the hunter

Allegiance to work, then.

“What, Netflix takes first dibs on my misfortune?” 

Your eyes scour his figure, wide and a little shaky. “Are you okay?”

The petulance dissipates from his body. 

“I’m fine,” he grits out. He avoids your gaze, hoping you’ll ignore the rude greeting.

There’s no clipboard in your hand. Not even your walkie-talkie. Your hands, typically occupied, are balled into fists. 

He realizes with a start that you must’ve rushed over. 

“I’m fine,” he repeats, softer. He takes your hand and gently urges them open. 

A glance to your face says you’re confused, but you obey anyway and release the tension from your fists. He compares his hand with yours, flipping it from palm to back. 

“See? Not a scratch.”

You’re not convinced. “I saw the onboards, your—”

“You can come inside to watch me change if you’d like to be reassured.” 

The scandalized glare you give him is almost worth it, Oscar thinks. 

“You’re fine.” You nod and step back like you’ve sobered up. “I’m glad.”

He smiles sadly, and the one merciful minute where the weight of the crash didn’t press down on his shoulders passes. 

Your smile is similarly dejected. You’re already turning to leave. “I’ll go, then.”

Don’t, the plead echoes through his mind. He’s not even thinking when he grabs your wrist and pulls you into a hug. 

“Just–” he mutters, heart hammering against his chest. “Don’t move.”

The hug inches tighter, and by all means you should’ve pushed him away, but instead, you relax and nod into his shoulder, reaching up to pat his back. 

He hides his face into your hair and allows himself the smallest of sniffs.

“I was worried,” you mumble.

Weekends like these wouldn’t have to be so hard, he thinks, if he had you by his side.

Maybe, in another universe, he wouldn’t have crashed. Or maybe, he still did, but he wouldn’t have to hold back. With you, he doesn’t have to. No iceman, no keeping calm and collected. He wouldn’t have to walk this far because you’d be right inside his garage, watching and waiting openly the way one does when you care and love– 

STOP, he thinks and slams the thoughts down. He’s delved into dangerous territory, and it’s unfair to think of alternate versions of you and him when the very real you is right here, miraculously, in his arms, warm hand splayed on his back. 

His grip on you tightens for a split second before he relinquishes his hold.

He doesn’t know what else to do. How to act like a line he’d been trying so hard not to cross hasn’t just been breached in every possible way.

“Thank you,” is what he settles for. It’s as lame as it sounds.

It’s enough.

“Get changed for media, Oscar.”

There’s a victorious gleam in your eyes when he huffs out an amused snort. “I will.”

“Save the bits of existential dilemma for Netflix, okay?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Don’t give it all to Sky or beIN.”

He quirks a brow. “ESPN’s alright, then?”

“I’m serious, Oscar. You can drop the PR-training when we start asking.”

Oscar knows. He knows you will keep this banter up until he’s feeling better. But. There’s no need to pretend. His laugh is brighter for it, and he catches you smiling to yourself. 

“As long as it’s you,” he says. Your heart gives a treacherous jolt. 

You let out a happy hum at his reply and make your way out of the McLaren motorhome.

He gets changed. Already, he feels a hundred times prepared to face the wolves. 

He thinks of you all the way to the media pen. 

Maybe, just maybe, your allegiance is to him. 

📮 my inbox is open for any prompts or questions on oscar x dts!crew reader. come drop by and i'll write a very quick drabble 🤭

“Is that on the record?” He asks, friendly. You would consider it teasing, even, but. It’s Oscar. It doesn’t mean anything.

“Not if I have any say in it.” 

As if on cue, a camera unit passes by trailing a frustrated looking Ollie Bearman with a boom mic hovering overhead. The crew acknowledge you with a nod.

He taps your clipboard. “Will you be interviewing me soon?” 

“I wish,” you say without thinking. You realize, belatedly, how that sounds, and try to remain non-chalant to cover the fact that it sounded the way it did. There’s the smallest tug at the corner of his lips.

You hand the clipboard to him. He squints at the rows of tables and scribbled notes, and frowns. 

“Already a producer and you can’t even pick your battles.”

“It’s a dibs system between us. I’m just one of the few field producers. Nothing too major.” 

“Well, Miss Nothing Too Major, I’m sure you’d rather be covering my championship fight than Alpine,” he says the last word the way someone would say cockroach. 

You swipe the clipboard away from him and click your tongue. “Cocky.” The comment passes without rebuttal. You can still feel him hovering over you, a little too interested in your notes. It's warm, with him so close.

“You should go ahead,” you usher. You still needed to hunt down Franco, wanting to get an angle for their episode. 

Oscar lets out the smallest of huffs. “Alright, don’t wanna get in your way.” 

“Thanks for stopping to chat.” 

“Have fun with Alpine.”

You frown. “You don’t mean that.”

“Sure as hell I don’t,” he smirks. “See you ‘round.”