well, I personally think that Jenos would rub Lex the wrong way because... well, he says it in one of his kill taunts. The laws of the universe have little sway on him, and he doesn’t give a whit about the laws of man. Lex is a straight-laced enforcer of those laws of man. I don’t think they would have a harmonious or peaceful relationship, not without a lot of negotiation on both sides... and I don’t see either of them budging.
kind of can't stop thinking about jenson and alex. so here's a blurb.
It’s not until George points it out that Alex sees how painfully obvious it should’ve all been. It’s no less ridiculous – and Alex’s seen the way James talks about Carlos to the media. And that’s just the half that gets published.
But when George lays it all out in order, it becomes all too stark: the texts, solid race today, mate, when he did well enough to get more than just a measly single point, amazing, what a masterclass in defending, up there with the McLarens and the Red Bull, after Baku, the champagne he sends to his room that Alex doesn’t dare touch, a heretic taboo. God, the things Jenson sent to Alex’s room: the chocolate box, that one time, to cheer him up after his crash with Carlos in Canada, the cards along the flowers that say, get ‘em next time. The interviews he gives: I want to see Albon win the next championship. Genuine naked belief. Alex had refused to watch that interview.
“It’s a professional thing,” he tells George, even as he feels his argument thinning by the second. “Look, he’s a – senior advisor. He’s got like, a well-meaning vested interest in the team as a – “
George only needs to pull up the lingerie to shut him up. Alex lunges for that offending thing to chuck it away, hopes it lands in some dark lifeless corner to rot forever. The fact that it’s red and lacy and has too many holes in it to cover anything is the last insane thing about it all, it’s that – the idea of him wanting to see Alex in it. Of anyone at all.
Of course the thong isn’t all that’s in the box. George simply picks up the bra, which is barely a bra and more like a connected red elastic in the shape of a triangle, exposing the entirety of his chest when worn and –
“This could be sent to the wrong room,” Alex says.
Now George chucks it at him. “Mate. Look at me. I’ve been accused of sleeping with my boss. I know the difference between having a higher up being professionally invested in your career and a higher up wanting to just – gobble you up and make you a sugar baby. This behavior is the latter.” As if Alex hasn’t read it over and over, he brandishes the rose-scented card that comes with the box of lingerie, a neat handwriting that just says, For A.
“A could literally mean anyone,” Alex says, grappling at a poor shoddy excuse. He can’t be a sugar baby, or whatever George thinks Jenson wants him as. He’s almost thirty, he’s lanky and skinny, and not even in the muscle-clad way George is, his hair is shitty and – and – look, he could find so many variations to say he is not delicate and pretty and feminine, like a person wearing lingerie should be.
George leans back, jutting out his chin. He’s got his hand on his hips, a real challenge posed at Alex. “Call him, then,” he says. “Tell him you got his gift. Tell him you liked it.”
Alex laughs, hysterical. “You’re insane. I should just – I should bring this back to the receptionist, tell him I got a stray a package – “
“Alex,” George says, and the air of finality in his voice makes Alex pause, swallow. He already knows what choice he will make before George says his next words. “Call him,” George says, and Alex’s hand is already halfway to his pocket, where his phone sits.
Jenson’s name is on the top of his dial list, after he called the last time to cheer Alex up after Austin. And that alone feels like a revealing fact: even James did not call. No one ever calls, really, in his generation, just texts a meme because sincerity is dead, and Alex presses call next to his name and waits his breath for it to connect. It doesn’t take a ring. Like Alex is on speed dial, like he’s been waiting.
