Chapter Text
“What do you mean, gone?”
Toto stared solemnly at Lewis, sitting on the edge of his desk.
“We can’t explain how it happened,” he said after a moment. “The alarms were triggered at 2:34am, but by the time the security team arrived at the vault, the thieves were gone. They took everything, Lewis.”
Lewis stared at him, face twisted in despair.
“I am so sorry,” Toto said and reached forwards.
In an instant, Lewis’ wings splayed and took him to the far edge of the room. He hovered in the air for a moment before collapsing like a broken puppet, falling to the floor with a thud.
“Lewis,” Valtteri ran towards him, kneeling by his side. “Are you—?”
“I want to see,” Lewis whispered, hunched over on the floor.
Toto grimaced. “I don’t think that’s—“
“I want to see!” Lewis slammed his fist on the ground, scowling as he looked up. “I want to see what they did.”
Toto frowned.
“It was Red Bull!” Lewis hissed. “I know it was. I can feel it.”
Toto sighed. “We considered that,” he said. “But they can’t use it anyways, and there is no way they could have pulled this off. No, this took a team of professionals. Some dust banks have been hit recently throughout Europe, and our—“
“My.”
Toto raised a pacifying hand. “Your supply is…was, quite considerable. A good target.”
“Red Bull wouldn’t risk anything just to steal your fairy dust,” Valtteri added dubiously. The halfling turned to Toto, “right?”
Before their boss could answer, Lewis turned around and walked out. He forewent the pathways and flew across the factory, slipping down to the basement where the vault was. There was a crowd there of security officers and appraisers for the insurance. When they saw Lewis, they quieted down.
Lewis ignored them, walking past them to enter the open vault.
He could feel it immediately. The magic was gone.
Not a single speck of dust was left.
Still, he scrambled, going through the containers and the sacks, shaking them and turning them upside down.
Toto and Valtteri appeared at the door.
“Lewis,” Toto said quietly.
Lewis threw an empty sack at the ground. “How could you let this happen?” He whispered hoarsely. “I trusted you.”
“We will find out how this happened, Lewis,” Toto said firmly, approaching to hold him by the shoulders. “We will get your dust back.”
“Do you have any left?” Valtteri dared to ask, looking over at him worriedly. “In your travelling box.”
“Some!” Lewis rubbed his face, stepping back from Toto. “But I was going to refill it, I— I don’t have enough for what’s left of the season, I’ll have to ration it, or—“
“We will figure it out,” Toto soothed.
“Max doesn’t have any dust at all,” Valtteri said, smiling encouragingly. “Not that you even need dust to beat him.”
Lewis hummed weakly, wings fluttering.
Yes, he could.
But then Brazil came and he foolishly used up what was left to his dust to save the weekend with a big display.
And it was fine. He won Qatar, he won Jeddah, and he was going to win—
“It’s okay, son,” Anthony said to him when all was said and done, when Red Bull was jumping all around them and Max was crying tears of joy. “Stand up and go shake his hand.”
Lewis shook his head weakly.
“You can’t be petty,” Anthony pressed. “You can’t be resentful. You can be a sore loser, or a wronged champion. And my son isn’t a sore loser. Is he?”
“They stole my fairy dust,” Lewis whispered, eyes on the ground.
“You don’t know that. And it doesn’t matter now, anyhow.”
Anthony helped him stand up and took him to where the Verstappens were. Lewis offered his hand, numb.
Then he went home and stared at his seven trophies, the stand for the eight now looking ridiculous, empty as it would stay. He peered into them, foolishly hoping to see a grain of dust or two gathered at the bottom.
But they were all empty.
“There’s one more thing I’d like to show you.”
Lewis looked at John, attention still half-caught by the crowd of welcoming Ferrari staff around them.
John put a hand on his back, making sure not to disturb his wings, to guide him away. “Just us,” he said, smiling softly.
“Oh?” Lewis laughed as he was led deep into Enzo’s house. “Where are we going? You don’t have a dungeon, right?”
John laughed. “Not since we fixed our gnome problem,” he chuckled. “Just something I thought you might want to see.”
They arrived at a humble red door in an empty corridor and John took out a key, which he used to open a comically big gold lock. It wasn’t any old lock, of course, Lewis could feel the magic dripping out of it, and he frowned curiously.
When John opened the door and waved him inside, it became apparent why Lewis had been brought there.
It was a bit like a shrine, almost, to Michael. Some of his trophies and suits, the ones not auctioned off or displayed elsewhere. And right in the middle, in a big wide chalice, was his fairy dust.
Lewis approached it, seeing the dull tint of the once golden powder. Slowly, he reached in and buried his hand in it.
It was cold to the touch and offputting. It made sense, fairy dust only worked for its owner. That was Red Bull’s big defense when they were accused of stealing Lewis’ supply: what would we want with a bunch of saw dust?
Fair enough.
“Corinna gave this to us to keep it safe,” John said, approaching. “In case, he ever…”
“Yeah,” Lewis took his hand out.
“He wasn’t able to change ownership before his accident, so it’ll stay like this forever,” John lamented.
It happened sometimes. Not Ayrton though, Lewis remembered. Though he did not have much left by the time of his accident, he had had it on his will that all his remaining fairy dust would belong to the children of Sao Paulo should something happen to him. And sure enough, once the streets had calmed down from his funeral, his family had packed up what was left and held a drive to give as many children as possible their share. Many adults have brought their children to try and fake it, but the dust knew whether their child was from the Senna’s hometown or not.
In his will, which had then since been updated, Lewis had put down that his dust would go to his brother and to his nieces and nephews. When he had had to tell them all that there was no dust for them anymore, the kids had cried. Not that they would have been likely to actually inherit it, as Lewis had no intentions of dying young.
“Sebastian once said it was a curse, having dulled dust around,” John continued. “He said that’s why the team struggled.”
Seb would say that, Lewis thought with a small smile. He was a witch. As far as he was concerned, everything was a curse or charm.
Seb had donated all his fairy dust after he retired, from what little he had left. It was a small sack, weighing almost nothing. Most of what he had left from his championships had been fruitlessly spent at Ferrari, scoopfulls of dust thrown all over the place to try and win again.
Lewis had watched him give his little sack to Mick with envious eyes, biting his tongue. Why him and not me? He wondered. He doesn’t even have a seat anymore.
“Hopefully, you will be able to rebuild your supply with us,” John said, smiling eagerly.
“I’m not racing for dust,” Lewis said, turning to him. “It, it doesn’t matter to me. I want to win to show the world I can do it on my own, just like the first time.”
And hadn’t that been a rush? That first year, going up against Fernando and his proud chests of dust, fresh and ready for the challenge of a new team. And here came Lewis, with nothing to his name, going head to head with him. And when he finally won the following year, he had been so happy he had put the dust away and ignored it. He started it using once it became clear McLaren was a bit lost in the following years, but to him it had always been a little push, maybe even psychological more than practical.
“I don’t need dust to win, I never did.”
“Of course,” John agreed easily. “We know that. And we’re ready.”
Lewis smiled, following him out of the room.
He was ready too.
Lewis stared down at the pool of grey dust in front of him, silently begging it to light up.
It hadn’t been a good year so far. Sure, he loved getting inside his Ferrari every weekend and the energy of the fans was incredible and slowly, but surely he was getting used to the dynamics of the team, but–
It hadn’t been a good year.
He kept losing records, wasting chances, breaking his streaks.
No podiums, no wins, unless one counted the Springs.
Lewis never counted the Sprints.
McLaren was dominating, all by themselves. Max was having to use more of his fairy dust than ever just to occasionally give them a fight, Lewis knew, and he childishly hoped the man would run out.
Especially since he was apparently giving it away.
It was Kimi who first mentioned it to Lewis, proudly holding a small baggy filled with glowing dust. “Look what Max gave me, Lewis!” He said, shaking it. “He said to only use it scarcely, but it’s such a nice gesture. He’s so generous.”
Lewis had seen Max then sneak a tiny box to Ollie, who looked like he was about to cry after coming out of a meeting with the stewards.
Gabriel had also gotten a ration, bigger no doubt, and he happily poured it over his car before almost every quali and race.
Isack had gotten some, as well, though he confessed to Lewis when they were playing UNO that he had not used it. “I want to show that I can do it on my own,” he said. “Is that arrogant?”
“No,” Lewis had answered absentmindedly, mind pouring over the question of why on earth a champion would be donating their supply of fairy dust, especially on a season when they needed it.
Maybe Verstappen was planning to retire after all, and saw no use for the dust outside of racing in F1. Elves were weird, Lewis decided. Their magic was different and they didn’t react to fairy dust as powerfully as other species, though their cars did.
Sometimes Lewis wondered what Nico had done with the dust in his championship trophy. It was the one answer no Sky Sports interview could wiggle out of the German elf, who spoke of everything in his life except his dust.
He probably had done something productive with it.
Jenson had ended up wasting his with McLaren, Kimi had used up his humble one-time supply on his rallying career, Fernando had lost it all with Ferrari.
Lewis regretted not using his more. He had hoarded it, trying to avoid their mistakes, keeping it locked beneath Brackley and only taking a little bit out at a time for work. He could have used it more in his personal life, instead of hiding it away. He could have shared it.
Instead, he let it get stolen.
As he looked down at Michael’s sad leftover supply, he thought of how his own dust probably looked just as ugly, wherever it was.
He had given up on it, though it hurt him to think about it.
Which is why he almost dropped his phone in shock when he got to his rented home in Maranello that night and got a text from Isack, with no greeting or accompanying stickers.
I think I know where your fairy dust is