Okay

When you first step foot into the hotel

There’s a few jokes made

Because duh obviously there was

Because your a young vulnerable teen in hell— who happened to be a fawn/deer— and Alastor was also a deer!

Charlie made a well intentioned comment about you to getting along extra well and it made the both of you embarrassed

But fuck her she was right

I imagine that there are small communities of sinners that are all sorta the same type

Like bunny sinners staying around other bunnies yknow

But Alastor never really got into all that so he wasn’t around other deer like sinners at all before you

And now he’s got all these feelings and instincts

Gross.

Anyway onto the topic at hand

I feel like Alastor spent a really long time trying to overcome his instincts

Like stopping all the little sounds and junk

So it’s really funny to imagine you just making random deer sounds

Because you haven’t learned to control your instincts

And Alastor just sitting there like

Back ramrod straight, ears perked and staring directly at you as you move around

Fawns bleat when they want attention, are hungry, feel threatened or just to communicate with their parents— typically their mother but eh that doesn’t apply here

So I can imagine you randomly bleating because your hungry or bored and then Alastor just appears behind you like

“Hello, my dear, what a lovely day!” And then he just doesn’t leave until he knows what you meed/want

It’s a different story if your bleating because you feel scared or threatened

Then he’s much more

Manic? About it when he gets to you

Which is funny if you just stubbed your toe or tripped

And slightly horrifying if you’re actively being threatened or harmed

For whoever’s decided to mess with you, that is

Another scream for Alastor’s broadcast

It’s be pretty funny if you like

Didn’t realise that he’s not like that with everyone or something

Actually no it’s funnier if you know he’s not like this with everyone, but you just assume it’s because he wants to manipulate you or own your soul

When in reality he’s clawing at the walls of his enclosure, going batshit feral because now he has feelings and a fawn to look after and

You’re packing up your gym bag when you first overhear them talking. “Movie starts at eight so I figured we could get food at six then walk over?”

“Sounds good,” Hope replies. “Did you invite Carol?”

Your heart sinks as you watch the two of them, hoping that they’ll look over, that they’ll realise. Natasha said all the girls – all of them surely included you? Neither of them even glances at you as they grab their own stuff and head out of the gym. It stings more than you’d care to admit as you slowly stand up, wiping some sweat from your forehead. Natasha had been training with you all day and hadn’t asked you once about a movie, or even told you she had plans that evening.

As you head towards the entrance you spot Tony and Sam talking, “Most of the girls are going out so I thought we could watch a movie here,” Sam says. “Rest of the team, get some snacks, maybe some beer, just chill.”

“Sounds good, I’ll send out a text,” Tony says.

Rest of the team? Surely that must include you. You linger in the doorway, waiting for one of them to say something to you. Tony’s eyes land on you and you smile, but all he does is reach over and ruffle your hair, “Have a good weekend kid. See you on Monday.”

Sam smiles at you too, “Yeah, have a good one kid.”

You visibly wilt but neither of them notices, both clearly eager to start their evening. Maybe they’re under the assumption you’ve been invited out with Natasha and the girls. Maybe they were only planning to invite people actually living in the compound, though you know Tony has his own place. Perhaps it’s your age but you’re only a few years younger than Kate, you could go watch an R-Rated movie with them…

As you head through the compound it feels like everyone’s getting ready to do something fun. Everyone except for you. You pause by the kitchen, seeing Wanda making herself a snack which she often does after training. Kate is sitting on the kitchen counter talking to her, along with Yelena. You wait for one of them to look over, to invite you to join them, but when Yelena does eventually notice you she just smiles and waves, “See you Monday, kid! Don’t get into too much trouble!”

Officially dismissed, you head for the exit, knowing exactly what format the evening, and the rest of the weekend, will now take. Your Mom will be out; she’s usually out most evenings. Your Dad had taken off years ago, you couldn’t even remember the last time you’d seen him. No one will ask you to hang out. No one will make plans with you. You’ll watch reruns of Judge Judy whilst eating whatever food your Mom left for you in the fridge, then head to bed and play on your old Nintendo DS that was just about still clinging on for dear life. You’d got it cheap at a second-hand stall a few years ago because you couldn’t afford a Nintendo Switch. There was no point buying an XBOX or a PlayStation because the only TV in the house was in the living room, and was so ancient that the cables probably wouldn’t be a match.

You have five dollars that you’d found in the park when you’d gone for that walk last week. That might get you a couple of decent snacks to make your evening slightly better. As you head through the reception you hear a burst of laughter behind you, and you have to blink back sudden tears.

You’d joined the Avengers earlier this year, after it had been discovered you could turn invisible. All you’d done was sneak into your school to get the test answers so you’d be prepared for the following day when it had suddenly turned into a whole government problem. You’d been terrified they’d lock you away indefinitely but they’d eventually handed you over to the Avengers, deciding it would be easier for them if they made you the Avengers’ problem. There’d been a long discussion but they’d ultimately agreed you weren’t dangerous, that you could continue living with your Mom, but you’d begin your training at the compound. No more school for you, Tony had hired a tutor to come in to keep you on top of your studies, but most of your time was now dedicated to intensive Avengers training.

Not having to go to school anymore was a major bonus – you’d never really made any friends there. When you’d joined the Avengers you’d been pleased by how kind they were to you, and you’d thought you’d finally found your ‘tribe’ so to speak. Months had gone by though and none of them had ever invited you to Avengers events, to hangouts, to anything outside of training.

You’ve taken just a few steps out of the compound when you stop. Suddenly you can’t stomach the thought of going home. Of sitting alone in that empty apartment with reheated leftovers from last night, wondering whether your Mom will come home tonight or whether she’ll stay at someone else’s house, not sure which is worse. You think of the Friday that she did come home, so drunk she could barely stand, how she’d woken you up by sitting on the edge of your bed, “You’ll always be a loser.” Her voice had been slurred, continuing with her monologue as you pretended to be asleep. “It’s why your Dad left. He knew as well. Your teenage years are for sneaking out, for having some fun… And all you do is sit in this apartment.”

Her hand had patted your head, and you’d burrowed under the covers, trying even harder to pretend you were asleep. It hadn’t stopped her though – her voice had carried beneath your duvet, continuously calling you a loser, a loner, saying you were wasting your teenage years. By morning she’d forgotten. She got to forget and you’d have to remember them for the rest of your life.

Whilst her words had been cruel, some of them hadn’t been untrue. Every weekend does look exactly the same. You never go anywhere or do anything. There are no friends for you to hang out with. What’s the point in ‘sneaking out’? Your Mom would’ve even notice and it’s not like you have anyone to cause mischief with. Nobody likes you. Nobody looks out for you. You’re completely alone in the world.

Before you even realise what you’re doing you turn on your heel and storm back into the compound, throwing your gym bag against the wall, and heading straight to the kitchen. More of the Avengers are gathered there now, some having a drink, some a snack, some just congregating as they all joke and banter, ready for the weekend ahead. All of them excited, none of them lonely or left out.

Steve spots you first, giving you a soft smile, “Hey kid. Did you forget something?”

“No, you guys forgot me!” You shout at the very top of your voice. Usually soft-spoken, it makes everyone pause their conversations to look at you. Normally you’d be embarrassed but the words spill out of your mouth before you can even process what you’re saying, “I like movies! I like hanging out and going for walks and playing games and I know I’m a little young but I’d probably like drinking too and I like- I like all of you! But none of you like me and I don’t get why I’m not your friend or why I’m not invited to any group activities or- Or-”

You’re finally cut off by Wanda putting an arm around your shoulders, and you burst into noisy tears. She shoots a look at the other Avengers, before leading you out of the kitchen, “It’s okay Sweetheart, let’s go somewhere a little quieter and you can tell me, okay?”

You sob as she leads you towards one of the smaller meeting rooms, used mainly for one to one’s and performance reviews. “I just- All I- I just want you to be my friend.”

“I am your friend.”

“So am I,” Yelena says, having followed you both from the kitchen. She closes the door behind her as the three of you sit in the meeting room. “What’s going on?”

“I’m so lonely,” You sniffle, letting Wanda stroke her fingers over your head. “I don’t wanna go home and sit by myself-”

“We thought you’d be out with friends,” Wanda says. “Or that you’d have plans with your parents-”

“It’s just me and my Mom, and she hates me.”

“Oh no, I’m sure she doesn’t,” Yelena says. “How could anyone hate someone as funny and considerate and resilient as you?”

“No, she does, she called me a loser and I am, I’m a fucking loser, I never go anywhere or do anything, and you guys can sense it too which is why you never invite me anywhere-”

“Slow down, slow down,” Wanda encourages, as you hiccup and choke on your words as you try to force them past your tears. “We just thought you’d get bored hanging around with a bunch of adults. We didn’t realise you were feeling so lonely.”

“Of course you can come to the movie,” Yelena says. “It is girl’s night after all.”

Your bottom lip trembles, “I- I can’t. I don’t even have any money.”

“Then I’ll pay for you,” Wanda says. “Have whatever you want at dinner, and I’ll cover your movie ticket too.”

“And you can sit by me and I’ll get us popcorn to share,” Yelena says. “And those strawberry laces, those are so good.”

“The others won’t want me there after I just yelled like that,” You sniffle.

“No one will care honey, I promise,” Wanda says. “Everyone loves you, I mean… I thought you realised you were our baby.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re all pretty protective of you,” Yelena says. “We’ve tried to give you space ‘cos you know, you’re a teenager and you’re probably way too cool for us to be fussing over you all the time-”

“Hey, is she okay?” Natasha asks, appearing in the doorway. “I got you a glass of water.”

“See,” Yelena says with a grin. “We all think the world of you.”

“Y/N’s joining us for dinner and the movie,” Wanda says.

“Oh, awesome!” Natasha says, putting your water down on the table and smiling. “You can sit next to me-”

“She’s sitting by me!” Yelena says.

“Well she has two sides and I’m sitting on the other one!”

Wanda pats your shoulder, “See? We are your friends, I promise. And now we know, we’ll invite you to more things. We didn’t mean to make so many assumptions.”

“You promise you don’t just feel sorry for me?” You ask.

“No way, you’re like the coolest person ever,” Natasha says. “You’re so young and yet you’re already such a great asset to the team. We’ll have you out on the field in no time. You’re gonna be one of the strongest Avengers, just wait.”

Lewis had stopped years ago.

Growing up, you had never thought of him as a seven-time World Champion.

He was just Dad.

The man who braided your hair terribly before school.

The one who burned pancakes every Sunday but insisted they "had character."

The one who sat on the garage floor building Lego cars with you while engineers waited to discuss race strategy.

When reporters asked how he balanced fatherhood with Formula One, he always laughed.

"I don't."

"What do you mean?"

"If she needs me, racing can wait."

Your rookie season was brutal.

Every spin became proof you didn't belong.

Every mistake was magnified.

Every good result was dismissed as luck.

Commentators questioned your strength.

Former drivers questioned your talent.

Fans questioned your very right to be there.

You learned to smile through interviews and cry in hotel bathrooms.

One evening after another disappointing race, Lewis found you sitting outside the Mercedes motorhome.

Your phone screen was glowing with thousands of hateful comments.

Without saying a word, he sat beside you.

Eventually you whispered,

"Did it ever stop hurting?"

He looked ahead.

"No."

"So how did you keep going?"

He turned toward you.

"Because if I quit, they win."

There was something you never knew.

Not until much later.

When Lewis found out he was going to become a father, he was terrified.

He was still trying to establish himself.

His career demanded everything.

Sleep.

Time.

Privacy.

People around him quietly suggested that maybe someone else could raise the baby.

Maybe adoption would give her a better life.

For one awful night, he almost believed them.

The paperwork sat on the table in front of him.

Unsigned.

Waiting.

Then the hospital called.

The nurse placed a tiny newborn into his arms.

You were impossibly small.

Your fingers wrapped around his thumb without effort.

He stared at you for what felt like forever.

The room disappeared.

The noise disappeared.

The fear disappeared.

There was only one certainty left.

He looked down and whispered,

"I've got you."

The adoption papers never left the hospital.

Months later, after winning a Grand Prix, Lewis carried you onto the podium.

The photographers loved the image.

A world champion holding a baby wearing oversized ear defenders.

No one knew that after the cameras stopped flashing, he kissed your forehead and quietly promised,

"I'll never let you think you're facing the world alone."

Eighteen years later, you stood in the exact place he once had.

Only now you wore silver.

The Mercedes star rested proudly across your chest.

Lewis, now driving in Ferrari red, watched from the neighboring garage.

No one expected you to win.

Especially not after qualifying fourth.

But strategy worked perfectly.

The pit crew executed flawlessly.

You defended against drivers with years more experience and somehow held on.

The checkered flag waved.

Your engineer's voice cracked over the radio.

"Y/N... you've just won your first Formula One Grand Prix."

You couldn't answer.

You were crying too hard.

When you climbed from the car, the first person waiting behind the barriers wasn't a team principal.

It wasn't a journalist.

It wasn't even a Mercedes mechanic.

It was your father.

He hugged you so tightly that your helmet nearly slipped off.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Neither of you had to.

Then came the media pen.

Microphones crowded your face.

Cameras pointed from every angle.

One reporter smiled.

"Who would you like to dedicate this victory to?"

You didn't hesitate.

"My dad."

Lewis lowered his head.

The corners of his eyes were already wet.

Another reporter chimed in.

"And your driver number. Twenty-two isn't exactly common. Is there a story behind it?"

You laughed softly.

"There is."

Everyone leaned closer.

"When I was choosing my number, I kept thinking about Dad's forty-four."

"So I picked half of it."

The reporter frowned.

"Why half?"

You looked directly toward Lewis.

Your voice never wavered.

"Because my dad will always be twice the person I am."

For several seconds, nobody said anything.

The media pen, usually full of shouting questions and flashing lights, fell completely silent.

Lewis covered his mouth with his hand.

He wasn't trying to stop himself from crying anymore.

The tears came anyway.

Minutes later, as the podium ceremony began, the giant screen above the circuit flickered to life.

An old photograph appeared.

A young Lewis Hamilton stood on the top step of a podium, proudly holding a baby wrapped in hearing protection far too large for her tiny head.

The date read:

2008.

Then the image dissolved.

In its place appeared a live shot.

You.

Standing on the highest step.

Winner's trophy held above your head.

The date beneath it read:

2026.

The grandstands erupted.

Some fans applauded.

Others openly wiped away tears.

The commentators struggled to finish sentences.

Lewis simply stared.

Not at the trophy.

Not at the fireworks.

Not at the cameras.

Only at you.

That evening, long after the celebrations had ended and the paddock had emptied, father and daughter sat alone on the pit wall.

The circuit lights reflected against the asphalt.

Your trophy rested between you.

Lewis finally broke the silence.

"You know..."

"When you were born, I was terrified."

You turned to him.

"I thought I wasn't enough."

He smiled faintly.

"And today you stood in front of the whole world and told them I'd always be twice the person you are."

He shook his head.

"I don't believe that."

You frowned.

"I do."

"No."

He reached over and gently tapped the number stitched onto your race suit.

"Twenty-two isn't half of forty-four."

"It isn't?"

"No."

He looked out across the empty circuit.

"It's proof that one Hamilton became two."

You blinked, trying not to cry.

"And I couldn't be prouder of the second one."

You rested your head on his shoulder, just like you had as a child.

Neither of you noticed the lone photographer in the distance.

He quietly captured the moment before walking away.

The next morning, every newspaper in the world printed the image.

No podium.

No trophy.

No champagne.

Just a father and his daughter sitting side by side under the lights, sharing a silence that said everything words never could.

The caption beneath the photograph was only four words long.

The Hamilton Legacy Continues.

End.