Autism in the media is often portrayed stereotypically and over-dramatised. Though there are people out there with those “stereotypical” traits, in reality for many people on the spectrum, it isn't obvious at first glance - it's subtle, different for everyone, and not easy to deal with - and Hudson portrayed that perfectly.
They delivered a subtle representation without taking the focus away from the actual storyline and overall meaning of the show.
I forgot which exhibit letter we're on now for the proof that Ritch absolutely screams Asperger Syndrome, but here's another one for the alphabet soup.
One of the things I love about The Pitt's portryal of an autistic character, is that there's a girl-genius medical student (not the autistic character) and there is a doctor who has no social life outside of their work (also not the autistic character) and then, there's a skilled, cool under pressure, very professional and also crying sometimes, when she gets emotional, and self-regulating when she gets overwhelmed (sometimes at a suggestion of others, but that was only once) doctor, who actually is autistic (coded). Oh, btw, that doctor has a sister, also autistic (confirmed), and the two of them are best friends. :D
Summary: Lando’s camera has followed him through championships, celebrations, and milestones. But hidden away on his hard drive is a folder filled with moments no one else has ever seen—small memories that, piece by piece, end up telling the story he never realized he was recording.
Word Count: 2.3k
Masterlist
Like, reblog, share and feel free to send a message or to leave a comment. Ask box always open!
If you want to join the taglist, just let me know and I’ll add you to it!
Lando had never really needed a reason to pick up a camera.
Some people filled their camera rolls with screenshots and receipts, photos of parking spaces and accidental pictures of the inside of their pockets. Lando collected moments. Tiny, insignificant ones as often as the monumental ones. A sunrise seen through an airplane window. A mechanic dancing in the garage before FP1. Carlos missing a putt by an embarrassing margin during a golf day. Max somehow convincing everyone that karting for fun still required qualifying laps.
His cameras had followed him through nearly every version of himself.
Some of those recordings became proper episodes of Landolog, polished over several late nights in front of his editing software. The videos people expected. Constructors’ Championships celebrated until sunrise. The impossible, career-defining afternoon he became Formula One World Champion. The strange experience of sitting perfectly still while artists measured every contour of his face to create his wax figure. Milestones that deserved cinematic music, color grading and titles carefully typed into YouTube before millions of people watched them unfold.
Others were smaller.
Less polished.
Videos he edited himself simply because he enjoyed reliving them.
A pre-season week where nothing particularly exciting happened except a succession of bad jokes and sunsets over Bahrain. A charity golf tournament that devolved into an ongoing competition of increasingly impossible trick shots. A spontaneous karting afternoon with friends where everyone swore they weren’t taking it seriously before immediately taking it far too seriously.
But there was another folder.
With clips that rarely left his hard drive.
They weren’t content.
They were memories.
The kind that made him smile while rendering exported files at one in the morning.
It that wasn’t named with a year or an event.
No thumbnails carefully chosen.
No music.
No edits.
Just a plain folder tucked inside another, almost impossible to stumble across unless you knew exactly where to look.
Hi Landolog.
The name had started as a joke.
It had stayed because changing it somehow felt wrong.
Inside were dozens of clips.
Hundreds, probably.
None longer than a minute or two.
Most lasted less than fifteen seconds.
None of them had ever been uploaded.
⸻
Lando was waiting by the front door, sunglasses perched on his nose, camera balanced comfortably in one hand.
The tiny red recording light blinked to life almost absentmindedly.
“Right,” he said, turning the lens toward himself as he adjusted the focus. “Louise’s decided she’s an expert in celebrity recognition, apparently.”
Behind the camera he could already hear her getting closer.
“She reckons,” he continued, fighting back a grin, “that we can walk all the way to the ice cream shop without anyone asking for a picture.”
He let out a quiet laugh.
“I’ve tried explaining that’s not how—”
She slowed when she saw him standing there, talking to seemingly no one.
“…Who are you talking to?”
Lando lowered the camera just enough for her to see it.
“Landolog.”
She blinked.
“…Landolog?”
He nodded.
“My little vlogs.”
She frowned in amusement.
“You… do that?”
“Sometimes.”
He gave an easy shrug, as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world.
“I film random bits. Sometimes they become videos.”
“And when they don’t?”
“I keep them.”
“For what?”
He considered the question for a moment.
“I don’t know, really. They’re fun to look back on.”
Louise stepped closer, curiosity replacing the confusion on her face. She peered at the camera, then back at him.
“…Landolog.”
Then, almost on instinct, she leaned around him until she was looking directly into the lens.
She wasn’t posing.
Didn’t fix her hair or think about the angle.
She simply smiled—that effortlessly warm smile that always reached her eyes—and lifted a small wave.
“Hi, Landolog.”
The greeting came out light and cheerful, as though she’d just been introduced to someone new.
He laughed, shook his head, and followed her into the Monaco sunshine, never imagining that “Hi, Landolog” would become something she’d say for years to come.
⸻
The first two days aboard the yacht looked exactly how Lando remembered summer holidays feeling before adulthood had started measuring them in calendars and race schedules.
His camera had barely left his hand.
Not because he intended to make a video out of it—he probably wouldn’t—but because the light was too good, the laughter too constant, and there always seemed to be something worth pointing a lens at.
Travis proving, once again, that no one was safe around him, grabbing unsuspecting victims around the waist before dramatically throwing them into the sea while everyone else doubled over laughing.
The unmistakable scream of someone realizing, half a second too late, that they were next.
Game nights that devolved into absolute chaos because Sabrina somehow managed to become absurdly competitive over games that didn’t warrant competitiveness at all.
Louise’s father and Gordon stationed permanently by the barbecue every evening, each convinced the other was doing it wrong.
By the third evening, the excitement had settled into something quieter.
Lando wandered toward the bow with his camera, more out of habit than intention.
The sea had gone almost impossibly still.
The sun was sinking into the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of molten gold that melted into soft peach, then lavender, then the deepening blue of approaching night.
He didn’t say anything.
For once, there wasn’t anything to narrate.
He simply held the camera steady, letting the waves speak for themselves.
Behind him, he heard the quiet scrape of bare feet against the deck.
He didn’t turn.
He already knew who it was.
Louise lowered herself beside him, folding her legs beneath her as she settled against the teak decking. Not close enough that their shoulders touched, but close enough that he could feel another presence beside him.
Then she noticed the tiny red recording light.
“Oh.”
Her eyes flicked to the lens.
A grin spread slowly across her face.
She leaned just a fraction closer—not toward Lando, but toward the camera itself—and lowered her voice into an exaggerated whisper.
“…Hi, Landolog.”
⸻
Lando’s camera had been abandoned on top of a meeting table, pointed vaguely toward the simulator room while it quietly recorded whatever chaos unfolded.
“And that’s another fastest lap,” Louise declared triumphantly from the simulator, not taking her eyes off the screen.
“You’ve had, like, six.”
Lando reached over and unceremoniously hit the emergency stop before tugging lightly at her arm.
“My turn.”
She laughed as he practically hauled her out of the seat, slipping into it before she’d even fully stepped away.
Louise folded her arms, pretending to be offended, before her eyes drifted toward the camera perched across the room.
“You’ve been filming this?”
Lando glanced over his shoulder.
“…Maybe.”
She walked toward it with an amused shake of her head, leaning down until her face filled the frame.
“Hi, Landolog.”
She smiled sweetly.
“I’d just like everyone to know I was unfairly removed from the simulator.”
From behind her, Lando called out without looking away from the screen.
“You were hogging it.”
“I was winning.”
“You were taking forever.”
She looked back at the camera with exaggerated seriousness.
“You see what I have to deal with?”
Then, with one last grin, she gave the lens a little wave before turning around to stand behind his seat, immediately becoming the world’s most distracting backseat driver.
—
An hour later they were raiding the kitchen, balancing packets of biscuits on the counter as if they owned the place.
Lando panned the camera across their questionable midnight feast.
“Nutrition.”
Louise appeared beside him with a carton of chocolate milk.
“Elite athlete behaviour.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“You’ve definitely had worse.”
She leaned into the lens once more, lowering her voice conspiratorially.
“Don’t tell Andrea.”
Lando snorted.
“He’s definitely going to see this.”
“No,” she said with complete confidence, taking a sip of her chocolate milk. “Landolog keeps secrets.”
⸻
The Swiss mountains looked deceptively gentle from the chalet.
All soft white slopes and postcard-perfect pine trees dusted with snow.
The moment they clipped into their skis, however, it became a competition.
He launched after her, the camera strapped securely to his chest bouncing with every turn. Cold air stung his face as they carved through fresh powder, weaving around slower skiers, each trying to steal the better line down the mountain.
She ducked around one last bend, taking a tighter route before shooting toward the finish with a triumphant laugh.
By the time Lando reached the bottom, she was already standing there with her skis crossed, hands on her hips, looking unbearably pleased with herself.
“I win.”
“You cut the corner.”
“I took the optimal racing line.”
“That’s literally cutting the corner.”
Only then did Louise notice the blinking red light on the camera strapped to his chest.
“Oh!”
She leaned closer with rosy cheeks and snowflakes caught in her hair.
“Hi, Landolog.”
She grinned into the lens.
“I’d just like it officially documented that I beat a Formula One driver in a race.”
Lando snorted.
“You absolutely did not.”
She looked back at the camera with mock sympathy.
“See?”
A little shrug.
“Sore loser.”
⸻
Backstage was a blur of garment racks, photographers calling for lenses, stylists darting from one person to the next with pins tucked between their lips.
Lando wandered through it all with his camera.
“This,” he narrated quietly, panning across the organized chaos, “is somehow more stressful than a race weekend.”
“…You’re right.” Lewis called from somewhere behind a changing screen.
He rounded the corner and stopped.
Louise was standing perfectly still in front of a mirror while two hairstylists fussed over the loose strands around her face and a makeup artist blended something beneath her eyes.
She caught his reflection in the mirror before she saw the camera.
A smile immediately tugged at her lips.
Then she noticed the lens, and gave the tiniest wave she could manage.
“Hi, Landolog.”
One of the hairstylists gently turned her chin back toward the mirror.
“Eyes forward, darling.”
“I’m trying,” Louise laughed.
Lando zoomed in just enough to catch her exaggerated sigh.
“I’ve been standing here for twenty minutes.”
“Three,” the makeup artist corrected.
“It feels like twenty.”
From behind the camera, Lando chuckled.
“You look very glamorous.”
“I feel like a mannequin.”
The stylist gave her hair one final adjustment.
“There.”
⸻
“I’m telling you,” Cisca whispered, “he’s going to notice.”
“He already has,” Flo giggled.
Louise peeked over the camera she was now holding.
The blinking red light was recording.
She smiled into the lens.
“Hi, Landolog.”
She lowered her voice conspiratorially.
“We’re about to make him give a sea bass a little smooch.”
All three of them dissolved into laughter before the camera shook violently as they folded over.
Then she quickly turned the camera toward the approaching footsteps.
“Places, everyone.”
⸻
“Our first official day in the house,” he said to the camera, panning across what looked less like a home and more like a cardboard warehouse. “It’s… going well.”
He turned into the living room and paused.
“…I think.”
Only the top of Louise’s head was visible behind an absurd wall of boxes.
A hand emerged from one side.
Then another.
Finally, Louise’s face peeked out through the narrow gap between two boxes.
She spotted the camera immediately.
“Oh.”
A tired but delighted smile spread across her face.
“Hi, Landolog.”
She looked down at the boxes imprisoning her.
“I live here now.”
Lando laughed.
“You need help?”
“I need fewer kitchen appliances.”
⸻
The afternoon sun hung low over the Aylesbury garden, casting everything in warm gold.
Lando had wandered outside with his camera just in time to find Louise cross-legged in the grass, completely occupied by Akira.
The Rottweiler was darting circles around her with a tennis ball clamped proudly between her teeth.
“You’re such a menace,” Louise laughed, reaching for the ball.
Akira immediately bounced backwards.
“You are.”
Another playful bark.
“I know exactly what you’re doing.”
She lunged.
Akira dodged effortlessly before charging straight back into her, knocking Louise onto the lawn.
“Oh, you’re impossible!”
Lando’s laugh escaped behind the camera.
Louise looked up, brushing a strand of hair out of her face, only then noticing the lens pointed her way.
A grin spread instantly.
“Hi, Landolog.”
She scratched behind Akira’s ears.
“We’re trying to play fetch.”
Without thinking, Lando lowered the camera onto the garden table and jogged after Akira as she came racing back, laughing when she barreled straight into him before immediately turning to sprint toward Louise again.
The camera kept rolling from where he’d left it, catching the three of them chasing each other across the garden until they disappeared out of frame, their laughter carrying back on the summer breeze.
⸻
The funny thing was, it had started before they ever became anything more than friends.
Back when she still nudged him with her elbow instead of reaching automatically for his hand.
Back when teasing him felt infinitely safer than admitting how often she looked for him in crowded paddocks.
Back when “our house,” “our dog,” and “our future” belonged to an entirely different universe.
The folder stretched quietly across every version of them.
Friendship.
Something suspiciously close to flirting.
The months where they insisted to everyone—including themselves—that nothing was happening.
The secret relationship they hid in plain sight.
Finally, the life they built together so naturally it became impossible to remember where one ended and the other began.
Lando had never intended to document that evolution.
He’d only ever been filming whatever happened to be in front of him.
It was only years later, scrolling through old footage in search of an entirely unrelated clip, that he realized the constant had never been the races, or the countries, or the trophies sitting on shelves.
It had been one girl, somewhere just outside the center of the frame, who always looked at the lens and every single time, without fail, she’d smile like she was greeting someone she’d known forever.
So, a while back I did this piece for a zine that unfortunately did not pan out about Cybertronians living with disabilities, neurodivergencies, etc. It was to be titled Out of Spec! Sometimes when I'm at work, I just can't stop. I will work through all of my breaks because my autistic brain will not let me pause. It's known as Autistic inertia!
I also wrote 3 little ficlets to go with it!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
