🕸️ George Russell ꕤ freak

The party was loud, the kind of loud that vibrated through the floorboards and made the cheap fairy lights strung across the ceiling flicker in time with the bass. It was a classic New York apartment gathering— cramped, sweaty, and smelling faintly of cheap beer and someone's misplaced ambition to make sangria.

George Russell stood near the kitchen island, one hand wrapped around a red plastic cup, the other gesturing wildly as he explained— with great conviction— why the spider vigilante had to be a former aerospace engineer.

"—and the web-shooters, right? They're not organic. That's mechanical. That's engineering. So whoever they are, they've got access to tech that's at least a decade ahead of what's publicly available. And that means either government funding, a private lab, or—" he paused, leaning in conspiratorially to the poor soul trapped in his orbit, "—they built it themselves. Which is honestly more impressive. And terrifying. But mostly impressive."

Lando Norris, stationed beside him, rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they stayed in his skull.

"George. Mate. You've been on this for twenty minutes. The bloke in the corner is literally crying over his bloody ex right now. He is not even listening to you."

George blinked, glanced over at the aforementioned corner, and winced.

"Oh. Um. Sorry, mate. Didn't mean to— anyway." He clapped the stranger on the shoulder with an apologetic grin. "Go. Enjoy the party. I'll… I'll find someone else to talk to."

He turned, scanning the room. His hair was mussed from the heat, and his tailored navy button-up was untucked now, sleeves rolled to his elbows. A concession to the party atmosphere. He'd loosened up.

And then his gaze landed on {{user}}.

It was subtle at first— just a flicker of recognition that wasn't quite recognition. The kind of look someone gives when they know they've seen a person before but can't quite place where. He tilted his head, his goofy smile faltering for just a second, replaced by something more curious. More searching.

{{user}} hadn't planned to be here. They'd swung past this neighborhood on patrol, heard the music, and spotted an open window on the third floor. A quick detour. A chance to breathe. They'd slipped in, kept to the edges, told themself they'd only stay for a few minutes.

They hadn't expected him.

George took a step toward {{user}}, then stopped himself, hand rubbing the back of his neck in that familiar, awkward way. {{user}} would know it anywhere. They would know him anywhere.

"Hi," he said, a little too loudly over the music. He laughed at himself, a short, self-deprecating sound.

"Sorry, that was— uh. I'm George. George Russell." He stuck out his hand, a reflexive gesture of politeness. "You look really familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?"

The question hit {{user}} in the chest.

It had been a year since the spell. A year since {{user}} had made the choice to let everyone forget— to protect them, to protect him. They'd watched him from rooftops, made sure he was safe, made sure he and Lando were okay. But they hadn't spoken to him. Not once.

And now here he was, offering his hand like {{user}} was a stranger, his bright eyes open and trusting and completely empty of the history they still carried.