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“You shouldn’t be smoking,” the once disappointed glare Lightning usually wore when he was reprimanding his mentors for said activity was swapped for a sad one. Like a lost, confused, and hurt child.
Doc pauses, lighter in hand, and only gives McQueen a look. Like a cat that’d just been caught putting it’s paws where it didn’t belong, just a slightest bit of alarm masked with uncaring, self-established authority. The look of a man who knew damn well what he was doing and didn’t give a damn about the consequences, even if they were dire.
“So?” He grunts in response and tightens his jaw, teeth nearly tearing through the paper of the cigarette. He doesn’t spare the kid a second glance as he lights it up. He doesn’t even see Lightning approaching, doesn’t have time to suck away, before Lightning yanks the cigarette from between his teeth, dropping it in the dirt and stomping it out.
“You never listen to me,” Lightning says, kicking the cigarette across the dirt.
“And you nearly took my teeth out.” Doc says, glaring, as he reaches for a new one.
Just as he had the first, Lightning does away with it— smacks it out of his hand, and sends it rolling along the dirt near the other. “I hate you.”
“And I’m dying.” Doc reaches for a third cigarette, and Lightning kicks his shoe, looking at him disapprovingly. Angrily.
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s the truth.”
Lightning doesn’t bother snatching this one away. They’re both stubborn. He knows very well they could keep this up until an entire pile of cigarettes sits on the ground beside them. And it would never end.
“It’s—you don’t have to—Even if it is the truth, you can’t just say it casually like that!”
Doc takes a long drag of the cigarette, holds it in until the buzz is so strong it makes his head spin and he almost wobbles from his spot leaning against the hood of his Hornet, then exhales. He knows Lightning’s prone to emotional tirade, now more than ever, and he’s not got the time for it. He’s not got the time for a lot of things. But what little time he’s got left, he doesn’t want it to be spent reliving this argument again and again.
“The truth is always quicker. Easier, even. Say it, get used to it, then get over it, that’s just how life works.”
“That’s not fair.” Lightning leans heavily against the hornet, arms crossed.
“Life ain’t fair, kid. You know that.”
“I know.” As McQueen admits it, the ghost of a phantom pain rattles in his joints, accompanied by the sound of asphalt scraping metal. He knows, from his own experience, that life isn’t fair. He’s just lucky he got to get back on the track at the end of it all.
They both fall silent.
Lightning wants to say more, a whole lot more, but he’s only gonna end up getting angry and blowing up, while Doc sits idly and lets him, not a single emotion of his own being shown.
Doc flicks his cigarette in to the dirt when it’s burned down to only an orange stub. The dirt puts it out, and Lightning tilts his head down, eyes following the movement of the stick.
“You need a hair cut,” Doc says.
“I do not,” Lightning has to push his sandy brown hair away from his brow when he looks up to shoot a light glare at Doc. His hair was getting long enough that it began to take on a light curl at the ends—not to mention the scruff growing along his chin and jawline—but getting a trim and a shave was the last thing on his mind.
“You do. I can’t get behind the caveman hair and depression beard. It ain’t a good look on you, kid.”
“My hair’s not that long…”
“If you keep letting it grow, it’ll be longer than Sally’s,” Doc teases, reaching over to ruffle McQueen’s hair.
“You’re not funny, Doc,” Lightning says, but has to look away to hide the smirk that threatens to form. The moment’s over almost as soon as it starts, and Doc’s almost certain they’ve moved on from the original topic completely, but when he retrieves another cigarette from the pack and brings it to his mouth, Lightning gives him another sad look, almost worse than the one before, and asks, “What does it feel like?”
Doc pauses from where he’s about to flick his lighter on, and pulls the cigarette from between his teeth, “What do you mean?”
“You know, your current…situation. Does it feel a certain way? Do you feel like you’re…you know…”
“Dying?”
Lightning cringes at the word, still far away from the acceptance stage. “Yeah.”
“I can’t describe it, kiddo. It just feels like…You know those little yellow daisies that grow on weeds?”
“Dandelion daisies?”
“Yeah. Sometimes feels like I swallowed one of those, and over time it bloomed in to a dandelion—“
“And all the little seeds are floating around in your lungs?”
“Just like that.” It’s a near-constant tickle in his lungs. One that makes him want to cough a lot more than he already does.
“Maybe you should stop smoking.”
“It’s a good stress-reliever. Believe it or not, you have put me under a lot of stress for the last decade.”
“You’re not funny,” Lightning says again. “You smoke more than Fillmore.”
That gets a chuckle from Doc (which ends with a few coughs, of course), and in turn brings another smirk to Lightning’s face. The minor coughing fit causes Doc to rethink lighting up the second cigarette, and he stuffs it back in the carton.
Lightning seizes the opportunity to snatch the entire carton, stuffing it in his back pocket and out of Doc’s reach. He knows Doc has more packs in his garage, probably has one in his car, but he also knows Doc won’t go out of his way to retrieve any of those. And he won’t smack if the only pack in immediate access is suddenly out of reach.
It’s not much but a few moments is a few moments.
“Will you be at my next race?”
“You know I’ll try.”
The last two races, Doc had sat out. He’d been doing slightly better, but not well enough to be up in the pit box for over five hours. Sheriff had stood in for him both races, and team #95 did fairly well, but they could all tell Lightning was beyond distracted by Doc’s absence, and Sheriff just wasn’t Doc.
“Good, ‘cause Sheriff’s a terrible crew chief,” Lightning jokes, standing upright. He’s only slightly more relaxed than before. “I’ll see you in the morning at the butte?”
“7 AM,” Doc confirms with a curt nod.
“I’m not giving your cigarettes back, though.”
“I think I’m done for the night, kid.”
“How about being done for good?”
“With you as my protégé?” Doc gives his shoulder a nudge, “I might just have to take on drinking.”