Work Text:
Drive
The first time you crashed, really crashed, you thought your heart was going to fly out of your chest. The car careened sideways and its body compressed, and for half a second you thought the safety cage had failed, that your parents would be burying you and the charred hulk that had been the Mach 5, and Speed, can't die, Speed needs you--
The cage held, and you spun out into the ditch, your heart still roaring in your ears. You got out, struggled to your feet, and there your family was, staring at you wordlessly: Mom concerned, Pops with his face torn between fury and relief, Sparky eager to run the system checks. But it was Speed you couldn't stop staring at. His eyes were as wide as saucers, and he wasn't saying a word.
"Hey," you said to him. It was still too early for the adrenaline to fade and your body to start aching from rattling around in the cage. "It's all over. Everything's okay."
After another second that felt like an hour, his face lit up with a smile bright enough to light up the track. "That was amazing!" he said, and grabbed you with both arms, hugging you with more strength than you knew the kid had.
You hugged him back, as tight as you dared, and felt his heartbeat pounding.
Inspector Detector lived alone, in a location carefully guarded from prying eyes and the machinations of the corporations. His apartment was meticulously kept-- spacious and neat as a Germanic pin, with few personal touches aside from the books that lined the walls. One wall was entirely devoted to racing; histories of the sport, from leather-bound volumes to a few shiny paperbacks.
Rex was looking at the second wall, filled with vintage mysteries-- apparently the good Inspector had a taste for noir-- when the man himself arrived in his apartment.
"Put your hands up," he demanded, pulling his gun and holding it steady.
Rex smiled. "Inspector," he said. "Nice to see you again."
"I've never seen you before," the Inspector growled. "Your hands--"
"We've spoken," Rex said, raising his hands slowly. "Do you remember what you told me, just before the Crucible? 'No one can face the sponsors alone.' Well, you were right."
Recognition dawned. "Your face...surgery?"
"Yeah." Rex (of course, his name wasn't Rex any more, but he'd never found an alias that suited him) put his hands back down, keeping his movements slow and steady. "I changed everything. I thought if I just stopped, then maybe it would be all right. Maybe I could leave racing behind."
Inspector Detector put his gun away. He took his jacket off, folded it carefully, and laid it over his kitchen chair. "Someone like you could never leave racing behind, Rex. I believe I warned you about that as well." He took his hat off and placed it on top of the jacket, and a hint of a smile played at the edges of his mouth. "I'm surprised you lasted as long as you did."
For eighteen months he'd resisted. He'd met pretty girls and gone to beaches and tried to forget Rex Racer, Racer Motors, and two decades of life lived in pits and on tracks. Inevitably, the girls would start talking about their favorite driver, the bar TV would turn to a race, or he'd smell engine oil and feel his adrenalin spike all over again.
That was the worst of it; he missed Mom's pies and her pretty smile, sure, and Speed's bright-eyed enthusiasm-- even missed Dad's voice sometime, to tell the truth-- but what he missed more than anything else was the race, taking the curves, pushing himself and the other drivers to the limit, the car a part of his body....
He sighed. "Yeah, well. You're right. I can't let it go, and I can't do it alone."
"And yet you found me, and you managed...I was suspicious, but could prove nothing. Impressive." The smile on the Inspector's face grew. "You're resourceful."
"I think we could help each other," Rex said.
"You might be correct," Inspector Detector said. "Would you like a drink?"
When you are born to a racing family, there are things you take for granted. In third grade, you tried to suppress your shock when you met a boy whose mother didn't know how to drive. "She takes the bus," Ken said, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly. He might as well have announced she was an alien from Mars.
Your first real girlfriend played second violin in the school orchestra, and her family home was lined with books on music and architecture. The radio was hardly ever on, and you weren't even sure they owned a TV. At dinner with her parents, you tried to explain why you loved what you loved. You spent half an hour explaining the basics of racing strategy, and they nodded and smiled, but the smiles were disinterested, the nods perfunctory.
You took another bite of your coq au vin and realized Tamara Flynn would be your first girlfriend, that was all. Not your first love. Not even the one that got away.
"You're quite good at this," Inspector Detector reflected, holding his brandy glass aloft. The amber liquid caught the light. The investors had left; they no longer needed to pretend their impassioned argument was anything but the sham it was.
"It doesn't take a lot to feign being annoyed with you." Racer X lifted his own glass and took a slow sip, letting the alcohol warm his throat. The hotel bar was almost empty now, just the piano player and bartender, both paid staff members of the CIB.
Inspector Detector allowed a grin to pass his thin lips. "Do you think they'll approach you?"
Racer X nodded. "Now that they realize I'm not held by your antiquated ideas of morality? Absolutely."
"You're almost too convincing, at times," Inspector Detector said softly.
"Yeah," Racer X said, staring out at the city below them. "But that's why I'm so good at this."
"Just don't lose yourself in the game."
"I already have," he answered, tossing back the last of his drink. The light caught his sapphire cufflinks. "Don't you remember?"
"That reminds me," the Inspector said, "I've heard the Racer family will be taking part in the National. They have a new racer."
Racer X swallowed hard. "Speed," he said.
Inspector Detector nodded.
They are sitting high up in the stands; you have to crane your neck to get a good look. When you see the baby in your mother's arms, your throat tightens up and you almost can't breathe. You imagine Speed taking him out to the track, the rush of blood in their veins, the little boy balanced on Speed's lap....
You couldn't leave them behind, in the end, not even the Racer name, though you shifted it to a title. Watching Speed race is better than racing yourself; there's something about it, something about him, knowing what you've taught him, remembering that time you rolled the car and he acted like you'd won the Grand Prix.
"You're a hell of a driver, kid," you say to the monitors, as the lights flash and the drivers take the last turn. "Maybe you can go all the way."