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When Oscar practically burst into Lewis’ Driver’s Room in Las Vegas between the cancelled FP1 session and the delayed FP2 session, Lewis thought he could be forgiven (or at very least understood) for assuming there was some kind of emergency.
Also, the older driver had been half asleep, George slumped comfortably against one shoulder, so he could admit that maybe he wasn’t at his most logical when Oscar appeared, facial expression just as wild as the untamed waves atop his head.
“Oscar?!” Lewis jolted up, alarmed. The movement, of course, dislodged a still sleeping George, who grumbled moodily.
“Thanksgiving!” was all the McLaren rookie blurted, somewhat nonsensically.
“The fuck are you on about, mate?” George grumbled, cracking one eye open from where he was – unsuccessfully – trying to burrow back into Lewis’ shoulder.
“Language,” Lewis chided, automatic.
Meanwhile, Oscar had started pacing around the limited space in Lewis’ Driver’s Room, looking more agitated than the older driver had seen him in a long time.
“Logan was filming some kind of media thing – for William’s – about Thanksgiving,” Oscar began explaining, gesturing wildly – not unlike Max, Lewis noted with wry amusement – as he spoke.
Which – okay, Lewis wasn’t unaware of Thanksgiving. He’d even celebrated it a few times himself, when he’d been in the United States during the holiday. It was quite the affair, but Lewis would also be lying if he said he put much thought into its existence outside of coincidence.
So, he wasn’t quite sure what had gotten Oscar all worked up, but he had an inkling of an idea.
George, apparently, did not.
“Seriously, get on with it, mate,” George grumbled, earning himself a whack in the head from Lewis. As the younger man opened his mouth to object, Lewis fixed him with a glare, before turning his attention back to a still frantic Oscar Piastri.
“And he said it’s his favourite but that he hardly ever gets to spend it at home because he’s always racing!” Oscar continued. “He tried to laugh it off, but he’s a terrible liar, you know? And he’s tired –”
“I can sympathize,” George interjected irritably.
“– so, he’s even worse at faking it, you know?” Oscar finished.
Lewis slapped his hand of George’s mouth before he could comment on that bit, ignoring the disgruntled muttering against his palm in favour of focusing on the Australian rookie looking at him like he expected Lewis to have the answer to a problem he hadn’t even really clarified.
“What do you want to do about that?” Lewis asked carefully.
“I was thinking–”
“Wasn’t aware you would do that,” George blurted out, having peeled Lewis’ hand off his mouth just to be even more of a brat.
He was wide awake now though, and Lewis could see that glint in his eye.
“Shut up, George,” Oscar responded blithely. “Anyways, I thought that – and I don’t know if it would work – but maybe we could – and it doesn’t have to be everyone – maybe we could organize a Thanksgiving dinner? In Abu Dhabi?”
Yeah, George definitely had that look in his eyes now. Whether or not Lewis wanted to organized an entire Thanksgiving dinner was entirely beyond the point now – George had caught wind of the potential to organize something, and that was the end of that.
“I’ll send out a message now,” George said. “Lewis, can you grab my laptop from my Driver’s Room? I’ll need it to organize who’s in charge of what… Maybe a spreadsheet?”
“Don’t include Logan,” Oscar piped up, dropping down in the non-existent space between Lewis and George to peer at the Brit’s phone. “We can surprise him!”
George hummed in agreement, already tapping away on WhatsApp. Lewis watched with mild fascination, a small smile on his face watching the pair interact so seamlessly.
“My laptop, Lewis,” George whined, not bothering to look up from the message he and Oscar were drafting on his phone.
Lewis sighed before dragging himself off the couch and out of his own damn room to go hunt down George Russell’s laptop in the middle of the damn night in Las-fucking-Vegas.
The things he did for these kids.
Honestly.
─ ─ ─
True to his word, by the time the entire grid – even Checo, Kevin, and Nico – were piling into Lando’s extravagant suite at the Hilton after a busy Thursday of media commitments, George had organized a true, American Thanksgiving.
Or, as close to a true, American Thanksgiving as a group of 19 non-Americans could manage, while living out of their luggage in Abu Dhabi.
The original plan had been to find a way to get one of the team’s Hospitality teams – or else the Hilton’s probably extensive kitchen – to prepare the required, “traditional” American Thanksgiving spread. Until Lance had, quite adamantly, insisted that a critical part of Thanksgiving was the homemade nature of the whole thing.
And while Lance wasn’t American, he was Canadian, so the general agreement was that he had a better idea of what was expected than most of them, by virtue of being American-adjacent.
Or something.
George and Lewis were the first to arrive, the prior bursting into Lando’s suite without bothering to knock, a borrowed (or, more likely, pilfered) key card gaining him entry without the suite’s inhabitant’s express permission.
Lewis propped the door open behind them, quite certain he’d heard at least a couple fellow grid members bickering as the door to the lift they’d taken closed.
They wouldn’t be far behind.
Indeed, Lewis has barely finished putting the pies and Almave in the fridge when he heard the commotion that was the French – and their adjacent – arriving, arguing loudly and without reserve in their native language, in a way that Lewis had only every heard Pierre, Esteban, and Charles do.
Lewis also didn’t need to actually speak French to know that every other word currently coming out of their mouths were filthy, vicious curses.
“Hey!” Lewis barked. “Watch your language!”
All his efforts got him were grumbled protests – until Charles crashed into him, expression entirely mischievous as he simpered up at Lewis, voice pitched just loud enough to carry.
“Yes, of course, we must not swear in front of the child, yes?”
Across the room, Lando squawked in indignation before launching himself at Charles, leaving Lewis to juggle the pair while Pierre deposited a concerningly large bottle of champagne on the countertop. Esteban, meanwhile, had begun unpacking what appeared to be everything needed to construct a surprisingly elaborate charcuterie board. Unsurprisingly, Charles did not seem to have passed off the pie he’d been assigned to bring before antagonizing their host.
Lewis was glad he’d thought to order a few pies ahead of time.
Yuki, Daniel, Max, and Checo were next to arrive, barely dodging the still-wrestling pair as they carried their own offerings over the to kitchenette. Daniel was helping Yuki with the turkey, Checo following close behind with that looked to be both his assigned dish – mac and cheese – and Daniel’s – yams with marshmallows (the Australian had volunteered for that one, delighted by the concept of the dish). Max brought up the rear of their little quartet, the paper plates he’d been assigned in one hand, and –
“Did you bring Charles’ pie?” Lewis asked, quizzically.
“He forgot it,” Max explained simply. As if it was totally normal for Max to have noticed that Charles forgot his assigned pie, when they drove for different teams, worked in different motorhomes, rode in different cars, and stayed in separate hotel rooms.
Thankfully, the sight of the pie finally distracted Charles from his tussle with Lando, a huge smile breaking out on the Monegasque’s face when he saw the Dutchman.
“My apple pie!”
Fernando and Lance were the next through the door, the prior juggling an absolutely absurd floral arrangement, while the younger Aston Martin driver was merely clutching what looked to be homemade cranberry sauce to his chest.
The pair were closely followed by Alex, Ghanyu, and Valtteri, the latter ushering the pair in ahead of him like he was actually herding small children, a six-pack of beer in each hand. Alex had a container that hopefully contained the mashed potatoes he’d been assigned to make, while Zhou was carrying several absurdly large bags of what looked to be various types of bread.
“Lewis, why is your fake alcohol in my fridge?” Lando demanded from where he and the majority of the grid – barring the latest arrivals – were inspecting the contents of the fridge.
“It’s Thursday,” Lewis reasoned. “We have Free Practice tomorrow, we can’t get drunk!”
Max scoffed, reaching over Lando to pull out the –
“Who on earth brought Pink Whitney?” Max wondered aloud as he inspected the very pink liquor bottle.
“It is very pink,” Pierre agreed.
“Why is there more than one?” Charles asked curiously as he pulled out another bright pink bottle.
“I’m not drinking that,” George sniffed, clearly affronted.
“It is okay – I brought beer!” Valtteri offered, holding up the pair of six-packs that Lewis had spotted earlier. Honestly, Lewis really was the only responsible adult here, except for maybe –
One glance towards where Fernando was carefully arranging his flowers at the table had Lewis sighing and abandoning that train of thought.
Indeed, by the time Carlos, Kevin, and Nico arrived, Lewis had completely given up trying to control the situation. The trio walked in just as most of the gathered members took shots of the afore-mentioned pink liquor – the unwilling participants carefully sipping beers instead as they watched on in mock-horror.
“They know they have to drive tomorrow, yes?” Kevin asked curiously as he sidled up next to Lewis, Nico settling in on the Brit’s other side, while Carlos simply abandoned what appeared to be a very elaborate salad on what little empty counter space remained before demanding a shot of his own, much to Lando’s delight.
“Mate, I tried,” Lewis sighed.
“Lando, where are the cups?” George asked, clearly looking for something to pour his beer into – never mind that Valtteri and Checo were happily consuming their own beverages right from the cans.
“There are shot glasses,” Lando hiccupped, a giggle sneaking out along with the sound. “And bowls!”
“I literally gave you one job,” George stated, rounding threateningly on the younger Brit.
“And it was rude!” Lando pointed out. “And, and, and – Charles, what was the word you said?”
“Demeaning,” Charles responded primly, as if he wasn’t currently pouring his teammate a bright pink shot of Pink Whitney.
Which, honestly, Lewis was pretty impressed that Charles had come up with that; the Monegasque had a pretty good grasp of English, but his vocabulary was still relatively limited, and definitely more racing-focused than anything else, but –
“You little shit!” George yelped, throwing himself across the group at Lando.
Which was the only explanation for why Lewis simply didn’t notice when Oscar and Logan walked into Logan’s surprise Thanksgiving dinner to the sight of several members of the grid fully wrestling on the floor of Lando’s very fancy, very expensive, Hilton suite, screeching like absolute demons as they rolled around at Lewis, Kevin, and Nico’s feet.
“Are they always like this?” Nico asked drily.
“Oi, enough!” Lewis barked before diving into the fray. Thankfully – albeit unexpectedly – Nico, Kevin, Sergio, and Fernando joined him, pulling apart the brawling boys, despite the way Daniel, Carlos, Alex, and Valtteri were goading them on.
“Enough, I said!” Lewis growled once they’d manage to successfully peel Pierre, Esteban, Charles, Max, George, Lando, and – inexplicably – Yuki apart. He pointedly ignored the way Yuki growled – growled – at Esteban before scurrying back to Pierre’s side, looking about as menacing as a disgruntled puppy at the Frenchman’s side. “You’re supposed to be preparing Thanksgiving as a surprise for Logan, not brawling on the floor like wild animals!”
Just then, a wild, cackling laugh broke out from behind Lewis, and he turned to see Logan clutching Oscar’s should as he laughed wildly, sporting the biggest smile Lewis had ever seen on the American’s face.
At his side, Oscar looked as bewildered as Lewis felt.
“It’s perfect,” Logan explained between gasping laughs. “Just like Thanksgiving at home.”
“I brough green beans,” Nico said into the resulting silence, holding out a container of –
“Are those uncooked green beans?”
“I told you they were supposed to be cooked,” Kevin pointed out smugly.
“No one said – they are fine like this, yes?” Nico explained, before turning a vicious eye to Kevin’s own offering. “And you are one to talk – all you have brought is vanilla ice cream!”
“It is Laura’s favourite!”
Lewis sighed, abandoning the bickering Haas drivers in favour of pulling Oscar and Logan into a welcome hug. Both returned the sentiment without reserve, though Logna didn’t stay long, pulling back to peer curiously over Lewis’ shoulder at the crowded countertops and bustling kitchen.
“This is all… for me?”
“Of course,” Lewis responded simply. “Oscar noticed that you were feeling sad about missing Thanksgiving with your family again, and wanted to do something about it.”
Logan pulled Oscar away from Lewis into a hug of their own, voice muffled as he clung to his fellow rookie.
“But how? I’m just – we’re just rookies,” Logan asked.
“Rookies or not, you’re part of the grid, and that makes you family,” Lewis pointed out.
It had taken him a long time to realize that – and even longer to accept his own role in this new, caring grid dynamic. It was so different from the grid he’d first joined – so different from what he’d experience before… But Lewis wouldn’t change it for the world.
The grid had become a family – his family – and Lewis was damn thankful for it.
Even if his supposed Grid Kids were absolute menaces most of the time.
“Yuki, do not bite Esteban!”