Chapter Text
“Hey, mail came for you, numbnuts,” said Chris, smacking Xander on the back of the head.
Xander scowled, and promptly lost the fucking race, his koopa trooper spinning madly out into the vastness of outer space. “Fucking- stop fucking doin’ that!” he bellowed.
“Never,” Chris Jr. promised him, shooting him with a single finger gun.
“Junior,” said Uncle Chris, the mild censure in his tone making Xander grit his teeth.
If he went around slapping people upside the head, people’d have a lot more to say about than a mild Junior, that was for damn sure!
“Go get the mail,” said Uncle Chris, not looking up from the engine he was working on. “Rob, hand me the- yeah. Yup, that’s- and the- okay, okay, hold it riiiiight-”
Xander considered whether everyone was actually paying attention, scanning the room.
Standing across from Uncle Chris, Rob’s eyes narrowed at him thoughtfully.
Fuck’s sake.
He couldn’t get away with anything, much less smacking people upside the head and making them lose an entire round!
He rolled his eyes for Rob’s benefit, and hauled himself to his feet.
He’d grab a beer on his way back.
No one would care, much.
It was a Friday afternoon, they’d all be drinking after dinner, anyway.
He’d snuck more than one beer more than one time.
“Hey,” said Uncle Sam, gruff. “Grab me a beer from the fridge on your way back, sport.”
“Yeah, sure,” agreed Xander, sliding into his thermal flannel and jean jacket and adjusting his cap on his head. It was a relief to escape the winter in the Netherlands by coming home during the season break, but it was still chilly enough outside to want wind protection.
“Me too,” called Frankie.
“Yup,” said Xander.
“And me,” called Chris Jr., threading his voice with just a bit of his dominance like an asshole.
“Fuck you,” replied Xander cheerfully, as he let the screen door to the yard slam shut behind him.
Being the only sub out in the garage had its fucking low spots.
He trudged his way to the big house, aware of the pressure building in his head and chest.
It was one thing, being over in Europe with the F2 team, with his people, having to go over someone’s knee because he was getting snappy or just felt like fighting.
It was another thing entirely to be back home for a break, and facing the same fucking thing with his oh-so-helpful cousins like Chris Jr. just aching to dust his pants for him.
Like Chris wasn’t two years younger than him!
Just ‘cause he came into his dominance and he was family, didn’t mean he had a right to fucking push Xander’s buttons, make him explode, earn himself-
“Hi, baby,” cooed Auntie Maryanne, turning away from the stove and patting her hair. “You look all bundled up- I told Chris to put those floor heaters on!”
“Hi,” greeted Xander, aware it was too short for the sweetheart woman, but unable to let go of the cloud her son had put over his head.
“Aww, they riling you up, hon?” she said with syrupy sweetness. “You need me to go out and tell ‘em to stop?”
“They’re just- you know, being assholes,” Xander reported, ducking his head and feeling his cheeks burst into embarrassed flame as he hung his jacket on the long line of hooks beside the door.
Wasn’t his fault he had pale skin that showed every fucking emotion, was it?
Grandaddy Todd had called it an early-warning system, reached for his belt every time it’d gone red, he said.
“Well, know you don’t mind it,” she said with the same slight hesitation she always gave, tilting her head like she was hoping he’d finally declare the last decade had been some elaborate prank and no, sirree, he actually wasn’t a brat!
Xander snorted, shifting his weight on the cracked linoleum floor of the kitchen and feeling trapped by her attention. He’d had “don’t be rude to the womenfolk” directly drilled into his ass too many times to just walk away from the woman, much as he didn’t want to be there and have her sympathy rub like salt on his already raw temper.
“Still,” she said, a warm smile blooming, “if it’s one of my boys pressing your buttons on purpose, you just let me know. Surprised my Chris hasn’t told ‘em to stop!”
“Well, engine rebuild on the derby car,” offered Xander awkwardly, shrugging. “He’s busy.”
“Is that what he’s doing?” she said with mild surprise, her eyes glancing at the window to the yard and back again. “Well, good for him, I guess. You boys and your cars.”
“Uh, yeah,” agreed Xander, shrugging again. “Junior said there was mail that came for me?”
“Oh, yes!” she said, brightening, walking to the hall and digging through the pile of papers on the little table. “Where- here, here it is! All the way from England, would you believe it?”
Xander spent 354 days a year in Europe, so, yeah, he could believe some of his mail would come from England, he sure could believe that, but he wasn’t gonna let her get cut with the words that leapt to his tongue.
Auntie Maryanne was a sweetheart of a sub. It was easy to see why Uncle Chris had married her, back in the day. She was the picture-perfect partner, always eager to find ways to make Uncle Chris happy, always keeping him in mind and trying to anticipate his needs.
She didn’t deserve the vitriol Xander was feeling today, the buzzing feeling under his skin that he was back home but he wasn’t feeling very at home around the place.
The whole place just felt different without Grandaddy’s looming presence everywhere.
She handed him the envelope, and he stared at the return label in shock.
“Everything okay?” she asked, stepping in closer.
“Y-yeah,” he said, swallowing hard. “Just… it’s Mercedes, that’s all.”
“Mercedes,” she repeated, drawling the word out until it had about ten syllables.
Mercedes.
Why in the hell would Mercedes be sending him mail?
He tore into it, and then stared in disbelief.
“Honey, is it okay? You in some kind of trouble?” she asked quietly, tilting her head to try to peer at the wording.
Xander snorted.
Despite what everyone in the family thought about how he couldn’t keep his ass in line without them smacking it there, he wasn’t in anything like any kind of trouble.
They heard the worst of the news stories, and yeah, he’d got himself in a scrape or two in the Netherlands, but his team did well by him, and he could definitely feel the way the steady attention was different with coworkers than with cousins.
Behind him, the door to the yard slammed shut.
“What’s up?” asked Rob.
“Alex got a letter from England,” announced Aunt Maryanne. “From Mercedes.”
Rob made a small noise. “Told you they’d be gunning for you,” he said with smug satisfaction. “Way you drove this season? Everyone’s gonna want your rookie year, Xan. And they can say you came up through their academy. They’d be dumb not to snatch you up.”
“I didn’t- I lost some,” said Xander tonelessly, staring at the letter.
“They track you all the way down to the old family roost?” snorted Rob. “They want you, like I said. What’re they offering you?”
“Uh,” said Xander, feeling like his hands holding the letter belonged to someone else’s body. “They want to- meet. They want me to go. Uh, to their headquarters. They’ll- they want me to meet the team, the principal, CEO, test drive- they want to fly me out. Before the holidays.”
“Bet you’ve got like sixty emails waiting on you to have your internet access back,” teased Rob. “You want Mercedes, you can have ‘em, cuz.”
Xander’s head shot up and he stared at Rob.
Rob smiled back smugly, reached in the fridge, and pulled out a soda, not breaking eye contact as he cracked it and took his first sips.
“Is Mercedes a really good team, in that F1?” asked Auntie Maryanne, like she was trying to figure out all of F1 racing in the next thirty seconds, to know how excited she should be.
“They wrote me a letter,” Xander said, dumbfounded. “On, like, paper. They want to fly me out just to- meet the team!”
“Yeah, probably following up on all the emails they already sent you,” Rob said, grinning. “That you can’t read, because you’re not allowed on-”
“They- they- Rob, I- it’s Mercedes!” yelped Xander, taking a step towards the man and then staring back down at the letter in his hands. “You- they-”
“I been telling you,” Rob said, more serious, coming closer and putting a hand on Xander’s shoulder. He gave Xander a little shake, and then said, “You’re good, kid. You’re real good. Told you that you wouldn’t be in F2 next year.”
“Maybe they want me for F2,” Xander said, staring at the letter and biting his lip.
“They don’t want you for F2,” Rob snorted. “C’mon, cuz, you have to know- all them wins? Nobody hits the podium that many times and doesn’t know they’re good, Xan. They were idiots to let you get snatched up for F3.”
Xander stared up at him.
Rob smiled, although a touch of sadness lingered near his eyes. “You’re good, Alex,” he said quietly. “You want to go drive for Red Bull, I bet you got an email from them waiting for you, too. Just because Mercedes tracked down a physical address and overnighted a piece of paper… you can go where you want next season, cuz.”
“I want Mercedes,” Xander told him, heart in his throat. It had always been Mercedes, for him. Whatever they were calling themselves now, it’d always been Mercedes.
Rob’s eyes crinkled, like he couldn’t help laughing at Xander. “Well, then, call the number, Xan. Tell ‘em you can fly out Wednesday.”
“Oh,” said Auntie Maryanne, her perfectly-painted lips pouting. “But you just got home! Alex, tell them you just got home.”
“Now, Auntie, if he wants to race with the big dogs, he’s going to have to mush when they say mush,” explained Rob. He reached out and gave Xander’s shoulder another small shake. “Call the number. Tell them Wednesday. Go hear what they have to say.”
“Mercedes,” murmured Xander, aware he was gripping the paper too tight and it was making wrinkles, but unable to make himself stop.
“Mercedes, I told you,” teased Rob, nodding his head. “Now, should I bring out those beers to the boys, because you’re gonna be busy, or…”
“I’m not allowed to use the phone,” Xander said quickly, staring at Rob. “Without- someone.”
Without a dom present, had been the actual rule that had been laid down, the first day of this particular visit.
“George?” shouted Rob. “You got a minute?”
The sound of a big body moving in the family room, and then George’s head popped into view, down the long hallway. “What?” he demanded.
“Alexander got a letter from Mercedes, they want him to call them up, make some plans,” said Rob with relish.
“No shit,” swore George, striding out into the hallway, his tv show immediately forgotten. His smile lit up the space as he swooped Xander into a hug. “Well, fuck me, cousin, not a surprise they want you, you talented little shit!”
Xander yelped, begging, “Will you help me make the call?” as George shook him around in the bear hug like a ragdoll.
“Sure will. You heading out to the pole barn?” he asked Rob.
Rob had already turned, and waved a hand to show he was, his other hand holding a case of beer and his toe kicking open the screen door.
“Okay,” said George, dropping Xander to the floor. “Put on your best company manners and let’s go… make a call, Xan!”
Xander let the man steer him by his shoulder to the dark, cool office, with the ceiling-to-floor bookshelves and uncomfortable leather chairs all covered with Maryanne’s doilies, now that Meemaw wasn’t around to prevent them from showing up.
He stared at the letter.
At your earliest convenience, they’d written.
Wednesday, Rob had said.
Mercedes! he wanted to shout.
Instead, he read off the numbers, and George dialed them, grinning from ear to ear and passing him the receiver as soon as the dialtone began to ring.
“Remember your manners, boy,” said George in a stern voice, just before the receptionist at Mercedes Headquarters picked up and asked the reason for his call.
Xander rolled his eyes, fingers fiddling with the paper as he stammered out, “Yeah, Xander Champers- Alexander Champers, here, ma’am, and I received a letter? Was told to call about making arrangements to come on out and-”
He hated the way his accent went thick when he got nervous.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Champers,” she said with delight. “I’ve instructions here to send you the prospect packet and inquire about your availability for a HQ tour? We’ve time in the next three weeks, and of course I’ll send you the recruitment team’s point-of-contact for your tour, to coordinate all the details. No one’s in at the moment,” she said apologetically.
Xander did the mental math and almost cursed himself. “Yeah, gotta be what, ten p.m. out there? Sorry, just got the letter and thought I’d call.”
“No, that’s exactly right,” she praised him brightly. “You did so well! Where may I send the prospect packet? Do you know your availability in the coming three weeks?”
“I can be free starting Wednesday,” Xander told her, heart racing. “And, uh,” he put the phone on his chest. “She needs an email,” he hissed at George.
George grinned.
Xander rolled his eyes. “C’mon, man,” he growled impatiently. “Gimme yours, I can’t get into mine, you know that!”
George’s grin widened, but he gestured for the phone. “Howdy-do,” he greeted the woman, slathering his voice in southern twang like a sticky barbecue sauce. “I’m Xander’s personal assistant at the moment, would you mind sending it to me? G-m-o-t-o-r-h-e-a-d-9-1-1 at C-h-a-m-p-i-o-n-S-p-e-e-d dot com?”
Xander shifted his weight from foot to foot as George confirmed his work email address, spoke pleasantly to the woman, confirmed Xander should be available for a Wednesday flight any time of day, and wished the woman well.
Then he hung up the phone and smiled at Xander.
“Fuck you,” Xander snapped. “I only needed your email because I’m locked out of-”
“Watch your tone,” George said pleasantly, his eyes narrowing just a little although his smile didn’t dim. “Unless you want me teaching you manners?”
“I don’t need anyone teaching me manners,” Xander shouted back at him, feeling like he was floating a foot off the ground and filled with static electricity, to boot.
“Junior been riling you up?” asked George, standing up and walking towards him..
“No one’s been- I just got recruited by Mercedes, you asshole!” Xander swore passionately, taking a step back. “Don’t need you throwing your weight around at me, can you just-”
“Alexander Champers,” said George, his face solemn now, as he reached out and cupped Xander’s chin. “Do you need it, or don’t you?”
Xander pressed on the hot, tight ache in his chest with the palm of his hand, glaring up at his older cousin. “I fucking- you know I’m just-”
“I know you’re something else,” agreed George, nodding. A small smile played on his lips. “I know you just got pretty much offered an F1 contract with Mercedes, cuz. And I also know you don’t get lippy unless you need something, Xander. So I’m offering, before you run back out to the garage so you and Chris Jr. can butt heads and you can earn yourself more than a little pat-down, do you want me to take care of it?”
Xander’s head was so full of emotions he could barely follow what George was saying but eventually he was able to choke out, “Yeah, sure, fucking- sounds. Yes. Do it.”
“Thanks for trusting me,” George said, like Grandaddy had always fucking said, and they were standing in Grandaddy’s office, and he’d been the one to put that first set of keys in Xander’s fist, and he wasn’t here anymore, to see Xander calling up Mercedes and telling them he could take a tour on Wednesday, and it was all too much, all at once.
George grabbed hold of his arm before he could run off, and tripped him with a foot so he landed heavily as the man sat, straight across the man’s lap.
“Been a minute since I’ve had you here,” George commented.
“Been fucking- racing- in fucking- Europe,” Xander spat back at him, tossing his head and trying to buck off his lap.
“Yeah, enough of the language now,” George said, voice stern and filled with his dominance in a way that dizzied up Xander’s head, made him want to kneel for the man a bit. “We’ll get you straightened out, and then you can run out, tell everyone the good news, yeah, brat?”
“Fuck you,” gasped Xander, squirming.
George laughed. “Or we can do it that way,” he chuckled, and then Xander was choking and gasping for an entirely different set of reasons, as George began to swat his ass.
In Grandaddy’s office, which was just the office now, Xander yelped and shouted a bit- especially when Georgie made him shove down his jeans so he could really make an impression.
It brought back enough memories that he was full-on sobbing, about Grandaddy Todd, about Mercedes, about that first set of keys, about every stupid thing he’d ever done, that had landed him ass-up over a knee in this room on the best day of his whole entire fucking life.
Georgie was one of the good ‘uns in the family, though, if you had to have a punishment.
He was a softie at heart, so he just held you until you were back to feeling yourself again.
Xander never really minded if he had to catch hell from George.
He’d catch it from someone- he knew he was a Grade-A certified brat- and at least George didn’t make you go stand in a corner and cry it out when you were done.
“Hey, you done with him yet?” asked Frankie from the doorway.
“Almost,” said George.
“Boys want to celebrate his call, is all,” said Frankie apologetically. “Rob came and told us, Xander, you shoulda heard the fucking whooping we were doing!”
“I’m good,” Xander gasped, scrubbing at his face. “Swear, George, I am. I’m sorry I was-”
Both men made a noise, and George abruptly set Xander on his knees, cupping Xander’s face with his narrow hands. “Don’t you say you’re sorry, Alexander Champers, for being who you are. You’re home, boy. You’re allowed to brat off as much as you need, here. We know how to help.”
“Yes, sir,” mumbled Xander, scrubbing at his face, not dislodging George’s hands at all.
“We’ll come on out, now,” decided George. “Celebrate with y’all in the shop.”
Frankie whooped a little, as George helped Xander to his feet.
“Been a minute,” George said, sounding smug. “But you still take it like a champ.”
Xander blew out a breath and rolled his eyes. “I’m not sorry I am the way I am,” he told George, because in some ways even though the man was the oldest cousin, he could be the easiest one to talk to, “I’m sorry I was, you know, rude to you, just then. Telling you to fuck off, under your own roof, that kind of thing.”
George chuckled, and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, scrubbing a hand through Xander’s hair. “I’ll let you know if you’re ever too much for me to handle, yeah, Xander?”
Xander was grinning ear-to-ear as they hit the kitchen.
Sweet Maryanne stirred a pot of something that smelled delicious, and turned to smile broadly at them. “You get what you need, hun?” she asked Xander, all syrupy sympathy.
“Yes, ma’am,” he told her earnestly.
She always worried, when he was getting riled up like he got.
She smiled, and ducked her head, turning her attention to the biscuit dough she was rolling out on the countertop. “Well, that’s good. Boys are having a good ol’ time out there, I can hear them shouting through the window. You go on, join in.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he promised, feeling the excitement in his heart hitch his step. “Yes, ma’am!”