#Commissioner Hamilton | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

antimonyandthyme · 1 year

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sewis batman au

Seb is Not Happy about it.

Mark says, “You like cars,” like that’s any consolation.

“It’d be fine if you were sending me there to watch cars, I do like that,” Seb says. “But you’re sending me there to babysit.”

“You’re talking about the world champion,” Mark says, as if Seb doesn’t know. “World champion seven times.”

“Yes, I’m quite aware of who Lewis Hamilton is, Mark.”

“So we’re all on the same page.” Mark claps his hands together, the way Seb’s science teacher used to do when she’d go Pencils down! at the end of a test. Seb’s pencil was usually already down, the lead broken into two then four then eight pieces because he’d grown bored waiting for the time to run up. Even now it feels like he’s waiting for the world to catch up. “I’m counting on you. Don’t fuck it up.”

Seb opens his mouth to argue, then slams it back shut. Guilt gnaws at him when he sees the stack of reports languishing on Mark’s desk. He’d heard the Chief bellowing at Mark yesterday; everyone had. Gotham Gazette had gotten some very incriminating pictures of Seb letting the Batman into the Royal Hotel.

Police seek help from MASKED VIGILANTE on mayor’s abduction

Jenson slid the paper silently across the desk, only after Seb had his morning coffee in his hands. One look, and Seb knew the damage control would be severe. He hadn’t thought it would involve Gotham’s about-as-interesting-as-a-rock billionaire. The guy’s good at driving fast. Great. That’s about all the personality Seb’s partial to.

“I’d actually take a suspension over this,” Seb says wearily.

“How much does it speak about our sad state of affairs if I tell you I can’t afford that?” Mark sounds equally as tired. The Force is wearing thin with the spate of crime ratcheting at an all-time high. Sometimes Seb steps foot out of his front door and half-expects the pavement to cave away from under him. The city’s running on its own fumes. “You know I can’t afford that.”

“I know,” Seb says. “I’m sorry for what I did.”

“No you’re not.”

No, he’s not. Not twenty minutes in and the Batman had pointed out evidence under the carpet and behind the safe and within the mayor’s pet dog that they would have taken two weeks to find, if they had adhered to proper protocol. Proper protocol! the Chief yelled, and everyone in the bullpen had turned to glare at Seb.

Seb offers his most apologetic smile. Mark rolls his eyes.

“If you’re done complaining, kindly fuck off now.” Mark scrubs a hand through his hair. The grey glinting off his temples makes Seb want to toss a match to the powder keg hiding under the foundations. Just be done with it. If they lose Mark, they lose Seb. If they lose Seb, they lose the Batman. If they lose the Batman, the city is as good as gone. “I’ve got twenty-one complaints to field because of the stunt you pulled yesterday.”

“Yessir,” Seb says. With a little bit of heart injected into it.

“Commissioner Vettel,” Hamilton purrs. Seb fights to keep his expression neutral. Hamilton’s arm is heavy around him. He’s dressed in a sleeveless mesh garb for the driver’s parade, even though the weather’s crisp at best. It looks… irritatingly good on him. “I see the Force sent their brightest.”

“Only the best for the city’s elite,” Seb says through a smile pulled so comically across his face it feels like stitches.

“And for the city’s masked avengers, as well.”

The smile drops from Seb’s face. The one on Hamilton’s merely grows. “Hanging out with him when you could be in so much better company, Commissioner,” Hamilton says easily. He pushes close into Seb’s space, and Seb, who prides himself in reading people well, blinks twice at the gates shuttered behind Hamilton’s eyes. “I’d advise you to pick your partners more wisely.”

There’s a split second where Seb hears Mark’s voice—Don’t fuck it up—before all that precaution washes away like rain down a drainpipe. A week ago the Batman had pulled Seb into the protective circle of his arm and chest plate as Alonso’s guards opened fire on them. There was nothing Seb’s Glock could do against three assault rifles. The Batman had taken every single bullet. Then, visibly injured, he’d proceeded to step in front of Seb, and knock the assailants out with their own weapons.

Alonso had escaped. Seb couldn’t have cared less at the moment. “You’re hurt,” he’d cried out, dismayed. The Batman was swaying on his feet. “Let me see, let me see—”

And for the wildest moment, the Batman had almost moved to remove his armour, leaning into Seb, before he stumbled away as if burned. He grappled up a building and disappeared into the night, with Seb calling helplessly after him.

No care allocated for himself. Seb could have hardly picked a better partner. One who's constantly putting himself in the line of fire.

His lips are moving before he can stop himself. “I’m hardly billionaire circle-jerk material, Mr. Hamilton.”

Hamilton’s mouth drops open.

The grin’s back on, stretched out like a Glasgow smile. “Look at this jacket I’m wearing! It’s ten years old, can you believe that? Look at this watch. Complete with blood splatter on its strap, from when I tried but failed to stop a colleague from bleeding out. Why do I keep this still? Maybe I’ve been too lazy to get it changed.”

“Commissioner—”

“And look at these shoes! You won’t believe the shit I’ve waded through in them. Can’t even afford to buy new ones. Do you know what a public servant makes a year?”

Hamilton opens his mouth, almost as if to say yes.

Seb scoffs. “So you see, I’m far more suited to the lowly creatures of society. They've done more for this hellhole than people like you." The urge to defend is so great. "And I dare say the bats in the alleys might even enjoy my company.”

“I dare say they would,” Hamilton says quietly. Seb flicks his gaze up at Hamilton to glare, but Hamilton’s looking at him with the most open expression he’s seen since they were within three feet of each other. They glance away, like chastised children at the principal’s office told to get along.

“So,” Hamilton clears his throat. “If you hate my guts this much, why are you here?”

Seb can recognize an olive branch, even when dangled from the bejeweled fingers of a billionaire. He shrugs. “I like cars.”

“Alright man,” Hamilton says, bumping their shoulders together. He keeps a respectful distance this time. “I buy that.”

The five lights go on. Seb doesn’t want to admit he’s standing on his tip toes, trying to peer over a tall mechanic’s shoulder. Hamilton had insisted he be in the Mercedes garage, even after Seb had gone flapping his mouth like a loose carton box. He’d made Seb tea—made it himself, no personal assistant involved. Mixed in sugar and oat milk like he knew exactly what he was doing, which Seb didn’t want to question why he could guess at. Billionaires are weird.

Seb waits for the final beep like the sound of a safety clicking off.

Hamilton gets the best start. Of course he does. Seb unclenches his pumped fist hastily. No one spares him a second glance. Hamilton takes the first corner with Leclerc right on his tail, and then—

Not everyone notices the shots at first. There’s too much noise from the track, and most of them are wearing headphones. But Seb flinches, having come to recognize the sound from daily acquaintance.

“Get down,” he yells. Around him, the crew just looks at him weird. “Get down, someone’s firing—”

Pop pop pop

Now they get the memo. The screams start. Seb grabs at one confused mechanic and pulls him to the ground, points at the entrance, shouts Go, go! They’re sitting ducks here.

Pop pop pop

Seb’s ears are ringing. Two assailants, three? Fuck, four. Seb chances a glance at the monitors, anything to give him a hint as to what’s going on. The race is still going, amid bewildered radios from the drivers. The shots must have been audible in their comms. Seb squints. You notice the silliest things when your life’s in danger. Hamilton’s car is no longer in the lead. He must have been overtaken in the chaos.

He swallows down the oddest sense of disappointment and pulls his eyes away from the screen. Pop, and something bursts into pieces barely two feet from him. Seb scrambles behind some machinery, drawing his Glock from his hip. He’s got no idea where they’re firing from, though he’s never pulled out of a game of chicken.

Deep breath. He peeks out from behind the dented equipment. Pop, it glances close enough for Seb to count that as one of his nine lives gone. He aims in the direction the shot came from, fires one off.

A muffled yell. One down. Seb’s back behind the life-saving machinery. He spots one of the pit crew frozen on his knees in the middle of the floor, stranded like an unprotected island. Seb allows himself a moment of hesitation, and then he’s barrelling for the quaking man, while more shots go off around him, and hauling him behind some tires.

“Stay back—”

He’ll never get used to bullets hitting his vest. They hurt like a motherfucker, tactical lining be damned. Three successive shots to his chest, and the wind gets knocked out of him. He drops to the ground, the debris left over from a hurricane. Alive, he clocks himself. Alive, so get up. Get up, get up—

They never did invent proper bulletproofing for legs. When he gets out of here—if, he gets out of here, Seb is going to make Mark dedicate an entire R&D faction to bulletproofing legs. The pain punches through him, and he collapses on his wounded leg.

Blood’s pouring out. Hold on. Blood’s pouring out at a speed reminiscent of that time when Seb couldn’t stop the bleeding.

More yelling, and the rain of bullets stops. That's good, because Seb can't hope to do a blessed thing at the moment.

“Your femoral artery’s been hit,” someone says. “Hang on, Sebastian. I need to tie this off.”

Seb must be dreaming, because Lewis Hamilton is looming above him. Wasn't he just in a car? When did he get here? When did he get so tall? Oh. Seb’s on the ground, that’s why. Seb’s on the ground bleeding out, and his leg is on fucking fire.

“Hurts,” he gasps. “Hurts like hell.”

“I know, you’re alright,” Hamilton says. “You’re alright, Seb.” He sounds like—like he’s on the brink. Like Seb is standing on the thinnest ice surface, and Hamilton is right there, ready to break through. Seb’s not sure he understands. Hamilton can’t possibly care about him this much; he can’t possibly care at all.

Hamilton’s found some wire in the garage, and he pulls it around the highest part of Seb’s thigh, right up against his groin.

“Ask a man out first, Jesus,” Seb mumbles. He’s not sure he likes the look on Hamilton’s face. Devastation doesn’t suit a billionaire, and maybe some part of Seb still wants to preserve the sanctity of the institutions that run the city. Is it wrong to desire a life where he doesn’t tread from one landmine to the next every other week? Is it wrong? God, what kind of man does that make him?

“I would’ve,” Hamilton says. He’s yanking the wire tight, causing Seb to jerk and scream. Hamilton’s fingers are feather light on Seb’s face. His eyes are raw earth, freshly torn apart by a rake. “I would’ve, baby.”

“Can’t afford dinner with you,” Seb manages. “My yearly salary is—”

“Sixty-eight grand,” Hamilton finishes for him, hauling Seb up. Fuck, the guy’s strong. If he wasn’t about to die this would be such a turn on.

As it stands, dying sucks. The pain is close to unbearable.

“How—” Seb’s eyelids are flickering shut. Trying to keep them open is not working. The ground is moving beneath him. Ah. The ground is moving very quickly beneath him. Seb’s going to throw up. Or pass out. He hopes it’s the latter.

Hamilton’s chest feels familiar. Seb’s cheek is smushed up against it, and he swears he can hear the thudding of Hamilton’s heart. Don’t Formula 1 drivers have some of the lowest resting heart rates?

With the last of his consciousness, “How do you know how I take my tea?”

“Stay alive,” Hamilton says, far and getting further away from him, “and I’ll tell you when you wake.”

Seb throws up on the pillow covers twice before he can force his eyes open. He half expects to see a sleeveless meshed figure by his bed.

He doesn’t know what to feel when it’s the Batman’s situated at the hospital window, watching him. Seb’s sleep hasn’t been the smoothest, and in his most lucid moments he remembers a shadow in the room. Not a bad one. A safe one, a guardian angel. The Batman’s been there for awhile. Standing still as a statue like he’ll stay until the pillars of the city come crumbling down.

“Alonso’s taken care of,” the Batman says. His voice doesn’t have its usual gravelly bite. He just sounds exhausted. “And I saw to it that the guns they were trafficking—”

“You have the worst bedside manners,” Seb says.

The Batman falls silent. He’s cradling something reverently in his gloves. Ah, it’s Seb’s watch. It looks so delicate in his hands. Infuriating, how he never allows himself to touch. How he could have walked two steps to the side of Seb’s bed but instead positions himself far away, stealing one of Seb’s belongings for makeshift comfort.

If he wasn’t so high on meds Seb supposes he would be angry. All he has is the strength to stare at the Batman’s gloved hands.

The reason why Seb’s pencils were always down in science class before the teacher could even announce it: he loves evidence. It’s the cornerstone of everything he does. It’s truth, it’s judgement for those who deserve it, it’s justice. It’s the utter satisfaction when an experiment succeeds, when Phenolphthalein changes colour as an indicator that the acid and base have cancelled each other out.

The Batman’s fingering a spot on the strap of his watch. Not many people would notice that spot. It’s just the tiniest drop of blood.

“Lewis,” Seb says.

The watch slips from the Batman’s fingers. He catches it with lightning-quick reflexes. And then he stands rooted to the ground, every muscle pulled painfully taut. Seb can see right through the mask now, Lewis’ face dissolving in a riot of emotion.

“Come here,” Seb says, and Lewis comes. Silent and obedient like Seb could ask anything of him. The most terrifying entity of Gotham, the only thing the dark’s afraid of, and he’s hunched by the side of Seb’s bed like a sinner in a confession booth. “I’m bang on the money, aren’t I?”

“I said you were the Force’s brightest,” the Batman—no, Lewis, says.

“The most begrudging of compliments,” Seb says.

“I meant it, but you didn’t like it the first time I said it.”

“I didn’t like you then.”

“But,” Lewis swallows. “You do now?”

“You saved my life.” Many, many times. “Kinda hard not to.”

The gloves are brushing against Seb’s hair, with the lightest hint of pressure. Lewis doesn't say, Don't tell anyone. Seb adores him for it.

“Take those off,” Seb complains. He’s bedridden; he’s allowed to be petulant.

A beat, and Lewis strips the gauntlets off. The hand’s back on Seb’s head, stroking, petting. Lewis is looking at him like he’s something the Batman could never be allowed to have. Lewis is touching him like he’s something more precious than the heart of this rotting city. Seb’s eyes are slipping shut. He reminds himself to have a chat with Lewis about this. Mark is going to have to field twenty-one times twenty-one complaints. This will be exceedling complicated. But he doesn’t think the Commissioner of Gotham, or the Bat of Gotham, ever got off with easy.

“About dinner.”

“Might be some time,” Seb slurs.

“I can wait,” Lewis says. “Have done, for awhile now. But I’ve got an open table at the Ocelot.”

“Prick.”

“You like it.”

The hand stays on his head. Seb closes his eyes to the shadows.

#athy texts #fanfic #rpf #sewis #batman au

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