Work Text:
It starts with Sebastian from-the-office telling him that rail transport is the most environmentally-friendly way to travel. This means, George decides, that he can entirely blame Sebastian from-the-office for how panic-inducing this entire morning has been.
George doesn’t hate change, despite what his friends and coworkers would say. In fact, George thinks that, in small doses and - of course - with enough time given to plan out what to do if this change doesn’t work out, change is very healthy and keeps him on his toes.
This is not a small dose. And twenty-four hours is most certainly, despite his initial assessment, not enough time to develop all of the contingency plans he needs.
His initial assessment went like this: at three minutes before eight, upon seeing George getting out of his taxi like he does every morning, Sebastian from-the-office tells him that rail transport is the most environmentally-friendly way to travel. George, in all his foolishness and eager to please Sebastian from-the-office, had promised on the spot that he would give the train a try. After work, he eats his usual midweek dinner and taps at his laptop; he double-checks that the Tube stop near his apartment hasn’t spontaneously moved or closed, and triple-checks that the Tube stop across the street from the office is still open and functioning as usual. He makes a list in his Notes app of the trains he can get - each two minutes apart - and decides that, if he misses the first, he can get any of the four that follow, and still be at work on time. This is the end of his assessment, and George is an idiot.
He doesn’t have an Oyster card, which works out fine; he watches a lady pay through the barrier with her Apple watch, so he follows her lead. It works flawlessly and he smiles a little to himself as he stands on the platform. After this, it stops being fine, and George starts to realise his blunder.
It’s loud. It’s so unbearably loud. George’s earphones are in his rucksack, wrapped up neatly in the front pocket. Can he put them in now, in front of everyone else on the platform, or will he look rude? If he takes his rucksack from his back, where will he put it? He could hold it against his chest while he gets out his earphones, but he might look like an idiot. He could put it on the ground and crouch over it and, again, he might look like an idiot, or someone could come running along and snatch his rucksack from his lax, unsuspecting fingers. He has briefing sheets in there, he can’t lose them.
He tightens his grip on his rucksack and doesn’t make a move for his earphones. A train stops at the platform and everyone makes a move for it. Is this the one he planned on getting? He looks at his watch; the train is a minute early, but maybe that’s normal. A minute early is better than a minute late. He could wait a minute to ensure it’s the right train - what if the train leaves without him? He could get the next one, but that’s three minutes from now instead of two, so surely it’s better to be one minute early than three minutes late.
George gets on the train.
The carriage is completely full.
The people he boards with seem to think the same and, one by one, they all move for the door that connects the carriages, searching for one that isn’t so full. Should he go too, or will he look like he’s following one of them? Although the carriage isn’t as crowded anymore, there aren’t many seats. In fact, there aren’t any seats that are entirely vacant, and he doesn’t want to get in someone’s personal space by sitting beside them. But he’s the only one standing, he must look like an idiot-
“‘Scuse me,” someone says, and George turns. There’s a man already sitting down, in the section for wheelchairs, with three sideways-facing chairs pushed up to accommodate the man’s chair. He reaches for the furthest away chair and pulls it until it’s in the sitting position, and smiles up at George. He has a friendly smile, and it starts to calm the welling panic in George’s chest. “You can sit here if you want.”
“Thank you,” George squeaks around the leftover threat of a panic attack. When did that happen? He hasn’t panicked over something like this, something his mates would call utterly ridiculous, since the last time he went out to dinner with his friends and he felt the crunch of onion between his teeth. He had been so certain he’d picked it all out of his burger, so the texture hadn’t exactly been a pleasant surprise; he’d stood outside, in the cold, for twenty minutes until he had settled down.
The man smiles a little more as George untangles his fingers, white and clammy, from the straps of his rucksack and drops into the offered seat. “You alright? Tell me to piss off, by the way, you just look a bit rattled, mate.”
George nods frantically. “Yeah!” he says, too eagerly. “Yeah, all good, thank you. Just, uh, first time on the Tube and-”
An automated voice comes over the tannoy, listing the stops that the service will be calling at. The station outside the office isn’t one of them.
“Oh. I’ve- I’ve got the wrong one,” he adds. He can hear the waver in his own voice. He doesn’t know if the humiliation that burns in his chest is because of his mistake or at how close to tears he is.
“Hey, that’s alright. You should’ve seen me the first time I tried to navigate London, eh?” the man offers, smiling tentatively at his own joke. “Which stop were you meant to be going to? I’ll sort you out.”
George tells him the name of the stop across from his office, wringing his hands nervously. He needs to flap them but he can’t do that in public, so he settles for gripping at his fingers until his knuckles crack. “But- Listen, it’s alright, I can just, uhm, get a train back to my original stop and try again. I just need to phone and say I’ll be late.”
“If you’d rather, you can do that,” the man tells him. “The trains are pretty regular, so I’d say you wouldn’t even be that late! But, if you want, I’m getting off two stops from now. It’s just around the corner and down the street from your stop. Should take you five minutes, less.”
George permits himself one flap of his left hand and one twitch of his shoulder. Less than five minutes. He’d still be on time for work. “Okay,” he squeaks. He takes a deep breath. “I’ll get off in two- two stops.”
“Wonderful.” The man beams at him, pleased. “Oh- I’m Alex!”
“George,” he answers, extending his hand toward Alex to shake. His fingers only tremble slightly. “Thank you so much. Do you just have the Tube stations memorised?”
Alex shakes his hand and raps the knuckles of his other hand against his wheelchair. “Only the ones where I can take this bad boy,” he laughs. “Only, like, a third of Tube stations are step-free, so I like to know all the ones I can get around without any issues.”
“Only a third?” George demands. It comes out almost like a squawk. “That’s ridiculous!”
At his indignation, Alex gives another small laugh and inclines his head in agreement. “I’d say you’re preaching to the congregation, but…”
He exhales sharply. “I’d like to hear what Seb will say when I tell him that.”
“Seb?” Alex asks, eyebrow raised.
“Oh, uh, a coworker. Well, more like my almost-boss. He tells me what to do and he gets paid for it, he just doesn’t have the job title. Yet. Lewis will give him a promotion within a year, I’d bet. It was his idea that I should take the train, it’s more environmentally friendly, he said. Not Lewis, I mean, Seb said it. Sebastian,” George’s hands twitch with the urge to continue and, finally, he adds, “from-the-office.”
Alex doesn’t laugh at how George’s mouth runs away with him, nor does he roll his eyes or try to tell him to shut up. “Sebastian from-the-office sounds like an opinionated guy. Good for him, honestly.”
And George’s stomach just lights up at someone else calling Seb Sebastian-from-the-office. After weeks of tacking on from-the-office to people’s names just to simplify a phone call with his mother, it had strangely stuck, but only with Sebastian. George finds he rather likes hearing it in someone else’s accent. “What do you do? Ride around all day, memorising Tube stations?”
“I’m a triathlete,” Alex says, “sixteen gold medals.”
“Sixteen?” George enthuses and, as soon as the word has left his mouth, he realises that the tone Alex used was the one that George associates with taking the piss instead of being serious. He stays silent, waiting for Alex’s laughter, for the jokes about George being gullible. When no laughter comes, he tries to speed it up with, “I’m a fucking idiot, huh.” His friends like it when he says that, they always launch into some mostly-healthy teasing when he prompts them to with that line.
Yet Alex shakes his head, looking horribly guilty. “No, you aren’t an idiot. That was me being an asshole,” he sighs. “That’s what I actually do, apparently, I’m a professional asshole. I’m sorry, Georgie-” The train begins to slow and Alex adjusts himself in his chair, reaching down for the brake. “Hey, this is our stop, let’s go.”
He doesn’t speak as he stands, throwing his rucksack onto his back again. It’s only when they’re standing by the door, waiting for it to open, does he ask, “Uh, do you need a hand getting off?”
Alex looks up with a small smile and shakes his head. “There’s gonna be someone waiting with a ramp, I can wheel myself down it with no problem. Thank you though.”
George nods, and twists his fingers together behind his back. As the doors slide open, a woman approaches with a boarding ramp and gets it into place; exactly as Alex had said, he wheels himself ahead of George, smoothly down the ramp, before looking over his shoulder expectantly.
“C’mon, Georgie, I’ll show you out of the station and make sure you have your bearings,” he says, and George happily follows him.
Once they’re outside, George is equal parts proud of himself and relieved to realise that he knows exactly where he is. He tells Alex as much, chirping, “I just have to go down that street and then left, and the office is right opposite!”
“Perfect,” Alex grins up at him, before he checks his phone and continues, “and it’s only ten-to eight. You made it with loads of time.”
George can only grin back at him and he realises, as he reaches for his phone, that his hands haven’t stopped flapping since they alighted the train. Alex hasn’t told him to stop, hasn’t even stared at George’s hands.
“Could I get your number?” George asks gleefully, holding his phone out to Alex.
Alex flushes to the roots of his platinum hair, but takes the phone shyly and taps at it. After a second, he extends the phone back to George. “Go on, you muppet, get to work. You can’t be late after all that stress, eh?”
George beams. “Okay, okay. I’m going,” he steps back, waving to Alex as he goes. “Thank you again! Have a good day, Alex!”
“Don’t forget to text me!” Alex calls.
From the other side of the road, George shouts, “I won’t forget! Now, go! Shoo!”
“I’ll sit here all day, Georgie!” His laugh can be heard from halfway down the street. Alex makes no move to wheel himself away. “Go to work!”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m going!”
When George looks back at him again before turning the corner, Alex is still sitting there, arm raised in a wave, still smiling.
The highlight of George’s career - no, his life - will be the look on Sebastian’s face when, after asking how the train journey was this morning, George smiles innocently and says, “It was nice enough. But I think it’s pretty shocking that only a third of Tube stations are step-free. How good of an environmental alternative is rail transport if some wheelchair users struggle to access two thirds of the stations?”
Seb looks sufficiently shocked at George’s answer, especially when it’s considered how demure George usually is. “Only a third? Is that a real statistic?” he asks, furrowing his eyebrows in the thoughtful way that George is so used to seeing.
“It is,” he chirps. “Heard it myself this morning, from the man beside me on the Tube.”
Sebastian hums and gives George a little nod. “I never even considered it, actually. Nice one, Russell,” he says, and leaves George with a firm pat on the back.
George is on cloud nine for the entire day. He works his way through a digital tonne of emails, and a physical stack of Pierre’s scrawled statistics, during which he has to get up six times to ask Pierre what his terrible handwriting says. His eyes are swimming with numbers when he takes his break at two in the afternoon and, after making a strong cup of tea, he settles down in his chair again.
You still never told me what you do, he taps out in his fresh, blank chat with Alex. After a minute passes, he realises how strange of an opening that is. He hastily adds, This is George Russell by the way!
Hey, George Russell, comes the reply a few seconds later. George is just beginning to type when another message comes through: I told you, I’m a professional asshole. This is Alexander Albon by the way!
He buries his smile in his tea before any of his coworkers can see. Hey, Alexander Albon. Your name suits you. What kind of qualifications does a professional asshole need? Or can you start straight after secondary school?
The best professional assholes will start long before that, Georgie. My name suits me? I’m guessing that’s a compliment.
Of course it is, George tells him. He sets his tea down to fish out the packet of cream crackers in his desk, and takes a bite out of a corner. What do you really do?
After a second, Alex replies with a simple: Guess.
I don’t know, George taps out with a soft sigh to himself. He isn’t very good at guessing games. Probably a musician or an artist or something.
Why? Alex asks. Because I’m in a wheelchair? Of course, I should be good at something mental or emotional to make up for what I lack physically.
If it was a face-to-face conversation, George is sure he would reel back in horror. The way that Alex talks about himself sometimes makes something in George’s heart hurt, even after such a short time of knowing him. George’s parents always said he was overly empathetic, but he hasn’t noticed the trait in himself, really, until now.
It’s only when another message comes through from Alex that he realises that minutes have passed without George responding. Sorry. That was me being an asshole again, I’m really sorry.
I didn’t mean to be offensive when I said a musician or an artist, George rushes to say, I just thought it suited you. You seem like the type of person to have a beautiful job. As soon as the message is sent, he’s typing again, Not because you lack something physically, which you don’t. You’re just kind and nice and I could picture you putting that kindness into the world.
The next message from Alex takes some time to come through. That was really sweet. Thank you for saying that. Then, a few seconds later, he says, I suppose I kind of put kindness into the world, if I think about it. I’m a translator for social services, for parents who can’t speak English that well or at all.
That suits you too, actually. You looked after me like I was a lost child, it makes sense for you to look out for children as your job, George tells him honestly. What language?
Thai, Alex says, and French if they desperately need a translator. My written French isn’t great but I can do a conversation. But my mum is Thai so I spoke that at home.
George sits up in his chair at that. When he reaches for his tea, it’s starting to go cold, so he takes a large mouthful. He hates pouring it down the drain. Alex, that’s amazing! Will you teach me something in Thai the next time I see you? Even if it’s just hello!
Sure, Georgie, Alex replies instantly. He doesn’t ask any questions about when the next time he’ll see George is. Now, what do you do?
I’m a financial analyst for an engineering company, he says. He knows full well that many people, even most of his own friends, find George’s job unbelievably boring, but George loves it. Part of him hopes, very quietly, that if Alex finds his occupation miserable or soul-sucking, he’ll at least keep it to himself.
George shouldn’t have worried. Alex is just as enthusiastic about George’s job as he is himself, and asks about what initially interested George in the financial field, and what he does in the office, and even a little about his coworkers. He’s so invested in telling Alex anything he can type out fast enough between hasty mouthfuls of tea that he doesn’t notice that his break is over until ten minutes after it’s ended, when Sebastian startles him with a hand on his shoulder and says, “I’ve sent you over a spreadsheet, can you take a look at it for me?”
In the second it takes for George’s head to snap up and an apology to form on his lips, Seb is already grinning at him. “Do not say sorry, Russell. I was smiling away in my office watching you text, you looked like you were having fun. I’m not pissed off, so no apologies, okay?”
George settles, relaxing back into his chair. In situations like this, when Seb knows exactly what he needs to hear to settle the rising panic, George loves Sebastian from-the-office. “You got it, boss. Can I let him know I’m going back to work before I get onto your email?”
“Of course. Thank you, George,” Seb smiles as he turns to return to his office. “Oh- Russell?”
He glances over his shoulder, fingers already hovering to say goodbye to Alex. “Yeah?”
“I’m still not your boss,” he teases, and strides back to his office.
George just beams.
For the next two days, George gets the train he had boarded on the morning that he met Alex and gets off at the stop which Alex had shown him. Every morning, without fail, Alex is on the train already, waiting for him. They text often, but not constantly, getting to know each other’s interests and hobbies over text before they see each other in the mornings again. Alex always saves a chair for George - no matter how crammed the carriage is, George always finds Alex staking his claim beside an empty seat.
His favourite part is the way Alex beams at him every time he steps into the carriage, how he’ll always lean forward a little to pat the seat he’s saved.
On Friday morning, the third morning of George purposefully getting what he affectionately refers to as the ‘wrong train’, Alex looks tired. He doesn’t smile as widely as he usually does, merely twitches his mouth at George when he steps into the carriage, and gestures a little vaguely at the seat he’s been saving.
“What took you so long, eh?” Alex teases, but there’s a heaviness hiding in his voice that George can’t figure out the reason for. “I’ve been fighting people off this seat. Left, right and centre, Georgie, I’m telling you.”
George sits down, hugging his backpack close to his chest. He balls his hands into fists to kill the twitching urge to flap them around. “Is everything okay?”
“Of course,” Alex says. He doesn’t question why George asks.
He pushes on regardless. “You look tired.”
Alex lets out this half-sigh that makes George’s stomach drop. “Yeah,” he answers. That’s all he says for a few seconds until, at George’s silence, he finally adds, “Yeah, I feel it.”
“Why?” George asks. As soon as the words leave his mouth, he fumbles for what he’s actually supposed to say, something that’s supportive but doesn’t push. Weakly, he mumbles, “I mean, like, do you want to talk about it?”
There’s a little huff of laughter from Alex and he smiles at George properly now. It isn’t the usual grin, but it’s not as heavy or forced as the one before. “I love being your mate, y’know that?” he says. George must look confused, because Alex goes on, “I mean that, honestly. You skip all the bullshit.”
George shrugs slightly, but he’s fighting the urge to throw his hands around like a madman, overjoyed that Alex likes being his friend. “It’s probably the autism,” he confesses, wrenching another almost-chuckle from Alex’s lips.
“Maybe it is,” Alex agrees, but he sounds so gentle that George can’t even think of being annoyed. After all, he’s poking fun at himself for Alex’s benefit, however small it may be. “I’m honestly just tired. Getting out of bed was hard today, harder than usual. I’m exhausted, Georgie. Just… Just so fucking tired.”
He leans over to nudge his elbow against Alex’s. “Why didn’t you stay in bed? Could you have cancelled whatever plans you have?”
“No plans to cancel,” Alex tells him and, suddenly, blushes from his hairline to his jaw.
George tilts his head. “If you have no plans, then… Why did you push yourself to get up?” he asks. It might not be his place, but he launches into a chiding spiel that he has committed to memory for when he needs to comfort people. “You need to take care of yourself, Alex, especially on the bad days–”
“I wanted to see you,” Alex interrupts, and George chokes on whatever he had been about to say. “I have a railcard anyways, because of,” he raps his knuckles against his wheelchair, so similar to when they met a few days ago, “and the train gets me out of bed, even if I just go in circles, but- I didn’t want to text you to say I wouldn’t be on the train in case I worried you, and then you’d be worried at work for no reason, so I just made myself get up anyways and, like, I always feel better after seeing you-”
George has to cut him off, so he does, with a hushed murmur of, “Alexander.” He uses Alex’s full name sparingly, nowhere near as liberal with it as Alex is with his Georgie-this and Georgie-that, but Alex always looks like George has sucked the air clean out of his lungs when he calls him Alexander. It shuts Alex right up and the silence stretches for a few seconds, whilst Alex stares at his feet and George flaps his hands in an overjoyed stim. “Are you doing anything tomorrow?”
“What?” Alex asks, his gaze jerking back up to George. “Uh, no. Why?”
“Do you want to get lunch?” George asks before he can lose his nerve. “As a date, if you’d like to. Or not as a date, I’d like to get lunch with you anyways. If you’re, like, interested-”
“I’m interested,” Alex squeaks. “I’d really like that, Georgie- Oh.”
George realises the train is slowing and, in chorus with Alex, says, “Our stop.”
Alex flushes and reaches over to squeeze George’s hand. “Can I come along while you walk to work? Then we have another few minutes to talk.”
“I’d like that,” George says eagerly.
They get off the train and leave the station, taking their time towards the office. It’s almost spring now; a slight breeze moves gently around them, making Alex’s cheeks go a little pink as they head down the street. Sebastian is outside the office when they turn the corner, and he raises a hand to wave a greeting to them as he sees them approach.
“Morning, Russell,” he calls once they’re on the same side of the street. “Big day. Excited?”
George baulks. “Big day?” he echoes, his fingers curling and relaxing over and over again, flexing into such a tight fist that his knuckles crack. As he panics over whatever he must have forgotten, he registers the pads of Alex’s fingers trailing across his knuckles, and he settles slightly. “Why?”
“Some announcement Lewis is making,” Seb says. There’s a faux-casual air to his words that makes George think Sebastian knows exactly what the announcement is, but he knows he won’t get anywhere by trying to nag Seb into telling him what it is. It never works. “But that’s very unimportant right now. Who is this young man?”
Alex leans forward to extend his hand to Seb. “Alex Albon,” he says, flashing the smile that George treasures so much now. “You must be Sebastian from-the-office?”
“I must be,” Seb agrees, shaking Alex’s hand. He turns his grin on George for a moment before he looks back to Alex. “You wouldn’t be the reason George is always smiling at his phone, would you?”
George gawps at Seb. He had never taken his almost-boss for a traitor, but he thinks he can forgive the betrayal just because of how Alex laughs gleefully.
“You’re always smiling at your phone, Georgie?” Alex teases, and George blushes so hard he thinks he must be red from head to toe.
“I should get to work!” he proclaims, leaning down to give Alex the quick hug that has become the usual for them. Now, he finds he doesn’t quite want to let go so soon. His mouth almost pressed to Alex’s ear, he murmurs, “Text me?”
Alex clings to him a little tighter than he usually does. “I won’t forget,” he promises, and pretends to make a scene of pushing at George’s stomach. “Go on, muppet.”
“I’ll sit here all day,” George teases, throwing Alex’s words back at him.
George already knows the station that Alex uses in the mornings but, when Alex sends him his address, it’s close enough to George’s flat that he walks there on Saturday morning. He has already called a few cafés in the area, making sure they’re wheelchair-accessible before he suggests the three he likes the sound of the most to Alex. They choose a café and walk from Alex’s house together; it’s so normal that George feels like he should be anxious. Aren’t dates meant to feel different from hanging out with your friends?
When they’re settled in the café with a cup of coffee for Alex and a hot chocolate for George, Alex suddenly perks up. “Oh! What was Lewis’ announcement yesterday? Sebastian from-the-office seemed very pleased with himself, did he finally get his promotion?”
George, immediately, is almost buzzing with excitement. Yesterday had been spent looking forward to meeting up with Alex, so he had forgotten Lewis’ announcement entirely. “It was about the promotion, but not for Seb,” he says casually.
Alex lets out this little sigh that makes George’s stomach flop at the reminder of how much Alex cares about George’s job. “That sucks,” he murmurs into his coffee. “Who got it? It wasn’t that French idiot, was it?”
“I told you, Pierre isn’t so bad-”
“Sixteen pages of stats, George!”
“I like the stats!” George grins. He knows that Alex’s dislike of Pierre is put on, that Alex likes to pretend to baby George a little bit. “But no, it wasn’t Pierre. Do you want to guess again?”
Alex raises his eyebrows. “What are you smiling over? I don’t know who else. It wasn’t that bastard, Max, not a chance. The only people that probably deserved it are Sebastian and you-” Suddenly, Alex’s hand shoots across the table to grip George’s fingers. “No fucking way, Georgie!”
He nods frantically. “I got the promotion! Head of financial analytics!”
“Get over here so I can hug you, idiot!” Alex tugs at his fingers until George is scrambling out of his chair to throw his arms around him. “I’m so proud of you, George, you deserve this so much!”
George suddenly feels like he could start crying, just from the joy of it all. “I get an office and everything,” he says, his words muffled by Alex’s shoulder, “my own office with my name on the door.”
“George Russell, head of financial analytics. You have to take a photo so I can see it.”
“I will,” he promises, squeezing Alex’s shoulders. “I think some of my coworkers are going out for drinks tonight, Pierre asked if I wanted to go. You could come with me, if you fancied it? I don’t drink but - well, Pierre mentioned that he’d like to meet you?”
Alex beams up at him. “I’d love that,” he says, nodding. “I wouldn’t be intruding, right?”
“No, of course not!” George tells him quickly. “Pierre will probably be bringing his boyfriend, Charles, and Max always brings Daniel. I don’t even know what their relationship is; they’re, like, basically married, but Max is emotionally repressed, a little bit.”
Alex nods seriously. “And you aren’t emotionally repressed at all, Georgie,” he says sagely, but there’s a glint of mischief in his eyes.
“Oi!” he protests, but he’s laughing even as he speaks. “I asked you out, didn’t I?”
Alex blushes slightly, but squeezes George’s fingers between his own. “Mm, I suppose you did.”
George can only smile.