is lonely, and that of fucking course anyone who could survive nine weeks in solitary with just Fernando Alonso as company in the next cell over is someone that Michael would find interesting.

Sebastian looks away from the breadth of Lewis’s shoulders in his white tank and pulls a face at Michael’s waggling eyebrows.

“How old do you think I am?” Jenson asks, as Alex adjusts his long-rifle until it sits comfortably against his shoulder, supported by the flat roof they are lying on.

Alex doesn’t answer, because he knows exactly how old Jenson is, and the fact that people continue to tell Jenson to his face that he looks ten years older than his actual age will never stop being funny.

“Ollie, how old do you think I am?” Jenson calls.

“Jen, leave the kid alone,” Alex says. “You could dye your hair.”

“Do I look like a man who would dye his hair solely to stave off questions about his age?”

“Yes,” Alex sweeps the street below them, marking the buildings bracketing the shop they are surveilling. “Ollie, how are you doing over there?”

He can hear him scramble around for a second before a burst of static. “Radio ready for orders, sir.”

Alex grimaces, still not used to that, as Jenson only laughs beside him.

“Michael? We got him.” Eddie leans back against the closed door.

Michael hums, closing his leather notebook. He leaves his fountain pen tucked into the middle so he remembers what month of intakes he was going over.

“Send him in.”

The kid’s hair is long and dirty, falling into his eyes and around his ears. His knees are all busted up under his baggy shorts. His face is drawn and thin, and he is glaring at Michael, jaw clenched.

He goes all pale when he sees who sits in front of him. Seems like he didn’t know whose car it was.

“Jesus,” Michael says. “You’re tiny, how did you reach the pedals?”

This morning, the kid — Sebastian Vettel, Michael had asked around — had hot wired Michael’s car in under two minutes and driven away. Michael had watched from the restaurant’s window, amused and impressed.

Mika had been decidedly less so when Michael told him, ten minutes later, that they were going to have to order a cab.

“I’m not that short!” The glare intensifies. His eyes are kind of freaky, Michael thinks. Very big and bright.

Michael holds out a hand, level with his chest, and squints. He lowers it considerably. Sebastian looks like he wants to bite it.

“Of course not,” Michael tells him soothingly. Eddie gives him a reproachful look. Michael holds back his eyeroll but takes his hand out of reach of Sebastian’s mouth.

“I have a job for you,” Michael says, watching Sebastian’s eyes sharpen. He smiles thinly. “If you’re up for it.”

“A job. For me? What kind of job?” Sebastian tilts his head to the side, making his eyes wide. His curls tumble across his forehead. The whole effect is rather sweet, Michael considers, delighted. This will be interesting.

Mika has been nagging at Michael to stop picking up strays but he thinks he will agree with Michael on this one.

Michael stretches out his back, legs interlocked at the ankles, until something clicks along his spine. He exhales slowly, sinking back into the shitty mattress.

They called for lights out fifteen minutes ago. Lewis is still in the bunk above him. Michael looks at the scratches across the metal rods. He had a good workout today, no interruptions, and his arms are nicely sore.

Seventeen minutes.

Lewis moves in his bed, rolling over to the right and for a moment, Michael thinks he will roll right off the edge, but then he is swinging down, silent. Michael holds himself very still.

"I am not interested in fucking."

"Yeah," Lewis says. "I heard."

Michael swallows. The sharpened edge of Lewis's plastic spoon presses into his throat. Lewis is dense and solidly heavy, knees on either side of his hips, one foot digging into his knee.

Michael has seen him fight. In an enclosed space like this, and unarmed, he isn't sure who would come out the better. His fingers itch with excitement.

"I found the picture you left," Lewis says quietly. The spoon doesn't move an inch. His eyes gleam in the dark like an animal.

"Okay," Michael says, not bothering to pretend not to know what he is talking about.

Lewis was fine this morning. He hummed to himself the entire way to breakfast, and he spotted Michael in the gym without even being asked. It wasn't until after dinner that he went all weird and still in himself.

Lewis presses down, just a little. Michael raises an eyebrow.

"Is he alive?" Lewis asks like he doesn't want to show his hand but is doing so anyway. His mouth trembles at the corners. Michael frowns at him. He has seen Lewis hustle in the yard at card games enough times to know that his poker face is better than this.

"Is he."

Oh. Jesus.

Michael laughs. It is too loud of a sound for where they are. He laughs anyway.

"You have issues," he tells Lewis, who only sends him a cutting look.

"That was supposed to make you feel better! Stop crying and all. You miss him, yes? Thought I could help."

Lewis stares at him. Blinks those animal eyes.

Michael makes a frustrated sound in the back of his mouth. He misses Mika. He never has to talk when Mika is around.

"He is being taken care of in that shelter you put him in. I had my people check. I was being nice! Friendly too!"

"We're friends," Lewis says slowly as if he expects Michael to say no.

"Obviously. You are being ridiculous," Michael says. "You think I would kill a dog? No!" He is a little hurt.

"You are the chief suspect in fifteen open murders," Lewis says, flat.

"Not of dogs!"

Lewis looks at him for a long moment before rolling his eyes. "How are you still alive, man? For real? I thought it was a threat."

He pushes off Michael and pulls himself up onto the top bunk, as silent as he climbed down at the start.

"No one else would see this as a bad thing."

He can hear Lewis roll his eyes.

"Literally every other person here would think you were sending a message. And not a good one."

"I was being nice!"

There is a clang of metal against metal, and their cell bars rattle. "Oi! You two! Shut the fuck up. Save the fighting or fucking for the morning."

"Gross, man," Lewis says, and Michael kicks at the underside of his bunk. "You are gross."

Maybe Mika was right when he said that Lewis might not take his generosity in the way he wanted it, Michael considers. He decides not to tell him. He would be too smug if he did.

He palms the sharpened spoon that Lewis had held to his neck and left on his pillow, beside his cheek. It is small and narrow. Michael presses his thumb against the slice, feeling it. He smiles, and tucks it under his sheet. He had needed a new one.

+1.

Sebastian had been small when Michael met him. All eyes and bony knees and dirty hair.

Then he opened up his mouth and his personality crawled out.

Michael has never looked back.

#listen. i entertain myself #sewis #yukierre #makkinen #five head cannon ask game #kyle tag #niamh.asks

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