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With his stomach feeling less like it wants to climb out of his body to strangle his brain, Jackson feels more capable of logical thought. He sucks sauce off his fingers and watches people moving around on the track below. There aren’t any other seats with this view down onto the Daytona track, and he’s spread his jacket on the second chair as a sign he doesn’t want company. Two hours to go. Two hours until he wins this, beats Ramirez, and shows his sponsors that he can keep up his streak. Ray will have to accept that Jackson is capable, that Ray doesn’t have to replace him.
A peculiarity: two people are standing still, being given a wide berth by figures he doesn’t care about. Weathers and Ramirez are just staring at some random stretch of catch fence. It looks newer, replaced after some crash or other, but they’ve stopped whatever argument it was that Weathers finished. And now they’re just standing there.
He turns back to his plate of crisps and this morning’s newspaper (damnit, Ray, give him his Twitter back) to pretend he’s not kinda fixated on Ramirez and her washed up racer chief. Then he swears, because he can’t not glance back out of the window, and who does he see?
The goddamn monarchs of the sport, walking arm in arm to see their nephew and Dinoco's latest baby. He knew they weren’t, like, dead , but how old are they? Ancient. Properly so. Probably. He doesn’t actually know, now he thinks about it. 60s, maybe? 70?
Nobody would be able to deny who those bright figures are. That greying hair and magnificent sweeping Dinoco-blue gown can only belong to the Queen, and there, in a smart blue suit which shouldn’t look this good from so far away, is the King himself. He’s even taller than Weathers, and towers over McQueen. He’s even still mostly got his white hair. McQueen in his new blue and that other guy who came back out of retirement – Swift – are ambling along too, a bit behind.
Jackson hates it, but he can’t turn away. Emotion is just bleeding off them, transparent emotional idiots, and the King wraps his arms around Weathers as tight as he can. It's kind of intrusive, being sat here with such a good view of them – a genuine coincidence – but he doesn’t want to look away. Not yet. Mrs Weathers, whatever her name is, joins the embrace, and McQueen and Swift are close behind. Swift has an arm around each Queen, ha, ha, and seems to be genuinely fond of the old lady. She even kisses his forehead like a grandma would.
Weathers had crashed here, Jackson remembers abruptly. That blue 42 catastrophe in all the best worst greatest most insane crash mashups on the Internet. Almost died.
Maybe something inside him had.
The younger racers, still old, but Jackson admits that the King adds some perspective on that, pull away. They’re talking to Ramirez, but Jackson isn’t looking at them, because the King just – he just – just grabs his wife’s face and kisses her, full on, caught on the damn cameras and displayed on the screens, like some goddamn romance movie from the Hollywood Golden Age. And the Queen is no better! She clings to the King and bleeds so much love Jackson feels sick.
They’re still kissing, and the others seem to be gently ribbing Weathers about it, but fondly, like they’re all – all so close and friendly and familial.
Jackson doesn’t have that.
He watches the giant screens show the King of modern racing pull away from his wife like she’s the last air in his lungs, the soft I love you shown in silent adoration, and wonders, suddenly, if anyone will ever look him in the face and truly mean that.
The Queen smiles, and she’s all old beauty, and then she smiles right into the camera, like she’s saying look what I got, aren’t you just green jealous?
And he is.
He stands up and walks away from the window.
He just.
Can’t bear it.
He throws the chicken-and-sauce up. He didn’t finish his crisps, so he’s going to go to the small food tent and have a bagel. Maybe that’ll stay down. Water, too, he needs to drink more water.
Cal Weathers is so damned nice.
The win isn’t sweet enough. Ray thinks he’s lost it. Lost what, nobody specifies.
But that, it turns out, is nothing, because the myths themselves actually take an interest in him.
Even Ray can’t turn away Strip and Lynda Weathers. No matter how much he wants to yell at a freshly showered Jackson.
He freezes in his tracks. It’s not like racers can’t or don’t visit each other, it’s just that they never visit him, except for the times Weathers has been there for him. The time he fed him. The time with the burns. All the slightly under-the-table coaching and emotional validation.
And apparently now, because Cal Weathers will know that this win won’t have convinced Ray of anything at all, especially with last week’s fifth being down to Weathers’ help.
Now the three Weathers family members are sat on some of the pit crew’s popup chairs, armed with smiles.
Weathers stands up. “Jackson,” he says, like he’s happy to see him. “This here’s my aunt and uncle. They fancied meeting you.”
Intimidated isn’t a feeling Jackson has felt outside of Ray’s immediate presence for quite a long time, but the King just smiled and him and held his hand out to shake.
The KING.
And then the Queen shakes his hand too. “I’m glad you’re recovering healthily,” she says, voice warm. Her face is beautiful and lined by a life full of love. Her fingers are bony but her grip is strong, her wrinkled skin soft.
He’s uncomfortable. He’s standing with real, genuine legends.
“We want to take you for dinner. You, anyone else you’d like to invite, in reason,” she continues. She’s still holding his hand between hers. The King has his arm around Weathers' waist, and he’s not sure whose benefit it’s for.
Ray is going to hate this, but the Weathers are the power couple of the sport, even Jackson knows that. Okay, he learned that recently, because he can’t get away from how nice Cal Weathers is, so he’d, you know, just checked up on him in more detail.
The crash was horrific. The shaky close-up of King Weathers' face as one of his crew held him back from the mangled body of his nephew made Jackson slam his laptop closed. It made him feel ill: Ray wouldn’t be that person. Hell, Cal Weathers would be the only person to care if Ray burned out.
Yikes.
The King finally speaks. His voice is dry and creaking and kind. “You can tell me all about your races.”
Mrs Weathers smiles the smile of a woman not to be messed with. “No shop talk at teatime.”
He smiles. He can’t help it. “Yeah, okay,” he says, before he thinks twice, before Ray can finish threatening him from behind the Weathers' backs.
They all smile even wider.
Jackson is still thinking about the purity of the love in that kiss he saw.
He’s in the car with them when he realises he’s wearing a thin white shirt which you can see his burns through, if you know they’re there, which obviously the Weathers do. When he takes his jacket off in the restaurant or wherever they’re going to eat, they’ll see them, and to his own surprise he doesn’t mind so much, but the thought of their sympathy -
The memory of being held, of that semblance of love -
Cringeworthy. Clinging to the lingering memory of a strong arm around his shoulders? Ridiculous.
The King offers him a sweet with a smirk and a wink, pretending that his wife can’t see. “Now, son, Lightning and Bobby are going to be here too, but don’t you worry about them. You’re here as our guest and those boys do, shockingly, have manners.”
“Fewer than me,” says Weathers from the driver’s seat, pulling easily into a side road. Where are they going? Nowhere upmarket, he bets, but then again, these guys are old enough to know the tricks of the area, how to get places incognito. Ray only allows incognito mode when Jackson places lower than sixth.
Mrs Weathers – he needs to pick something to call her and he can’t just call her the Queen, that’s awkward – smiles back at him. “Don’t worry at all,” she repeats.
It doesn’t help. They’re going to say his name with that disapproving scowl, and McQueen hates him, which is probably reasonable, because some days he hates himself.
The King puts a hand on his arm. Gently, he leans in and whispers. “You ain’t the first damaged kid we’ve helped,” he murmurs, and oh great he’s a pity project, “and you won’t be the last.” Those blue eyes are still sharp and piercing. “I got you.”
His heart is doing something stupid, fluttering away like a trapped bird in his ribcage. Like watching a crash on TV, knowing he’s safe anyway.
Safe?
When did that happen?
“Yeah,” the King repeats so gently, “we got you.”
Jackson isn’t scared, okay, but this has literally never happened before. Meals with Ray mean bad news and more insane standards he’ll never be able to meet. More criticism and harsh reactions he ... doesn’t always believe he deserves. But what can he do? Not much. Nothing, even.
He sits where Cal subtly indicates, almost vibrating with nerves, almost immediately trying to duck out of the conversation. No, not characteristic of his brash personality, but this is no ordinary meal. The restaurant is a small one, kind of familial, and even though they’re a small group of famous racers it still feels quiet. Low-key.
Cal sits between Jackson and Bobby Swift. On Swift’s other side is the King – you should call us by our names, son – then McQueen, then Mrs Weathers on Jackson's right. A nice balance. When Cal takes his jacket off, he gets a full view of the huge white scar which almost cuts his elbow in half. It must have hurt . For a few seconds he stares, but his mother at least taught him some manners, so he tears his horrified curiosity away.
Mrs McQueen is smiling sadly at him. She noticed. “It’s a dangerous game, son,” she says, “ain’t none of us going to escape unmarked.”
“I've got more scars,” says McQueen.
Everyone on the table scoffs in chorus, varying sarcastic comments flying towards him. Jackson must be missing something. Some history, some joke. “Nobody has more scars than you,” says Cal firmly.
“I seem to remember at least one other young man being in the same situations,” comments Strip as he flags down the waiter.
“Sometimes! Not all of them! This wasn’t his fault anyway,” continues Cal, resting his arm on the table to show off the scarring. It’s extensive. “I got this at Daytona.”
Silence. Jackson has nothing to say. Sorry? That looks painful, cool scar though? I had no idea and your Uncle’s desperation to help you made me feel sick? Also, those burns you helped with, they scarred too, so now I’m too self-conscious to take my jacket off!
Yikes. No.
The waiter takes everyone else’s order’s first, and that’s when Jackson realises he hasn’t kept real food down in so long he might not be able to finish a meal. He’s got impressive abs because he doesn’t eat enough and he’s literally always stressed and dehydrated.
“Try the beef burger,” suggests McQueen. “If you’re anything like me at that age -,”
“Which he is, a lot,” interjects Mr Weathers.
“-then anything else will sit like a brick. Get salad and chips with it, as in, steak fries, and a non-fizz drink. It’ll digest easier. Just remember to eat slowly.”
For a few seconds he stares. Sure, Cal fed him, and the meal was .... something of a turning point, but this? From McQueen of all people? “Um, sure,” he finally accepts, and everyone thanks the waiter for his time and orders drinks and doesn’t laugh when Jackson gets maybe a little excited about fresh apple juice on demand.
It’s been a long season.
Swift catches his eye. “No shop talk, but I just want to check you’re okay. I know you’ve had a few intense moments this season.”
Stumped, he mumbles some vague untruth about being in a generally healthy way with no major impacts. Under the table, both Cal and Mrs Weathers knock their knees against his. It must be support, he tells himself, still – still disbelieving.
Who’d choose him? Nobody else ever has since his mother. To Ray, he’s just business, but damn it Ray is all he has.
Mrs Weathers allows him to pour her wine, and to peel an orange from the fruit which is their starter and Cal gives him half of the only pink apple, and he knows – he knows it’s love.
This is what unconditional support is supposed to look like.
Like, he knew Ray’s support was conditional, that’s why he’s been so awful to his competitors, to these people especially, but .... well. He’s stuck. There’s no escape. This is a blessed respite, but tomorrow he’s back on the road to the drill sergeant and the simulators and the pressure.
And the win, but if he doesn’t win...
He’ll win.
The meal passes well, filled by funny anecdotes and an unnecessarily vehement argument about the Football World Cup, and then a discussion about the horses on the Weathers farm. Jackson didn’t want to reveal that he’s never met a real horse, but he thinks they know anyways.
Then they take him home, and he gets out of the car, and he prepares himself for real life to grab him by the throat –
“Now if you need anything, you just call up one of us, hear?”
Jackson nods shakily.
The Queen examines him carefully in the bright light. Even such harsh artificial lights can’t hide what remains of her beauty. “Anything,” she reiterates firmly. “Hear?”
“I hear,” he manages, and the King winks at him, and Cal calls out that he’ll see him soon, and –
“Where the hell have you been?”
Real life is waiting for him.
He lies awake in bed. Cal had offered him a position – a home. When McQueen or Ramirez have talked about Rust-Eze it’s always been with true genuine affection. To have Cal as a crew chief... that would be nice. He’d get training and support. He'd be challenged but not crushed by impossible expectations.
He considers the way his life had fallen off the 2 nd place podium as Ramirez raised the Piston Cup above her head. It’s just an empty cup, McQueen had said in an interview a few years ago. Sure, empty physically, but for Jackson that empty cup represents his safety. Security. A future.
But – he has that now, or the offer of it. If it all goes wrong tomorrow with IGNTR, there’s someone he can fall back on. Someone to catch him. Someone – some ones - who would care about him if he burned out.
What a thought.
He shuts off the light, and waits for tomorrow.