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Chapter Text

Radiator Springs had settled into a peaceful, lazy morning. The first rays of sunlight crept over the jagged edges of Carburetor Canyon, bathing the small town in a soft, golden glow. Most of the residents were already parked at Flo’s V8 Café for breakfast, the air thick with the comforting scent of freshly brewed motor oil and the distant sizzle of something frying in the kitchen.

Lightning McQueen was exactly one week into his off-season, and for once, he was doing absolutely nothing—and loving every second of it. No training schedules. No pit crews. No press junkets or post-race interviews where he had to pretend he didn’t still hate the taste of synthetic champagne.

Of course, he didn’t plan to laze around every day. As he and Mater relaxed under the café’s awning, sipping on oil cans and splitting a massive Belgian waffle drenched in octane syrup, they were already mapping out the day’s activities.

“...And after we’re done mud-skiddin’ through the canyon,” Mater was saying between mouthfuls, “I heard there’s an old junkyard just outside Carburetor County that’s supposed to be haunted! But we’ll see about that, and then—”

McQueen, only half-listening at this point, jumped when a familiar—and generally not unpleasant—voice cut through the morning air.

“Lightnin'. Need your help with somethin’. Let’s go.”

McQueen turned and frowned at the sight of Doc Hudson pulling up along the curb. His tone made it clear he wasn’t taking ‘no’ for an answer—which never sat well with McQueen, even now, long after his humbling days in Radiator Springs.

“Uh, Doc? I actually do have plans today, y’know,” he said, arching a brow.

Doc gave a dry smirk. “Right. Your big tractor-tippin’ rematch. Sounds real important.”

“Yeah, well—doesn’t matter what the plans are. You ever heard of asking first?” McQueen shot back. “Kinda rude assuming I’ll just drop everything at your beck and call.”

“Oh, pardon me, your highness,” Doc said with a dramatic roll of his eyes. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your incredibly packed schedule with somethin' actually useful.”

McQueen scoffed. “Hey, I’ve been useful! I gave this town a new road, helped the businesses, brought back tourists—I think I earned the right to a little downtime.”

Doc’s voice went cool. “Sure. And I guess I’ve earned the right not to coach you anymore. Seein’ as I already spend 70% of my year talkin’ to you through a radio.”

McQueen opened his mouth for a comeback but found none. His expression faltered, eyes dropping away as the weight of the comment landed squarely on his hood.

After a beat, he muttered, “Am I at least allowed to know what I’m supposed to be helping with?”

“Clinic,” Doc said simply, tilting his hood toward the small building down the road. “Busy day. I need an extra set of tires.”

McQueen blinked, hoping against hope he’d misheard. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, I think I’m still half-asleep. You want me to do what now?”

“Help out at the clinic,” Doc repeated patiently. “Simple assist. Just pass me tools when I ask.”

McQueen glanced warily at the little white garage with the caduceus symbol out front, as if it were the haunted junkyard Mater had mentioned. “I mean, sure, yeah, sounds fun—except, y’know, last time I got near that place I ended up with nightmares I couldn’t scrub of a bolt in Sheriff's rear differential.”

He shuddered and looked down at his half-finished oil can. “I couldn’t make eye contact with him for a month.”

Doc arched a brow. “Well, you were the one who barged in without knockin’.”

“I needed fuel rations! And I didn’t see a ‘Do Not Enter—Surgery In Progress’ sign.” McQueen grumbled.

“You’ll desensitize,” Doc said with a shrug. “Let’s go.”

“Wait—hold on, Doc. Why me?” McQueen whined. “Can’t you ask someone else? Luigi, Guido, Ramone—heck, ask Red! He loves helping!”

“Luigi and Guido are manning the tire shop. Ramone’s booked solid. And Red—bless him—panics every time a wrench hits the floor.”

McQueen pointed to the truck next to him. “Then what about Mater?”

“Daggum, buddy, weren’t you listenin’?” Mater looked surprised. “I got my whole day planned out!”

McQueen stared, betrayed. “I thought that was stuff we were gonna do.”

“We were, ‘til you got volunteered to help Doc.” Mater beamed. “That’s real nice of you, by the way. This is why you’re my best friend. Always ready to lend a tire.”

Doc chuckled as McQueen turned to glare at him.

“You done whinin’?” Doc asked, smug. “Good. Let’s move, hotshot.”

With a long, miserable groan, McQueen coasted from his spot and cast one last, envious glance toward Mater—who was currently hogging the rest of the waffle in blissful ignorance.

Grumbling under his breath, McQueen rolled after Doc, trailing behind like a kid being marched off to summer school.

The inside of Doc’s clinic was, in McQueen’s opinion, a chrome-plated nightmare.

The place gleamed like it had been scrubbed with bleach, waxed with jet fuel, and polished with pure denial. The scent hit first—a sharp wave of antiseptic and chemical cleaner, layered with hints of burnt rubber, motor oil, and long-suffering regret. McQueen instinctively tried not to breathe too deeply.

Everything inside was white or stainless steel—from the ceiling lamps to the cold, intimidating racks of surgical tools lined along the walls with unsettling precision. He was pretty sure some of them belonged in a medieval dungeon, not a medical garage.

“I think I saw this exact room in a horror movie once,” McQueen muttered. “Didn’t have a happy ending.”

Doc, already deep into replacing a client’s bent suspension, didn’t respond. His focus was locked in, only breaking to call out tools like a commander issuing orders in the heat of battle.

“Torque wrench.”

McQueen blinked at the polished lineup of instruments. “…Which one’s the torque wrench again?”

Doc sighed—long and suffering. “The long one. Chrome handle. Black grip.”

McQueen glanced over, then used the magnetic grip cuff wrapped around his tire to pick up a silver tool with a black grip. He held it up, hopeful.

“That’s a breaker bar.”

“They look the same!”

“They’re not.” Doc pointed with his bumper. “Other side. Second from the left.”

McQueen grabbed the one he meant, tried to spin it in his tire to look impressive—and immediately dropped it. The tool clattered loudly across the floor and slid under a cabinet.

There was a long pause.

Doc didn’t even look up. “Great. At this pace, we’ll be done by next winter.”

“Oh no, please—insult the free labor. It’s not like I asked to be here,” McQueen deadpanned.

“Life’s full of things we don’t ask for,” Doc replied, cool as ever. “Like loudmouth rookies demandin' to be taught how to turn on dirt. But we manage anyway.”

McQueen squinted at him. “Wow. Did they offer guilt-tripping at medical or racing school? ‘Cause you clearly graduated top of the class.”

He lowered himself awkwardly to his undercarriage to retrieve the tool, only to smack his bumper against a compressed air tank with a loud clang when he backed up.

Doc bit back a remark about how graceful he wasn’t off the track.

“Just sayin’,” McQueen muttered, passing the tool off. “You could at least label these things.”

“I did,” Doc replied, voice dry. “They’re called tools, and if you spent less time mouthing off and more time paying attention, you’d learn ‘em.”

McQueen didn’t dignify that with a reply—just narrowed his eyes and resumed sulking.

Over the next twenty minutes, he handed Doc the wrong wrench. Twice. Dropped a pair of calipers. And very nearly passed him a tiny mallet when Doc asked for the scope camera.

McQueen frowned at it. “Why do you even have a mallet in a clinic?”

Doc didn’t even blink. “Sometimes a stuck part just needs a little convincin'.”

The next patient rolled in not long after—a tan 2005 Chevrolet Equinox with a deep rattle in his engine and a history of overheating. Doc listened, nodded, and guided him carefully into the bay.

“Somethin' in the upper cylinder chamber’s cracked,” Doc said after a quick exam. “Gonna have to dig in.”

McQueen didn’t like the sound of dig in.

He liked it even less once the engine cover came off.

Doc’s tools moved with steady, experienced precision as he reached deep into the Equinox's engine compartment, disengaging clamps and rerouting lines. He eased out the damaged part—a blackened, half-melted exhaust manifold—with a quiet grunt. The smell hit a moment later, something like hot coolant mixed with battery acid and mechanical failure.

McQueen’s eyes widened.

“Ohh no,” he muttered, backing up a few inches. His mouth watered in the worst possible way. “Nope. Nope. This is—Doc, this is inside stuff. I wasn’t built for inside stuff.”

Doc glanced up, caught the sickened look in McQueen’s eyes, and the shallow, panicked breathing. “You better not puke in my garage.”

“I’m not gonna—I don’t—” McQueen gagged mid-protest. He clamped his lips shut and swallowed hard. “Why does it look like that?”

“’Cause it’s been run hard and patched up wrong,” Doc said, unfazed. “Not everybody’s got a pit crew waitin’ on ‘em tire and tailpipe.”

“Yeah, well, I have a pit crew so I never have to know what nightmares are going on under the hood.”

Doc huffed. “Just hand me the new manifold and quit whinin'.”

McQueen picked up the part like it might bite him, grimacing at the scorched edges as he passed it over—carefully, like he was handing off a live grenade. Doc didn’t bat an eye, just got to work fitting it in place.

“Hold the light steady,” Doc ordered.

McQueen did, but he kept his eyes fixed firmly on the ceiling. If he didn’t look, maybe he could pretend it wasn’t happening. Just a little longer. One more part. Just one—

“Here.” Doc held out the old, melted component. “Toss this in the scrap bin.”

McQueen looked at the greasy, twisted hunk—and broke.

“I can’t—” he choked, spinning on his tires and bolting from the garage.

He didn’t get far—just to the nearest trash can by the supply shelf—but it was far enough. He retched into it violently, a loud, echoing groan of pure misery following close behind.

“Clean that up!” Doc shouted from across the bay, clearly revolted. “Before it stinks up the whole place!”

McQueen groaned, slumping forward with his bumper against the rim of the can, one eye half-lidded in defeat.

“Next time,” he rasped, “I’m aiming for your toolbox. How’s that?”

By the end of the day, McQueen was thoroughly exhausted, ready to collapse the moment he rolled back to the Cozy Cone. As Doc locked up the clinic, McQueen muttered under his breath, bitter and bone-tired, “Next time, make someone else play nurse.”

“With any luck,” Doc replied, sounding just as worn out, “there won’t be a next time.”

Needless to say, there was a next time.

Two weeks later, Doc told McQueen he needed help at the clinic again. What followed was the usual barrage of grumbling, whining, and dramatic pleading—but much to Doc’s surprise, McQueen still showed up. And on time, no less.

This time, the patient was a 2006 Honda Accord who’d hit a nasty pothole coming off the interstate and was now rattling like a coffee can full of bolts. Doc got to work while McQueen handed over tools—this time with noticeably less fumbling, and, more importantly, no mid-procedure retching.

He even started making conversation.

“So… where’d you learn how to do all this, anyway?” McQueen asked, watching curiously as Doc’s tires moved with practiced precision.

“Figured most of it out on my own,” Doc replied, tightening a bracket. “Back then, when you were just startin’ out, pit crews weren’t a luxury you could afford. If you wanted to make it to the next race, you learned to fix yourself.”

McQueen blinked. “Wait—you did all this yourself? Every time you crashed out?”

That sounded… awful.

“Sometimes,” Doc said. “Sometimes Smokey did it if I couldn’t reach, or if I was about to make myself combust.”

“Yikes.” McQueen passed him the next tool—this time correctly, without even looking.

After a pause, he asked, “But why’d you keep doing it after you retired?”

Doc gave a small shrug. “Town needed a doctor. I already knew my way around an engine better than most. It’s honest work. Decent. And if I’m bein’ real honest, it’s more fulfillin' than racin' ever was.”

McQueen blinked at him, stunned. “No way. Seriously? But… you’re one of the best out there. You inspired a whole generation! How could that possibly be less fulfilling?”

Doc smirked. “Bein' good at somethin' doesn’t mean it fills you up, kid. You ever seen the look on someone’s face when you fix a chronic axle alignment that’s been botherin’ them for five years? That relief? That gratitude?” He tightened the last bolt with a satisfying click. “It sticks with you. I liked racin'. But I’ve never felt quite as proud of myself as I do when I know I’ve helped somebody else.”

McQueen fell quiet, turning that over in his mind.

He thought back to Radiator Springs—how it had felt to light up the old neon again, to see the townsfolk smile like kids. The look on Sally’s face that night. That rush of joy, of knowing he’d made something better—not just for himself, but for everyone.

It had felt better than winning his first Piston Cup.

He figured what Doc was describing must’ve been that same feeling—but magnified.

The next time Doc asked, McQueen was a lot less reluctant.

By the fourth time, he didn’t even need to be asked.

Doc had casually mentioned that a couple of cars from the next county might swing by with suspension issues, nothing urgent. But as they rolled out of Flo’s that evening, McQueen glanced over and said, “Need an extra set of tires tomorrow?”

Doc gave him a sidelong look, a half-smirk tugging at his bumper. “You volunteerin’ now?”

McQueen shrugged, playing it off. “Eh. Beats watching Mater try to juggle oil cans again.”

Doc snorted. “Should I be worried? Might need to check your oil pressure—make sure you’re not comin’ down with somethin’.”

McQueen huffed a laugh as Doc reached out with a tire to feel his hood like a concerned parent.

“Hardy-har.” He rolled his eyes and waved him off. “It’s not that big of a deal. Just being, y’know—neighborly. Thought I’d start pulling my weight around here.”

“Huh.” Doc’s smirk deepened into something close to a proud smile. “Didn’t think there was much weight left to pull after all that bellyachin’.”

McQueen scoffed and side-eyed him. “Keep this up and I’ll never volunteer again.”

Doc chuckled. “Good. I was startin’ to think the world was endin’ anyway.”

McQueen grumbled and gave him a light shove with his tire. Doc barely rocked on his suspension but let out a laugh anyway.

The next morning, McQueen showed up before Doc. He laid out the tools and started getting things ready to open, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

By the sixth time, it was routine at this point.

McQueen would roll into the clinic like he belonged there—no groaning, no eye-rolling, no dramatic sighs. Just a relaxed smile and sometimes even a little off-key whistling.

Doc would already be fender-deep in a job, wrench balanced against a timing belt, sockets scattered across the tray. And without needing to be asked, McQueen would slide into his usual spot, casually grabbing the right tools, setting them near Doc’s side, all while rattling off the latest town gossip, race updates, or some wild mischief he and Mater had gotten up to.

It had become second nature.

He didn’t even think about it anymore.

Doc never said much—he rarely did—but now and then, he’d pause, lean back, and glance over at McQueen. Not with his usual scrutiny, but with something quieter. Softer.

One afternoon, as McQueen handed over the torque wrench mid-sentence without missing a beat, Doc gave a low grunt of approval.

“You know… you’ve gotten real good at this.”

McQueen blinked. “At what?”

Doc nodded toward the tool in his tire, then to the rest of the parts neatly laid out beside him. “This. Bein’ here. Helpin’. I didn’t even have to ask.”

McQueen looked down at the lineup he’d sorted, the cleanup cloth already in place, how familiar it had all become. He hadn’t even noticed.

A small smile tugged at his bumper—subtle, a little bashful.

“Well, you know me,” he said, slipping on a faux smug tone. “Quick learner... Once the dry heaves stopped every time someone’s hood popped open.”

Doc chuckled, low and rough. “Not gonna lie—I figured you didn’t have it in you at first. But you stuck it out… I’m impressed.”

McQueen snorted. “So what, if I’d faked sick for a few more days, I’d’ve been off the hook?”

“Nah.” Doc smirked. “I’d’ve just kept a mop and bucket nearby.”

McQueen huffed and grabbed a semi-clean rag, slipping it under one of the grease-caked parts as Doc set it down. “You were that desperate for help?”

“Desperate? Nah. More like… an investment.”

McQueen raised a brow. “Right. I think you just enjoy watching me suffer.”

“Sufferin’ builds character, kid. Thought you could use some.”

“How much more character could I possibly need?” McQueen grumbled. “You’ve been running me into the ground for years.”

Doc didn’t even look up. “If you’re still askin’ that, then you ain’t done growin’ yet.”

McQueen rolled his eyes and passed the replacement part over.

“Anyway, like I was saying before I was rudely interrupted—”

“Next time I’ll keep my praise to myself,” Doc murmured with a smirk.

McQueen stuck his tongue out at him, then picked up where he’d left off. “Ahem—so Mater spots this old tractor stuck halfway in a sinkhole and decides we have to save it. Next thing I know, he’s hooked up and yelling, ‘I got it! I got it!’—right before the ground gives way and we both go sliding nose-first into twelve inches of mud.”

Doc shook his hood, an amused smile tugging at his bumper. “How long were you stuck there?”

“Three. Hours. I’d already made peace with death until some farm truck showed up and asked if we were environmentalists tryin’ to plant ourselves into the ground to raise awareness about global warming.”

Doc burst out laughing—one of those rare, real laughs that shook his frame. He had to pull his tires away from the engine just to avoid damaging anything mid-chortle.

“Guess we found your true callin',” he said between chuckles. “Real inspirational stuff, kid.”

McQueen stared at him, deadpan, waiting for him to catch his breath. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. I only almost drowned in topsoil.”

Doc grinned, eyes twinkling. “So this is what you meant when you said you were really down-to-earth.”

McQueen groaned. “Oh no. Not the dad jokes.”

“I think you’re takin’ ‘being grounded’ a bit too literally, son.”

McQueen closed his eyes like he was in physical pain. “Please stop. I will throw myself back into that mud pit.”

“Hey, you should be proud,” Doc added, completely undeterred. “Not every car gets to be a cultivator of change.”

McQueen narrowed his eyes. “One more pun and I’m filing for crew chief reassignment.”

“Promises, promises,” Doc sniggered.

With the final bolt tightened, Doc let the hood ease shut with a satisfying click. A few moments later, the patient rolled out of the bay, running smooth as ever and beaming with thanks as they left.

“All right. That’s a wrap.” Doc stretched his struts with a satisfied sigh, giving McQueen an approving nod. “Come on. I think you earned yourself some dinner, rookie.”

McQueen perked up. “You buying?”

Doc shrugged as he wiped his tires clean. “Figured it’s about time I paid back some of that free labor you’ve been handin’ out.”

McQueen smiled—one of the real ones, the kind that lingered. He glanced around the clinic. It was still white, still clinical… but somehow, it felt warmer now.

His voice dropped a little. “Y’know… this place isn’t so bad after all.”

Doc paused mid-wipe, brow lifting with amusement. “Oh yeah?”

McQueen made a face as he looked around. “Don’t get me wrong—it still looks like it could be the set of a Saw movie. But… I dunno. The helping out. The talking. Getting things done. I get why you do it now.”

Doc huffed a laugh, rolling over to scrub a lingering smudge of oil from McQueen’s fender. “Sometimes you don’t know what you’re capable of ‘til you drift outta your lane.”

“Yeah, guess so,” McQueen murmured, his smile turning thoughtful. Then, narrowing his eyes, he added suspiciously, “Wait—was this all just some elaborate life lesson?”

Doc didn’t answer right away. He just smirked, tossed the rag into the sink, and coasted toward the door.

“Like I said—investment.” He nudged the door open with his hood and glanced back. “Come on, kid. Let’s get some food in you before you start thinkin’ too hard and sprain somethin’.”

McQueen huffed, but rolled after him, the clinic lights clicking off behind them. The lingering scent of motor oil, steel, and exhaust clung to their frames as they made their way toward Flo’s—a quiet, unmistakable badge of two well-worn, hard-working cars who’d put in a full day’s work.

Chapter Text

The phone rang at exactly eight am on the dot, slicing through the peaceful hum of the clinic with its sharp bureaucratic tone. Doc was busy trading sips of dark oil from a can sitting beside his tire and a wrench as he unbolted the worn mount from the frame of a client's undercarriage. He sighed heavily at the interruption, hoping the caffeine would kick in faster.

“Hey, Lightnin’!” he called, voice booming off the tile walls. “Phone’s ringin’. Come finish this mount while I deal with the joys of administration.”

From the back room where McQueen was busy taking inventory, he called back, “Ah man, you made me lose count!”

Doc rolled his eyes as he wiped his tires on a rag and rolled towards the phone, muttering, “You can count brake pads later—this mount ain’t gonna swap itself.”

McQueen appeared a second later, tossing his clipboard on the desk as he passed. “Yeah, yeah, at this point I’m just a high-performance ping-pong ball. Back room, front bay, back again…”

“Called multitaskin’, hotshot. And believe it or not, it’s how grown-ups get things done.” Doc said as he tapped a button to receive the call.

“Should’ve taken that Dinoco deal. I could be in a private hangar right now, sipping imported synthetic oils and getting polished with silk cloths. But nooo—I chose to spend my time in someone else’s undercarriage and being sassed by an old guy.” McQueen muttered grumpily to himself as he pulled the worn mount free, exposing the torn and cracked rubber inside.

“And don’t strip the threads!” Doc shouted from the back. “Or cross-thread the bolts again!”

“One time. One. Time.” McQueen growled. “Let it go!”

Doc snorted and turned back to the phone, expecting it to be a car needing a tune-up or filter change. Instead, it was someone from the Arizona Medical Mechanic Licensing Board—and they were already talking fast. Whatever they were on, he needed some.

At first, McQueen had been too concentrated on the installation to pay attention to the conversation going on in the back, but as Doc’s voice rose with growing irritation, McQueen paused what he was doing to eavesdrop.

“Online renewal. Yeah, that’s what I was tryin’ to do. But your site kicked back the application.”

A pause.

“No, I haven’t moved in the last five years.”

Another pause. Then a slow, annoyed exhale.

“Well, why didn’t it say that on the form?”

McQueen rolled back enough to glance at the back room. Doc hadn’t shut the door, giving McQueen a clear view of the Hornet glaring at the wall. He glanced briefly at him and rolled his eyes to the ceiling in clear exasperation. McQueen smirked in amusement.

“If I mail it, then, how long will it take to get this resolved?” Doc said.

Waited for the answer.

“Two weeks? You gotta be—” Doc cut himself off. Sighed heavily. “Fine. I’ll bring it in.”

He hung up with a loud bang, grumbling about ‘rusty-nut paper-pushers’ and turned toward McQueen, who was still watching with unabashed curiosity.

“What was that about?” McQueen asked.

“They’re claimin’ some kind of paperwork mix-up,” Doc muttered. “Said I need to verify a few things in person. Somethin’ about my license renewal form not matchin’ their records.”

McQueen frowned. “You can’t email it?”

“Could,” Doc said, heading toward his desk. “But the form they have on file is missin’ half the info, and the other half’s from 1973. They want proof I’m still me.”

“How long’ll you be gone?”

Doc looked at the clock. “Shouldn’t be more than five, maybe six hours. If traffic’s not a pain.”

He pulled a battered file folder from a drawer, flipping it open to check its contents. “I’ve got the original documents here. Just need to show up, wave ‘em around, prove I’m not dead, and come home.”

McQueen’s brow lifted. “Want some company? I could ride down with you. Keep you entertained. Mock other drivers on the interstate.”

Doc smirked, but shook his hood. “Appreciate the offer, but I’ve got a couple appointments today that can’t be moved. Nothin’ major. Quick diagnostics, one tune-up, and a refill—stuff you’ve seen me do a dozen times.”

McQueen blinked, “Wait—you want me to run the clinic without you? Alone?”

“If I didn’t think you could handle it, I wouldn’t ask.”

McQueen looked toward the little schedule board by the door. An 11:30 brake alignment. A 1:00 axle lube. A 3:00 strut test.

“Yeah, well, wasn’t it you that was making fun of me for cross-threading a bolt like ten minutes ago? Now I’m your stand-in?”

“I give you a hard time, kid.” Doc shrugged. “But you’ve got good instincts and steady tires. You could probably run this place blindfolded by now.”

“That’s flattering,” McQueen replied, “But is this even legal? Leaving an unlicensed, unsupervised race car to make mechanical adjustments in a registered clinic? I don’t want the state to revoke your license because you left the intern in charge.”

Doc rolled his eyes. “I didn’t need a license to fix cars until someone at the state board got bored and decided we all needed one. And you’ll be fine. You know what you’re doin'.”

McQueen still looked unconvinced.

Doc grunted and reached for the folder. “Tell you what—I’ll ask about getting you certified while I’m there. They’ll probably want you to sign thirty forms and take a test written by someone who’s never touched a lugnut in their life, but I’ll getcha the cheat sheet and we’ll take a trip down there this weekend, how’s that?”

McQueen gave a small smirk. “You sure you aren’t just desperate for a day off?”

“That’s just the bonus,” Doc assured him with a wink. “Just keep things tidy, stay out of the sharp drawers, and don’t light anythin’ on fire,”

Doc made his way toward the door. McQueen followed.

“And if someone rolls in with their whole engine block hanging out?”

“Tell them to come back tomorrow,” Doc called, already halfway down the drive. “Or offer ‘em a bandage, a juice box, and tell ‘em to stop bein’ so dramatic.”

“Yeah, that might work well for you, old man,” McQueen muttered, watching Doc drive away until his taillights disappeared around the bend.

McQueen frowned, slowly reversed back into the building, and glanced around at the neatly labeled drawers, the tray of sterilized tools, the list of patient appointments written on the whiteboard in blue dry-erase marker. The scent of citrus cleaner and motor oil still lingered from earlier that morning. Once so familiar and comforting, now back to feeling like a cold, sterile lab he had no business being in.

Even though a patient was on the lift, half-dazed from the laughing gas hooked to his vents, the clinic suddenly felt very empty.

McQueen exhaled slowly and rolled back over to the lift, picking up the new mount part and screwing it back into place, being extra attentive not to cross the threads as instructed.

“…I mean, how hard can it be?” he muttered to the patient. “It’s just for a few hours.”

The light above flickered once—ominously.

McQueen froze in his movements. Stared up at it.

“…I really hope that’s not a sign.”

With his focus solely on work, McQueen felt calm. But the second after the patient rolled out of the bay and the door clattered shut behind him, the weight of silence settled hard.

McQueen stared at the clock. 9:07 AM.

He sighed, his wheels fidgeting, squeaking against the polyurethane cement floors.

He decided to continue with his inventory, needing something to keep his mind off of just how empty the place was. Once he finished with that, he wiped down all the counters. Then the tool tray. Then the shelf Doc always told him not to touch because “no, that stuff doesn’t need organizing.”

He organized it anyway.

A glance at the clock again. 10:12 AM.

Only an hour passed.

He still had about another hour till the first appointment came in.

He decided to start sorting the fluid bottles by shape, then by year, then briefly by color before realizing that was completely useless. He cleaned the backroom—and even polished the top of Doc’s toolbox just to have something to do.

But the second the clinic’s clock ticked to 11:30, the door to the garage swung open.

McQueen immediately straightened up, like a student caught dozing in class.

A dark grey 2009 Nissan Rogue coasted in—wheels squeaking faintly as he moved, front end riding lower than the back. He looked around, then spotted McQueen. His eyes widened a little.

“Where’s Doc Hudson?”

McQueen kept his voice steady—well, tried to. “He had to step out. Some paperwork thing in Flagstaff.”

The Rogue squinted slightly, giving McQueen the kind of slow, skeptical once-over that made him feel even more out of place.

“Hudson’s letting you run the clinic?”

McQueen’s jaw tightened just a bit. He forced a confident smile.

“Yeah,” he said, voice just slightly higher than normal. “Doc trusts I’m perfectly capable of handling things today. He taught me everything I know, himself.”

He paused, hoping it sounded reassuring and professional and not defensive and anxious.

The Rogue hesitated, then gave a faint nod. “Well, I can’t go like this another day. Family is heading out to the next town tomorrow. So…”

McQueen exhaled through his vents and pasted on his best winning smile. “Right this way.”

He led the Rogue over to the lift and got to work. He checked the pads, adjusted the drums, and carefully realigned the calipers—slow and methodical. He even double-checked the alignment against Doc’s notes from a past visit, just to be safe. He didn’t talk much this time. His usual commentary was gone, replaced with focused silence and the faint clatters and creaks from his tools. Thankfully, the client remained quiet, too. Probably praying that this kid wouldn’t screw him up worse than he was.

By the time McQueen rolled back, his hood and fenders were smudged with brake dust and oil.

“Alright,” he said, pressing the button to lower the car to the floor again. “Test your brakes now. Should feel tighter. Smooth, no tug.”

The Rogue rolled forward, gave a couple of slow pumps of the pedal, and stopped cleanly each time. He nodded, surprised and satisfied.

“Well, I’ll be,” he said. “Nice work, kid.”

McQueen blinked. “Thanks.”

The compliment caught him off guard. He didn’t realize how tight his frame had gotten until the Rogue drove out of the bay. The door clicked shut behind him. He sagged with a sigh and leaned against the lift.

One down.

He looked at the clock. Still hours to go. But for now? He could breathe again.

He grabbed his rag and rolled back toward the lift, cleaning up tools as he went.

He’d just finished stacking the torque wrenches back in the drawer —this time actually by size, not by how “fun” they looked—when the door swung open again.

McQueen perked up, ready for another patient, but relaxed when he saw it was Sally. The powder blue Porsche rolled in with her usual grace, her eyes taking in the clinic before landing on him with a smile.

“Well, look at you,” she said, a tease in her tone, “hard at work and everything still intact. I’m impressed.”

McQueen chuckled and wiped his tire on a clean rag. “Barely. I’m on hour four, and I think I’ve stressed out most of my fuel.”

“Well, maybe this will help.” She popped her trunk to reveal a paper bag with the V8 café symbol printed on it. “Flo said you hadn’t come by yet, so I figured I’d bring you something.”

McQueen’s expression softened as he took it. “Thanks, Sal. You didn’t have to.”

Sally turned back to him. “I know, but when I heard Doc left you in charge of the clinic today, I figured you’d be too distracted to remember to eat.” Then she arched an amused brow. “Plus, I just wanted an excuse to come check the damage.”

He gave a tired smirk but couldn’t hide the nerves behind it. “Yeah. He said it’d be quick, just a few hours, but…” He glanced around at the empty bay. “It’s weird without him here. This place—” he waved a tire vaguely at the sterile walls and surgical trays, “—isn’t half as nice without Doc grumbling in the background.”

Sally’s voice softened. “You’re doing fine.”

He hesitated. “I’m scared stiff I’m gonna screw something up.”

“You won’t.” She nudged the bag closer to him. “It’s just for a day. If you can repave a whole road in a week, you can handle a few spark plug changes.”

McQueen smiled. Really smiled this time. “You always know what to say.”

Sally shrugged. “Law school helped with that.”

He popped open the bag and peeked inside—Flo’s house special with extra chipotle oil dip and a little flag that read Hang in there in red ink.

He laughed, then coasted over to Doc’s cluttered desk.

Paperwork, scattered notes, and a half-drained can of cold oil took up most of the space. McQueen nudged a stack of forms aside to make space and set the bag on top. He sighed, “Soon as Doc gets back, I’m running a hundred laps at Willy’s Butte to burn this anxiety off.”

Sally smirked. “I should leave you at the Cozy Cone for a few hours—see if you get bored enough to clean the place up too.”

“Great. First, I’m the stand-in doctor, now I’m the maid? What’s next—waitering at Flo’s?”

She gave him a playful nudge with her fender. “Well, I think you’d look cute in a little server hat and a tray.”

At McQueen’s flat look, Sally’s face turned scrutinizing, “I suggest smiling a bit more, though, or you’re going to end up driving all the customers away.”

“I think I’d rather eat my own tire, thank you.”

She laughed and placed a quick kiss on his fender. “Mm… dirty, snarky, and overworked? You’re really checking all my boxes today.”

He glanced over at her and laughed at the bit of grease on her lips. Scooping up a rag, he rubbed her mouth clean.

“There. Grease isn’t your shade.”

She smirked.

He gave her a softer look. “I’ll see you when I get off.”

“Only if you’re still in one piece.”

“I’ll try my best.” He kissed her. “No promises, though.”

She turned to leave, pausing at the door.

“I’ll keep an eye out for smoke,” she teased. “Try not to blow anything up while I’m gone.”

McQueen chuckled, the tension in his frame easing as she rolled away. Then moved back to the desk and started eating. A few bites in and he realized just how hungry he was without even noticing it till now.

For the next several minutes, he was completely preoccupied with filling his fuel tank, but as soon as the initial hunger was satisfied, the boredom crept in behind it.

His eyes drifted to the mess in front of him. Curiosity won out.

He flipped through the top few pages—some inventory notes, half-filled maintenance logs, and several legal forms regarding medical disposal that looked so boring he immediately forgot what they were about. One section was full of stamped forms, something about state inspections, all filed haphazardly and out of order.

Then came a few patient records—he skimmed through them curiously, then realized he was probably violating some HIPAA code and pushed them aside.

Tucked in between two charts were a few yellow Post-its with Doc’s handwriting, scrawled in near-illegible pen.

“Left rear wheel bearing on that Prius is gonna go soon—warn her nicely.”

“Hm, poor thing,” McQueen murmured.

Another read:

“Lightning swears he didn’t break the torque wrench. Investigate.”

McQueen’s eyes widened a little. He glanced to the side, as if expecting Doc to suddenly roll through the door. Then, carefully, he unstuck the Post-it and tucked it in his wheel well.

The last two notes got him laughing, nearly choking on his food.

“Tell Mater no more X-rays just for fun. That machine is older than he is.”

And:

“Don’t reschedule Mrs. Cranberry—she bites.”

Eventually, he hit a thin stack of work orders. One of them caught his attention. A parts restock request, partially filled out. He frowned, glanced over to the calendar on the corkboard and realized today was the day the work order was supposed to be submitted. Doc must’ve forgotten about it in the rush this morning.

McQueen considered the inventory sheet he’d completed earlier. He knew exactly what they were short on, and Doc would probably appreciate not coming back to an understocked clinic.

Nudging his lunch aside, McQueen rolled over to the computer and entered the order, checking boxes and confirming quantities with a sense of accomplishment.

He grinned when the confirmation printout came through.

“You can thank me later, Doc.”

He turned back to the desk, wondered briefly where Doc would want it put. Then glanced at the horizontal file cabinet in the corner—Doc’s least favorite, most ignored pile of paper clutter. It was half-open and already groaning under the weight of a decade's worth of badly sorted forms.

“Welp, got nothing better to do.” He shrugged. And then dove in—alphabetizing, sorting by date, color-coding if he could find enough markers, already imagining the look on Doc’s face when he returned and found the clinic not only still standing… but cleaned and organized.

By the time the clock struck one, McQueen had the clinic running like a well-oiled machine.

The axle lube appointment rolled in right on time—a dusty, silver 2006 Honda Ridgeline. McQueen greeted him with a professional smile he’d normally save for press, ushered him into the bay, and got to work. He had the fluids drained, replaced, and pressurized in record time, even remembered to mark it down in the log without Doc having to remind him.

The Ridgeline tipped his hood and said, “Never thought I’d get serviced by a Piston Cup champ. Good work, kid.”

McQueen grinned the rest of the hour.

At three o’clock sharp, the strut test appointment followed: a red 2012 Mazda CX5 with a squeaky front suspension and a lot of complaints about ‘leaning funny’ on turns. McQueen had her up on the lift in minutes, tightening bolts, running shock compression diagnostics, and confirming the struts were still holding strong. He gave her a clean bill of health, and she rolled out satisfied with a free tire rotation on top—his idea.

McQueen glanced over and saw his reflection in the cabinet doors. He almost didn’t recognize himself. Not just from all the dust and grease he’d accumulate on his fenders and hood, but from the smile on his face and the brightness in his eyes.

It didn’t look forced or painted on. It was real… and it felt good.

By four-thirty, the clinic was spotless. The tools were back in their places, the counters wiped down for the third time, and the checklist Doc had left behind had been completed—and expanded.

McQueen was starting to close up, humming faintly to himself, when the doors swung open again.

He turned, expecting someone looking for directions or maybe a last-minute refill. But instead, in rolled a glossy blue 2001 Kia Optima, her eyes scrunched slightly in concern.

“Hi—sorry, I know it’s late,” she began. “I was on my way back to Prescott when something started acting up again. I’ve had this weird vibration coming from the left side for weeks. I’ve taken it to three different shops, and they all said it was one thing or another, replaced a bunch of stuff, but it never fixed it. And now it’s worse.”

McQueen blinked. But the second she said “vibration on the left,” something clicked in his head. His grin returned, wider this time.

“You ever feel it stronger when accelerating on turns?” he asked.

“Yes!” she said, surprised. “Every time.”

McQueen rolled forward, already nodding. “I know exactly what this is.”

He led her into the bay and guided her onto the lift like he’d done it a hundred times before. He dimmed the lights, fired up the scanner, and got to work. The undercarriage told him everything he needed to know—just like it had on race day in Phoenix two years ago, when he had the same problem and nearly lost a qualifier over it.

“Here we go,” he muttered, tightening the secondary sway bar mount and adjusting the stabilizer arm that had been misaligned just enough to cause the shake. “Looks like someone tried to fix it from the wheel housing instead of the crossmember. That’s why it kept coming back.”

He rebalanced the left front wheel, reset the alignment, and calibrated the sensor that had been throwing everything just slightly off-center.

Fifteen minutes later, she was good as new.

When he lowered her down and waved her forward for a test, she rolled a few feet, then stopped—eyes wide in disbelief.

“Oh my gosh,” she gasped. “It’s gone. That—that’s it! That was the problem this whole time?”

McQueen nodded, cleaning up with a rag. “Simple misalignment. The kind most folks miss unless they’ve had it happen to them.”

She revved excitedly, circling around him. “This is amazing. I’ve spent hundreds on parts I didn’t need. And you figured it out in minutes! How do you even know this stuff?”

McQueen chuckled. “Let’s just say I’ve been around the track a few times.”

She beamed. “Well, I live all the way in Prescott, but I don’t care. I’m definitely coming back here from now on. I don’t care if it’s two hours—I’d drive four to have you do my tune-ups. Seriously. Thank you!”

He tried to downplay it with a shrug, but the smile fighting to reclaim his bumper betrayed him. She gave a cheerful honk and waved as she drove off, leaving the scent of warm rubber and clean exhaust in her wake.

McQueen stood there, the garage once again silent, but it neither felt stifling or unsettling.

He checked his reflection again and sure enough, a big, stupid grin was plastered across it. His chassis felt light, like he’d dropped a hundred pounds of race-day pressure.

This must’ve been the feeling Doc had told him about. It was pride and satisfaction, but also joy. The kind you didn’t get from trophies or headlines. The kind that only came from helping someone, really helping them.

It might not be racing.

But it sure felt like he’d won something.

McQueen flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED and locked the front door with a quiet click. The late afternoon sun had already slipped behind the hills, casting long shadows across the clinic floor. He ran a quick checklist in his head—tools cleaned, parts restocked, paperwork filed, appointments logged.

Everything was done.

He let out a long breath and leaned against the front counter, staring at the empty bay.

He hadn't realized how late it had gotten. The hands on the wall clock pointed past six. Way past the “five-to-six hour” window Doc had promised.

Maybe he hit traffic, McQueen thought, biting the inside of his cheek. Or maybe the line was longer than expected. Or maybe they asked for some other ridiculous form, like a smog test or a notarized tailpipe signature or—

The phone rang.

He practically leapt toward it.

“Doc?”

“Hey, kid.”

Doc’s voice was steady, but it carried that tired edge—the one he usually had after dealing with too many things that tested his patience.

McQueen straightened up. “Everything okay?”

“Nope,” Doc said plainly. “They couldn’t process the renewal today. Turns out their system flagged my old license number as ‘inactive’ because it hasn’t been updated since the seventies.”

McQueen winced. “Oof.”

“Then they said they needed a verification form from the original issuing board. Which, surprise, doesn’t exist anymore. It got folded into a different department back in ‘86.”

“Double oof.”

Doc sighed. “They’re faxin' the request forms tomorrow morning. Said if I show up when they open, I can probably get it sorted out by lunch. Maybe.”

McQueen frowned. “So… you’re staying the night?”

“Yeah. I’m at a motel off the I-40. Not exactly the Ritz, but it’ll do.”

A pause, then:

“Listen. I’m sorry to dump another day on you. I know you weren’t expectin’ this.”

McQueen felt a flicker of anxiety crawl up his engine bay. Another day meant more patients. More responsibility. More ways to mess up.

But he swallowed it down before it could show in his voice.

“Nah, it’s fine,” he said, casually as he could. “Place is still standing. I even got a compliment today. Might be getting the hang of this whole clinic thing.”

Doc’s voice warmed. “You’ve done good, kid. I appreciate it. I’ll make it up to you when I get back.”

“Don’t worry about it,” McQueen said, moving toward the back to switch off the bay lights. “Just take care of what you need to. And hey—drive careful, alright? I don’t wanna have to do surgery on you next.”

Doc chuckled. “Yeah, yeah. Get some rest. I’ll call you in the morning.”

They said their goodbyes and hung up.

The silence that followed was heavier this time—not uncomfortable, but weighty. McQueen looked around the darkened clinic, lit now only by the dying rays of evening light and the glow of the desk lamp.

For a moment, the pressure settled right back into his fenders. Another full day. Alone. What if tomorrow’s appointments were tougher? What if he missed something?

But then he looked back at the bay.

He remembered the praise. The smile on that Kia’s face. The feeling that had warmed his whole frame.

“Okay, McQueen,” he told himself softly. “You got this.”

He took one more lap around the clinic, double-checking the locks. Then, he flicked off the final light, rolled out the door, and shut it behind him.

Sally’d been right. He was barely in one piece, exhausted as he was.

The sleep he had that night was probably the deepest, dreamless one he’d had in a long time.

The next morning, McQueen showed up early.

Clinic key tucked in his tire tread, he unlocked the front door and rolled inside. The air still held that faint mix of cleaner and oil from the day before, but it didn’t feel as intimidating this time. He flicked on the lights, turned the radio low—just enough to let the rhythm settle into the background—and set to work refilling the fluid bottles with practiced motions.

The sun had barely cleared the hills when a familiar honk echoed through the open garage door.

“Hey, buddy!” Mater’s voice rang out cheerfully as he rolled into the bay, towing a green 1999 Nissan Sentra behind him. The Sentra’s expression was tight, anxious, his bumper low and trembling. Coolant streaks marked the ground where they’d just come from.

“Look who I found cryin’ on the side of the road!”

McQueen’s gut clenched the moment he saw him.

“Blown seal,” Mater said, popping his tow hook loose. “He was shakin’ worse than a tractor in a carwash.”

McQueen’s tires locked for half a second.

A blown seal wasn’t a tune-up.

It wasn’t a squeaky strut or a leaky line. It was serious. Internal. Deep engine. High risk.

His engine fluttered in panic.

But then he looked at the Sentra.

He was barely holding it together—hood rattling, eyes red and pained, trying not to cry again.

He had to pull it together.

McQueen straightened and forced calm into his voice. “You’re gonna be okay,” he said gently. “We’ll take care of you.”

He looked to Mater. “Get him on the lift.”

"Yessir!" Mater said and backed the Sentra into position with his usual care. McQueen, meanwhile, spun on his axles and bolted to the back room.

Once inside, he slammed the door shut behind him and fumbled toward the phone, dialing the motel from memory.

It rang. And rang. And rang.

No answer.

“C’mon, Doc, pick up—”

But of course, he didn’t. Because he was at the Licensing Office and Doc didn’t have a cell phone installed.

McQueen groaned and punched the end call button.

“Old-school dinosaur,” he muttered. “Wouldn’t kill you to have a cell phone like every other 21st-century car…”

Not that McQueen had one either. But that was beside the point.

He scrambled to the file cabinet and tore it open, rifling through the folders he’d so neatly alphabetized the day before. Seal, seal, seal… He found a handful of cases—similar years, overlapping symptoms, Doc’s notes scribbled in the margins.

“Excess backpressure,” one read.
“Careful with the gasket sealant—some models use synthetic only,” another warned.
“Look for coolant loss around the intake manifold. Double-check torque specs.”

McQueen scanned every line, committing it to memory, steadying his breath as he pieced together a plan.

“You might wanna hustle, pal,” Mater called from the bay. “He’s startin’ to make noises I ain’t never heard outside a rodeo.”

McQueen closed his eyes, inhaled deep through his air filter.

I can do this. I have to do this.

He rolled back into the main room, calm mask firmly in place.

The Sentra blinked up at him, clearly trying not to panic. He gave him a steady smile.

“You’re in good tires,” he said, soft but certain. “I just need you to hold still for me, okay?”

McQueen rolled up beside him and gently whispered to him the way Doc always would, like he was an old friend in need of comfort instead of a car with critical engine trauma.

“Okay, just going to give you some numbing agents and hook you up to a coolant IV to get your temperature down,” he murmured, lifting him up to connect the lines. “You won’t feel a thing.”

McQueen wished he could put the poor guy under, but he didn’t dare mess with the anesthesia. His luck he’d fall into a coma.

When he saw the Sentra’s eyes start to show relief, he turned to the hood latch, braced himself, and opened it up.

 The damage was worse than he expected. But not unfixable.

Still, one look at the bubbling oil and exposed seals sent a wave of nausea crashing into him.

Not now, he told himself fiercely. Do. Not. Puke into the patient.

He squeezed his eyes shut, counted to three… and then Mater’s voice broke through the fog.

“—so, where was I, oh yeah! I says to the guy, ‘Buddy, you can’t park on top o’ the gas station!’ But he just blinked at me, sittin’ there with one wheel still spinnin’, and goes, ‘I meant to do that.’ I ain’t never towed a car off a roof before, but shoot, there’s a first time for everythin’.”

McQueen blinked, latching onto Mater’s steady voice filling the room like warm oil. He glanced over to see Mater chatting casually to the Sentra—who still looked woozy but was clearly listening, if only for the distraction.

“I hadta call in Red to hose him down ‘cause his brakes were smokin’ like crazy. Thought he was gonna light up the whole station! I said, ‘You got a fire suppression system in there?’ And he goes, ‘Nope! I am the fire hazard!’” Mater chuckled. “Can you believe that?”

McQueen exhaled slowly, refocusing his attention on the damaged seal. He cleaned the area, flushed the chamber, swapped out the old parts with practiced care, and adjusted the torque like Doc’s notes had said.

And then… it was done.

He closed the Sentra up, wiped his wheels clean, and rolled back as the patient blinked slowly, his eyes flickering back into focus as he tested a cautious breath through his air intake. He rolled off the lift with a tentative rev—then another, stronger this time. When the engine purred without complaint, his expression crumpled with emotion.

“I… I thought that was it for me,” he said, his voice shaking. “I really did. I thought I was gonna seize up and that’d be the end of it.”

McQueen looked stunned for a beat, then recovered just enough to offer a modest shrug. “Well… turns out you’re tougher than you thought.”

“No,” the Sentra said firmly, rolling closer. “You saved me. I don’t know how you did it, but you did. I owe you everything, Doc.”

McQueen’s expression flickered. A little breath hitched in his manifold, but he forced a half-laugh. He wanted to correct the guy, but it probably wasn’t the best idea to explain to the person that you just performed surgery on, that you weren’t officially a doctor.

“You’re welcome.” He said instead.

The Sentra turned to Mater. “And thank you, too. I don’t know what was more helpful—your towing or that crazy story. I was too busy trying to picture a guy stuck on a roof to panic.”

Mater beamed, modestly tipping his hood. “Aw, shucks. Just doin’ my part! But I do got pictures if ya wanna see ’em. Red took one where the guy’s bumper’s still hangin’ off the edge.”

The Sentra actually laughed, a real, light-hearted chuckle that settled the tension in the clinic like fresh oil on rusty joints. “I sure would. Right after I go get myself the biggest can of Octane 90!”

McQueen and Mater watched the Sentra speed off, whooping into the daylight. “Dude,” Mater said, sidling up next to him with a wide grin. “That was awesome. I ain’t never seen you look so focused. Not even on the track!”

McQueen blinked at him, still a little stunned.

“You were calm, you were steady, you knew exactly what you were doin’. Doc’s gonna be tickled pink when he hears ‘bout this.”

McQueen finally smiled, his RPM’s were probably still through the roof, but it wasn’t from fear anymore.

It was adrenaline. The gratification. The afterglow of saving someone’s life.

He laughed. A breathy, relieved, but joyful laugh. He propped himself against the lift, letting the tightness of his frame finally release.

“…One down.” He muttered, mostly to himself. “Let’s just hope the rest aren’t nearly so stressful.”

Mater kept him company for the next couple of hours, spinning tales and debating whether tractors dream or not. Calls came in. Appointments were booked. Clients arrived, and McQueen handled each one smoothly. After the events from the morning, everything felt ridiculously simple.

But despite how ready he was to give the reins back to Doc, his smile still kept up.

It was mid-afternoon when Doc Hudson rolled back into Radiator Springs. The drive from Flagstaff had been uneventful—thankfully—but his chassis still ached from standing in line for hours on end and battling bureaucrats who couldn’t tell a piston from a pushrod.

But it was done. His license had been re-verified, re-stamped, re-notarized, and re-filed in no fewer than three departments.

He was officially, legally, certified to keep doing the job he’d been doing for thirty years. Hallelujah.

He coasted into town at a slow, comfortable pace, his tires aching to be off the road. There was only one stop he had in mind before heading home: the clinic. He needed to check on Lightning—make sure the place hadn’t burned down, or worse, that the kid hadn’t burned out. McQueen had agreed to help in a pinch, but Doc knew firsthand how easy it was to lose your patience in that shop. He didn’t want to push too far and have Lightning swear off the place for good.

But just as he turned onto the main drag, two familiar voices flagged him down.

“Doc!” Sally called from the curb in front of the V8 cafe. She was parked next to Flo, both looking freshly caught up in conversation and all too eager to drag someone else into it.

He slowed to a stop with a tired exhale.

“Ladies,” he greeted with a polite nod.

“You just get back?” Flo asked, eyes twinkling.

“Five minutes ago.”

“How was it?” Sally asked, already falling into pace beside him.

Doc’s response was clipped, his energy worn thin. “Hot, long, and about as enjoyable as a leaky gasket in July.”

Flo snorted. “So, business as usual, huh?”

“More or less.” Doc shifted his tires, clearly itching to keep rolling before he got cornered into a story.

But then Sally tilted her hood, eyes twinkling with secretive delight.

“You heard how Lightning did while you were gone?”

Doc paused, half-turned back toward them. “Not yet. Just on my way to find out.”

Flo perked up. “Oh, honey. He’s been somethin’ else. Showed up early both days, cleaned everything like a pro, ran the place without a single fuss.”

Sally chimed in, her grin growing. “You should’ve seen him this morning. Some tourist car—green Sentra—came limping in with a blown seal. Looked real bad.”

Doc froze. His expression darkened with concern. “Blown seal? He worked on that?”

Sally nodded. “Yep. Mater towed the poor fella in. Lightning took one look, got real quiet, and said he knew what it was. Next thing we hear, he’s got him on the lift and fixes it. And not just patched—like, fixed fixed. Guy was over the moon.”

Flo leaned in with a proud smirk. “Stopped by the café after, told the whole story, bought a round of high-octane for everyone. Said he hadn’t felt that good since he’d driven off the assembly line.”

Doc stood silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable. But something softened behind his eyes.

“Huh,” he murmured under his breath. “Well, I’ll be.”

Then, without another word, he rolled on down the street.

The clinic came into view, clean and orderly, even from the outside. Doc could already see the glow of work lights flickering through the back bay.

He rolled through the front door quietly, half-expecting a chaotic, loud mess, half-expecting the silence of an abandoned shop.

Instead, he found Lightning McQueen with a welder's torch in hoof, finishing a spot-patch on a cracked mounting bracket for a local delivery van. The kid was focused—tire steady, eyes narrowed, tongue poking out slightly at the corner of his mouth. The glow from the torch lit his red paint in golden pulses.

He didn’t even notice Doc come in.

Doc didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t speak.

He just stood there, in the quiet, watching him work.

And all at once, the tiredness from the road melted away—replaced by something far warmer and heavier in the chassis.

Pride.

Real, honest pride.

That’s my boy.

McQueen was almost done with the job—just a few final welds to the bracket beneath the delivery van’s frame. Sparks danced in tiny bursts before fading away, and McQueen moved with steady precision, his expression locked in focus. No fumbling. No complaints. Just work. Clean, confident work.

Finally, with one last hiss from the torch, he shut it off and leaned back, lowering the van to the ground. He gave him a firm pat on the fender.

“There you go,” McQueen said, voice casual, confident. “You’ll still need to take it easy for a few days, but that bracket’s not going anywhere.”

The van revved softly, smiling. “You really know your stuff, son. Appreciate it.”

McQueen gave a modest shrug. “Just tryin’ to keep the wheels turning.”

“Man... I gotta tell my cousin about this place,” the van said, rolling toward the exit. “Thanks again, Doc!”

McQueen chuckled. “Uh—not Doc. Just—uh, Lightning. But thanks.”

The van gave him a grateful honk and rolled out the door. And as soon as the bay went quiet again, McQueen turned—only to freeze when he spotted the Hornet standing there.

“Whoa—Doc!” he gasped. His expression broke into an immediate, unfiltered grin. “You're back!”

He rolled forward instinctively, a tired but genuine warmth radiating from him. “Man, you have no idea how good it is to see you. I mean—yeah, okay, the place didn’t fall apart or anything, but—still... Place felt real empty without you.”

“You did all right without me, sport." Doc shrugged with a smile. Then added, "I’m surprised, I thought the place was going to be blown to high heaven with a lawsuit slapped on the ashes.”

McQueen bristled, “Hey! I have you know I worked my tailpipe off, alright? I cleaned, I organized, I placed a delivery order, I even—"

“Kid, kid. I’m teasin'. Take a breath.” Doc cut him off before he could fly too far off the handle, laughing.

McQueen huffed and glared at the wall. “Y’know, a little appreciation wouldn’t kill you.”

Doc, still smiling, nodded in agreement. “You’re right. You stepped up—even when things got tougher than you bargained for. You kept your head, trusted your trainin', and you cared. I knew you could handle it, but you went above and beyond. So yeah… I’m proud of you, Lightnin'. I mean that.”

McQueen blinked, caught off-guard. His gaze slid back to Doc, brow furrowed like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right. For a moment, his mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, searching for words.

He cleared his throat, stared at the ground for a moment.

“Did something happen at that Licensing office I should know about?” When McQueen looked at him again, it was with suspicion. “Did they revoke your license, and you’re about to tell me that you’re retiring and handing me the clinic? Because this feels like you’re buttering me up for something.”

Doc snorted in amusement. “Not butterin’ up—just givin’ credit where it’s due.”

The look did not fade. “They must’ve swapped you with a softer model while you were gone, then. Or maybe they brainwashed you.”

Doc rolled his eyes and gave him a gentle swat on the fender as he rolled past. “Don’t push it, rookie.”

McQueen chuckled, “Okay, okay. Just checkin’.”

As Doc moved across the room, he happened to catch a glimpse of the reflection in the clinic’s steel cabinet—a red racer, wearing the widest, most unguarded grin he’d seen on McQueen in a long time. One that hadn’t been there when he left.

Doc’s expression softened again.

He made his way to the desk and pulled open the drawer, expecting a chaotic heap of papers. Instead, he found the appointment schedule sitting right on top, every line filled out, dates highlighted, patient notes tidy and legible.

He chuckled and shook his hood.

Taking the clipboard, he scanned the day’s remaining slots, only to find—nothing. No patients left. No repairs pending. The clinic was, for once, quiet.

Perfect.

Doc turned and rolled to the front, flipping the sign in the window from OPEN to CLOSED.

Behind him, McQueen blinked. “Wait—what’re you doing?”

Doc didn’t look back. “Exactly what it looks like. I need a nap long enough to scare someone into calling the coroner, and you’ve more than earned the rest of the day off.”

“But what if someone shows up?” McQueen argued, a touch of duty clinging to his voice.

Doc shrugged. “I’ll leave a note. They can roll down to Ramone’s—he can handle simple tune-ups. If it’s serious enough, he can call me, although I hope to manufacturers that doesn’t happen.”

McQueen hesitated—then let out a slow sigh, frame relaxing.

Doc glanced back at him from the front door. “You comin’, or have you become a permanent fixture in this place?”

“Honestly, I’ve spent so much time here I’ve forgotten what sunlight feels like anymore. Does it hurt?” McQueen smirked.

“Don’t worry—I hear sarcastic cars are immune to UV damage,” Doc muttered, exasperated. “Now will you move that tailpipe before I lock you in here another night?”

McQueen laughed. “Alright, alright. I’m going.”

The door locked behind them with a soft click, the sun low and warm in the sky. The clinic stood quiet in their wake as the two rolled side by side down the road toward home.

Chapter Text

The Licensing Office in Flagstaff was everything McQueen had expected of a government building—and somehow worse.

Rows of molded plastic waiting spots sat in neat lines, their edges scuffed from decades of fenders bumping them. The floor was polished linoleum, worn smooth by endless traffic, with oil stains here and there that janitors had clearly given up trying to scrub out.

At the front, a long counter with plexiglass partitions stretched across the room. Behind it, a handful of tired-looking clerks typed slowly on ancient terminals that beeped and whirred louder than a carburetor with a cough. Their voices droned over the intercom, calling out numbers in a monotone: “Now serving B-67 at Bay Two.”

Lightning McQueen and Doc Hudson had parked in the waiting area, squeezed between a dented minivan muttering to herself about smog checks and an old pickup snoring faintly as his radiator fan ticked. A stack of reading material sat on a low counter nearby—Motor Age Monthly, The Arizona Driver, even a dog-eared copy of Car & Track Digest from three years ago. Wedged between them was a children’s coloring book titled The Adventures of Gasket the Safety Seal, its pages half torn out and scrawled over in crayon.

Doc had one of the magazines pinned under his tire, idly flipping through the pages without really seeing them. His eyes slid over ads for spark plug upgrades and articles about emission standards with all the interest of someone counting the bolts on a hubcap.

McQueen, meanwhile, fidgeted on his tires, glancing around with all the restless energy of a racecar forced into park.

The intercom crackled to life with a burst of static.

“Now serving A–92 at Bay Three.”

Lightning’s eyes lit up as the glowing number on the screen matched the ticket tucked into his spokes. “That’s me!” he said, springing up like he was about to launch off the starting line. He zoomed forward before Doc could even lift his hood.

The old Hornet followed at a slower pace, his tired expression morphing into one of relief. “Thank the manufacturers,” he muttered. “Maybe now we can finally leave this purgatory. Three trips in one month—I oughta get my own parking space.”

The clerk behind the plexiglass greeted them with all the enthusiasm of a car running on one cylinder. She rifled through a stack of papers, stamped something twice, then slid a thin packet across the counter.

“Congratulations, Mr. McQueen—you passed the written exam with a score of 238. That’s a 92 percent. Practical skills assessment: 94 percent. Combined score average—93.”

“YES!” McQueen cheered, revving excitedly, making a few of the cars in the waiting area jump from the sudden noise. He spun toward Doc, beaming. “You hear that, Doc? Nintey-three!”

Doc, who had been slouching like every second in this office, was another nail in his coffin, just gave a slow grunt. “Yep. Loud and clear.”

The young racer, unperturbed by the lack of enthusiasm, punched a tire against the floor. “I crushed it! That’s gotta be some kind of record! Right? Doc? What was yours again?”

Doc sighed. “Eighty-eight.”

“Oh-ho-ho!” he crowed, “So, not only did I pass—I destroyed your score!”  

“It’s not a competition,” Doc muttered, although the small twitch of a smile betrayed him.

“Maybe to you it’s not! But I just mopped the floor with the Fabulous Hudson Hornet in a written exam. Written! No turns, no dirt, no radio yelling in my ear—just me and the material, baby!”

The clerk cleared her throat. “You’ll receive your certificate in the mail in approximately six to eight weeks. Please don’t rev in the lobby.”

McQueen immediately stopped spinning his wheels—then nudged Doc’s fender. “Six to eight weeks? I gotta wait that long to hang it on the clinic wall?”

Doc smirked. “Good. Maybe by then you’ll have finally worn yourself out from all the gloating.”

“Oh no, I’m not letting this go,” McQueen grinned as Doc passed over the money for the fee. “I’m gonna start answering phones at the clinic like, ‘Ornament Valley Mechanical Clinic—Top Scored Certified Mechanic Lightning McQueen speaking. How may I help you?’”

“Lord help us.” Doc groaned, eyes rolling. “If I’d known this was gonna inflate your ego, I’d’ve bribed the clerk to dock you ten.”

McQueen smirked. “Too late now. Numbers don’t lie—and mine says I’m the new brains of the operation.”

Doc chuckled as he was handed the receipt, “Fine, you can be the brains. Which means when the quarterly tax forms come in, they’re all yours, genius.”

McQueen winced. “... On second thought, maybe you should keep the brain's title. I’ll settle for ‘muscle of the operation.’”

Doc snorted as he turned toward the exit, nudging the young racer to follow. “Come on, whiz kid. Let’s get out of this fluorescent nightmare before they find another form for me to sign.”

Lightning laughed, tucking the paper into his fender like a prize.

The road back from Flagstaff curved through low desert hills, the red rocks of northern Arizona glowing under the late afternoon light. Doc cruised comfortably in the right lane, his engine low and steady. McQueen, however, was driving circles around the Hornet, bouncing on his suspension like a kid who’d just downed three cans of soda and couldn’t sit still.

“—I mean, ninety-three! You saw how long that test was, right? And that torque spec matching section? Nailed it. They even had that weird question about hybrid coolant routing—I only knew that ‘cause of that job we did on that Prius last month!”

“Uh-huh.”

“You think they’re gonna put me in the Hall of Fame for mechanics? ‘Cause I could totally see it—Lightning McQueen: Piston Cup Champion and top-scoring certified mechanic. Talk about versatile!”

“Very.” Doc muttered, eyes forward, steady on the white lines rolling beside them.

“I mean, c’mon—how many racers can say they could fix a blown seal and set track records? Nobody! That’s who. I’m basically the whole package. Brains and speed.”

Doc exhaled through his vents, long and heavy. “Kid, if you say ‘ninety-three’ one more time, I’m gonna start wishin’ the state had failed you on principle.”

McQueen laughed, unfazed. “You’re just sore ‘cause I beat your score. Don’t worry, Doc, you’re still second best—hey, that’s not bad for a guy your age!”

Doc side-eyed him. “You want me to drive off this cliff, or should I wait till we hit a steeper one?”

McQueen grinned wide and leaned closer, his voice smug and syrupy sweet. “Admit it. You’re proud of me.”

Doc gave the road ahead a long, contemplative look. Then—reluctantly—he smiled.

“…Yeah. I am.”

McQueen beamed, puffing up like a show car. “Thought so. You get that warm fuzzy feeling in your chassis when your student outdoes the master?”

“I get a headache,” Doc replied dryly. “Starts behind the eyes and spreads to the urge to floor it away from you.”

McQueen ignored this, revving happily for the thousandth time, still riding the high. “Man, I can’t wait to tell Sally, and Mater, and Flo, and—oh, I’m so going to have my diploma framed as soon as I get it. Hang it on the clinic wall right next to yours. What do you think of gold?”

Doc snorted. “Gold? Why stop there? Frame it in neon lights while you’re at it. Might as well hang a banner out front that says ‘Now featuring the world’s smartest rookie, free autographs, egos extra large.’”

“Hey, just think of the customers it’ll bring in! Free marketing. You’re welcome.” McQueen smirked.

“Oh yeah, like I need a waiting room full of starstruck teenagers askin’ for selfies instead of oil changes,” Doc muttered, starting to question if the extra help really had been worth it.

“Oh, relax, old timer,” McQueen rolled his eyes. “I’ll make sure they book an appointment before asking for autographs. We don’t want to overwhelm you.”

“If they’re comin’ here for your signature instead of a tune-up, I’m doubling the service fee.” Doc huffed.

“Deal.” McQueen grinned.

The familiar curve into Radiator Springs opened up before them, the town glowing under the warm orange light of evening. As they rolled down the main drag, McQueen’s eyes widened—nearly swerving off the road from shock.

Strung across the street between two lamp posts in bold red, spray-painted letters:

CONGRATULATIONS, DOC JR!

It was crooked, definitely done by someone with an unsteady tire, and trailing oil smudges across the bottom corner, but the pride behind it was unmistakable.

“Oh, no way!” McQueen barked with laughter. “Doc Jr.? Oh man, that’s it—I’m getting business cards now. ‘Lightning McQueen, Piston Cup Champ, Certified Mechanic, and Doc Jr.’”

Doc smirked beside him. “Don’t forget to add ‘Professional Nuisance.’ Gotta keep the résumé accurate.”

As they rolled further into town, residents began honking and cheering from where they were grouped up at Flo’s.

Mater was the first to reach him, bouncing on his axles and swinging his tow hook like a lasso.

“You did it, buddy! I knew you would! Look what I got ya!”

His hook slowed, snagged something in his bed and pulled out… a headlamp. One of those old-fashioned elastic-band ones with a huge chrome reflector stuck to the front. It looked like something a mad scientist would wear in a 1950s monster movie.

“It’s for when yer doin’ them real intense surgeries in the dark,” Mater said proudly, strapping it right onto McQueen’s roof. “Now you look real professional.”

“Thanks, Mater,” McQueen said with a chuckle. “Now the doctor look is complete.”

Sally met him next, eyes sparkling.

“Well, look at you, Dr. Stickers,” she teased. “How’s it feel to be licensed and legal?”

He leaned in, smug. “Feels pretty great, actually.”

She smiled, and kissed him square on the fender. “Just don’t start charging me for check-ups.”

From the sidelines, Ramone rolled up and eyed McQueen critically. “You know,” he said, circling him slowly, “if you’re gonna keep rockin’ this clinic vibe, I could throw a little medical decal on that hood. A red cross, maybe some surgical pinstripes. I’ll make you look dangerously competent.”

“I’ll think about it,” McQueen replied with a wink. “As long as we can add flames.”

“Always flames.”

Sheriff coasted his way over next with a sly smirk. “Congratulations, son. But just remember—don’t treat your patients the way you treat your rivals on the track. Last thing you need is to send somebody home with tire burns from your bumper.”

“I’ll try to refrain myself.” McQueen chuckled.

Then Lizzie piped up from the back, her voice creaky but sharp as ever. “Mmm-hmm! You boys don’t know—there’s nothin’ better than watchin’ a man work with his tires. Just wait ‘til you see him flex those lugnuts, hoo boy!”

“O-kay!” McQueen wheeled away quickly, his expression locked between horror and amusement. “Thanks, Lizzie!”

That got the crowd laughing, and McQueen laughed right along with them.

“Free round of drinks y’all!” Flo called out from the café’s entrance. “In honor of our new doctor in town!”

The crowd whooped and cheered. And Lightning—oh, Lightning was loving every second of it. The praise, the jokes, the attention—it was all like the first time he brought home a Piston Cup. The way everyone swarmed around him, proud and loud and full of love.

Behind the crowd, Doc hung back on the curb, content to watch it unfold. His smirk never left his face as he took it all in—Mater shouting, ‘Make way! Make way for our new doctor!’ like he was royalty. Sally grinning with her fender pressed to McQueen’s, the whole town circling their favorite hotrod.

Doc hadn’t said anything the entire time since they returned to town. He shook his hood, amused. A little exasperated

But the pride in his eyes was impossible to miss.

“You did real good, kid…” he murmured to himself. “I knew you could.”

The next day, the sun was bright, the town alive, and McQueen was still glowing.

He coasted into Flo’s with a casual swagger, engine humming low, but confidence in his frame. Flo perked up the moment he rolled onto the lot.

“Well, hey there, Doc Jr.!” she called, sliding over a can of high-octane oil with flair. “Got your usual waitin’!”

McQueen grinned as he caught it with his tire. “Don’t mind if I do.”

Mater swung in next to him, holding out a tire in greeting. “Never thought I’d see the day my best friend’d be a doctor! Now that you’re all certified, I reckon I gotta book an appointment just to hang out with ya. Hope ya still got a friends-and-family discount!”

McQueen smirked, bumping their tires. “You’re in luck, bud. Rusty tow trucks get priority scheduling. Always an open slot for you.”

“Well shoot, that works out perfect, don’t it!” Mater beamed. “Heck, I’ll even volunteer to be yer practice dummy every now and again so’s ya don’t get rusty.”

McQueen chuckled. “That’s real generous of you, Mater. I promise not to break anything you haven’t already broken yourself.”

Mater snorted. “Buddy, I’m like a piñata—you can’t hurt me none, you just find more surprises inside.”

At the clinic, McQueen was helping Doc prep for a routine tune-up when a 2005 black Toyota Camry rolled inside, looking around with curious eyes. McQueen looked up from where he’d been lining up the tools and humming to himself.

“Oh—hey there!” he greeted, putting on his best winning smile. “How can I help you?”

The Camry eased closer. “Name’s Harold. Stopped over at the V8 for a fill-up, got this rattle in my front end and, well… one of the locals told me you had a new mechanic here. Said to ask for… uh…” He squinted as if searching for the word. “Doc Jr.?”

McQueen froze mid-smirk. “Oh.” His laugh came out awkward. “Right. Yeah, that’s… me.”

Harold tilted his head, clearly surprised. “You? You’re Doc Jr.?”

“Apparently,” McQueen muttered, barely able to keep the dryness out of it.

“Well, they said if anyone could fix it, it’d be you.”

McQueen glanced back at Doc with a questioning look, wondering if he should be taking over like this. But the Hornet just watched quietly from the corner with a smirk on his bumper. He gestured a tire over to the empty lift. A silent permission that this one was all his.

McQueen cleared his throat. “Right, well, uh… let’s take a look then.”

As the racer guided the client over, Doc rolled by him, mumbling just loud enough for McQueen to hear. “Looks like your fanbase is expanding, hotshot.”

“Guess so,” McQueen said back, tone neutral.

It had been at least three days since he’d returned home with his test scores. McQueen was at Ramone’s shop getting a minor paint scratch buffed out from a bump with a parking meter. (He’d been trying to dodge a tractor that had suddenly rolled onto the road) When Ramone rolled back to admire his work.

“Lookin’ sharp, Doc Jr.,” he said, then pulled out a brush. “Have you reconsidered getting that cross decal on your hood? I could make it pop real nice with your racing red.”

“I’m good,” McQueen muttered.

“You sure? You’d look real clean. Like, healin’ and wheelin’ clean.”

“…still good.”

It was their usual Friday date night at the Wheel Well Motel/Restaurant. Lightning and Sally sat at a table right beside the overlook, the valley stretching out beneath them as the sun dipped low near the mountains.

Sally had just finished sharing a story about a family that checked in today who were trying to find the hotel they’ve reserved for their vacation. Only to find out there was another Radiator Springs in Arkansas.

“They were two states off, Lightning. Two. They only realized it when I told them they’d have to cross the Mississippi to make their dinner reservation.” Sally chuckled, rolling her eyes.

McQueen smirked. “I can’t say anything. I ended up here because I couldn’t even find the right exit.”

“True. True.” Sally smirked. Then she leaned forward, her eyes teasing. “Maybe I should’ve sent them to you, Doc Jr. You could’ve diagnosed their GPS with a bad sense of direction.”

McQueen groaned, “Oh, not you too. I thought I’d at least be safe on date night.”

She laughed, the sound warm and musical against the evening air. “Sorry, couldn’t resist. It’s cute.”

“Cute.” McQueen huffed, indignant. “I’m streamlined, Sally. I’m aerodynamic. I am speed. Not cute.”

Sally arched a playful brow. “Mhm. You’re also licensed for tire rotation and fluid checks now.”

McQueen gave her a flat look. “Great. Just what every racer dreams of hearing.”

“Hey,” Sally chuckled. “Some of us find multi-talented cars very attractive.”

McQueen finally chuckled, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Can I at least call you Dr. Stickers?” She asked, her eyes fluttering flirtatiously.

McQueen considered her seriously for a moment, before snorting. “I’ll allow it, but I’m gonna charge you with a kiss every time you do.”

“Mm, if that’s the going rate… I think I can afford you.” Sally grinned, then rolled over and pressed her lips against his.

By the two week mark, he’d stopped counting how many times he heard it.

At Flo’s: “Welcome back, Doc Jr.!”

At Luigi’s: “Ciao, Doc Junior! Come see if my alignment is off, eh?”

At the junkyard: “Hey Doc Jr., check out this cool thing I found!”

Even the mail was now addressed to Lightning McQueen, a.k.a. Doc Jr. courtesy of Lizzie, who claimed the post office needed to ‘know how important he is.’

He’d laughed it off at first. A little teasing. A town-wide inside joke. No big deal.

But now, every time he heard it, his eye twitched just a little.

His smile thinned a fraction more.

And when he looked in the mirror at the end of the day, he didn’t see Lightning McQueen, Piston Cup champion. He saw… a red car with tired eyes and oil smudges on his hood. A cross-decal someone had drawn in marker on his fender without his noticing before he scrubbed it off.

He hadn’t said anything. Not yet.

Maybe they’d get bored. Maybe they’d move on.

Maybe, if he just smiled a little longer, they’d go back to calling him Lightning again.

Maybe.

The low hum of the overhead lamp mingled with the occasional clink of tools as McQueen stood beside Doc, holding a magnetic parts tray steady while the older car worked deep in a client’s engine block.

The patient—a scuffed 2010 Chevrolet Traverse with overheating issues—was sedated and silent on the lift.

Doc’s voice was calm and methodical. “Pass me the quarter-inch driver.”

McQueen handed it over without looking. His eyes were on the floor, a frown starting to take up permanent residence on his face.

“…You know,” he muttered, “I really thought they’d stop by now.”

Doc gave a questioning grunt but didn’t look up.

“Calling me ‘Doc Jr.,’” McQueen clarified, rolling his eyes. “Figured it’d be a two-day joke at best. But nooo, it’s like it’s welded to my bumper now. Flo’s got it written on my receipt tab. Luigi put it in cursive on the appointment log yesterday.”

Doc chuckled faintly. “Could be worse. They could’ve gone with ‘Doc Lite.’”

“I’m serious, Doc. I’m this close to snapping at the next car who says it.”

Doc glanced up, now mildly concerned. “I didn’t realize it was botherin’ you that much.”

McQueen huffed. “It was fine at first! Fun, even. But I only got the license so the clinic wouldn’t get shut down if some inspector showed up while my wheels were deep in an engine bay. I didn’t do it to start a new career.”

He reached for a torque wrench and handed it over, his tone sharpening.

“I’m a racer, Doc. That’s who I am. That’s what I’ve worked for my whole life. I’m not trying to become you. I’m just… helping out when things pile up. That’s it.”

Doc’s face was still. He tightened a belt clamp, slow and precise. “Alright,” he said carefully. “Fair enough.”

But McQueen kept going—too caught up in the steam he was venting to notice the way Doc’s jaw was tightening with each word.

“I mean, it’s everywhere I go, now! ‘Doc Jr. this, Doc Jr. that.’ Like that’s all I am now. Heck, the kids at Red’s story time were chanting it yesterday. Like it’s the only thing they know me by anymore.”

Doc’s voice was flatter this time. “Uh-huh.”

McQueen mistook this for encouragement. “I just wish they’d get bored and move on already. Go back to calling me Lightning like normal. That’s who I am. Not some… clinic mascot!”

“—didn’t mean for it to be such a burden,” Doc cut in flatly, securing the intake mount.

McQueen blinked, thrown. “What? No—that’s not what I said.”

“Sure it wasn’t,” Doc muttered.

“Doc, come on—”

“Hand me the cap.” The Hornet interrupted without looking at him. Tire outstretched and waiting.

McQueen did.

Doc twisted it into place with a sharp click. The job was done.

He rolled back, wiped his tire clean, and said calmly, “You’re done for the day.”

McQueen blinked. “What?”

“I said you’re done. Go home.”

McQueen looked at the clock on the wall—barely halfway through his shift. “But—what about the wheel housing replacement this afternoon? You said you’d need two sets of tires for that.”

“I’ve got it,” Doc said, already turning away. “Don’t need the help.”

Something in his tone made McQueen’s wheels stiffen. “Doc, seriously. I didn’t mean—”

“I think you did,” Doc cut in, voice low but sharp. “You said exactly what you meant. You’re a racer. Not a doctor. Wouldn’t want you gettin’ mistaken for someone who actually wants to help out in this dump of a clinic.”

McQueen’s mouth opened, then closed. The silence felt heavier than any noise.

Doc rolled over to the sink and started scrubbing down the tools, frame rigid. His bumper was to Lightning.

“…Doc,” McQueen said quietly. “I was just trying to explain—”

“And I heard you.” His tone left no room for interpretation. “Now get goin’. You’ve got a racer's life to get back to.”

McQueen hesitated. His tires shifted awkwardly on the spotless floor. He wanted to say something—to undo whatever had just happened—but he didn’t know where to start.

So he turned slowly, wordlessly, and rolled toward the exit. The sound of the door closing behind him echoed like a slammed hood.

A few more days passed.

McQueen kept showing up at the clinic, as usual. He still prepped the tools. Still restocked the supplies. Still rolled in early, like always.

But Doc had started ending his shifts earlier.

At first, it was subtle. A “you can take off early today, kid” here, a “I’ll finish the rest” there. McQueen didn’t question it—he figured Doc was just tired.

But then it became routine.

Three days in a row now, Doc had waved him off barely two hours into their work.

And every time McQueen tried to bring it up—just a hint, just enough to test the waters—

“So, uh… are we good? About the whole… nickname thing?”

—Doc would cut in sharply. “Wrench. Second drawer. Focus.”

End of discussion.

Then one morning, McQueen arrived to find a printed paper sitting on Doc’s desk with his name written on a Post-It attached to it. He frowned, picking it up.

 It was a schedule.

He’d never had a schedule before.

His frown deepened as he read the times:
Monday – 9:00–11:00
Wednesday – 9:00–11:00
Friday – 9:00–11:00

Three two-hour shifts. That was it.

Doc rolled in from the back, glancing at him just once. “Helps things stay smoother.”

McQueen stared at the page. “Six hours? That’s all?”

Doc didn’t stop organizing his tray. “You said it yourself—racing’s startin’ back up soon. You’ll need to get back into shape. No sense wearin’ you thin when the season’s breathin’ down your bumper.”

McQueen hesitated. “But I always trained around my shifts. We made it work.”

“Not anymore,” Doc said simply. “I talked to Sheriff. Guido and Luigi, too. They’ll rotate out and help keep your drills tight until I get off.”

He said it so casually. Like it was obvious. Like it didn’t mean anything at all.

But something cold settled in McQueen’s engine.

“Oh,” he said quietly.

Doc finally glanced up, but his eyes were guarded. “Anything else?”

McQueen looked back down at the schedule under his tire.

“…No. I guess not.”

He left exactly two hours after.

He didn’t bother making any stops.

Just started heading back to the Cozy Cone, the schedule stuffed inside one of his spokes like a piece of someone else’s life.

He figured he’d check the mail on the way. Not that he was expecting anything.

But there it was.

A crisp, government-sealed envelope sitting in Box #95.

His diploma.

Lightning McQueen, Certified Assistant Medical Mechanic.

His name in bold. Official. Legitimate. Embossed with the state seal and everything.

He pulled it out slowly, studying the paper like it was written in another language.

For a second, he imagined himself hanging it up next to Doc’s own certificate. Ramone framing it for him. Mater crying over how beautiful it looked.

But then the weight of that two-hours-a-day schedule hit again.

He looked down at the paper and felt… nothing.

This was what he’d wanted, right?

More time to train. To race. Less time with tools and grease and tired patients who called him the wrong name.

He should be happy.

He told himself that.

Over and over.

But he wasn’t.

And for the first time in weeks, the silence in his tires didn’t feel like peace.

It felt like something was missing.

Something important.

The bell above the Cozy Cone’s lobby door jingled softly as Lightning McQueen rolled inside, his tires barely making a sound on the tile floor.

Sally was at the front desk, cheerfully checking out a tourist couple—an older Cadillac and a chatty little Ford Focus with a trunk full of luggage. She smiled as she handed over their receipt and thanked them for visiting.

The moment she turned and saw McQueen, she brightened, then almost immediately blinked in confusion.

“Hey, stickers, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at the clinic with Doc?”

McQueen rolled in slower than usual, something tired and unsettled in the way he moved. “I… finished my shift.”

Sally’s smile slowly fell as she took in his expression. “Already?”

McQueen nodded, setting a folded schedule down on the counter.

Sally eyed it briefly, then glanced back at him. “Did something happen?”

McQueen sighed and propped his bumper on the desk, staring at the nearby candy bowl like it held the answers. “I don’t know, Sal… I kinda had a talk with Doc a couple weeks ago. About the nickname. About how I was sick of it.”

Sally said nothing, just listened.

“I wasn’t trying to be mean. I was just frustrated, y’know? I mean, I only got the license to help out. I didn’t wanna become a whole other version of him. But I must’ve said something wrong because… ever since then, he’s been cutting my hours. Barely says anything. Gave me a schedule today with three two-hour shifts.”

Sally’s brows knit together as she absorbed this. “Did you ask him why?”

McQueen nodded. “Said racing season’s starting up again soon and I need time to train. That he’s got Luigi and Sheriff helping with drills while he’s working. Like he’s planning around me not being there.”

She looked at him carefully. “Do you think… maybe you hurt his feelings?”

McQueen blinked. Then scoffed. “Doc? Hurt feelings? C’mon, Sal. He’s built like a tank and has all the emotional softness of a drill press.”

But Sally didn’t laugh.

She tilted her hood slightly, her voice low and thoughtful. “You ever talked to him about… the two of you? About what your relationship actually is?”

McQueen shrugged. “Not really. I mean, he’s my crew chief. My mentor. We don’t exactly sit around and label stuff.”

“Well,” she said gently, “maybe you should think about it.”

He glanced at her, uncertain.

Sally continued, choosing her words with care. “Look, I don’t want to speak on anyone’s behalf or make assumptions, but… Doc likes having you around, Lightning. Likes teaching you. Working beside you. Building something with you. Almost like a… parent would.”

McQueen’s mouth opened… then closed again.

“I’m just spitballing,” she added softly, “but maybe—just maybe—when the town started calling you Doc Jr., it made him feel proud. Like he’d passed something down. Like… maybe he wasn’t just your crew chief anymore. Maybe he was something more. And hearing you talk about how much you hated that name… it probably hurt.”

He went quiet. No snark. No quip. Just the faint creak of his weight shifting as he looked away.

Sally gave him a moment. Then said, “Doc was a racer once too, remember?”

He nodded slowly.

“And that life was taken from him without warning. He didn’t choose to stop racing—someone else made that choice for him. And I can promise you, the last thing he’d ever want… is to take your choice away from you.”

That struck something.

McQueen looked back at her, his voice quieter now. “I didn’t mean to make it sound like he was.”

“I know,” she said gently. “But maybe you need to tell him that.”

The clinic had long gone dark and still.

It was quiet now—except for the faint creak of a door being nudged open and the gentle hum of an engine rolling across the tile floor. The scent of motor oil and antiseptic hung in the air—familiar by now, almost comforting.

McQueen moved quietly past the front desk, past the tool benches, past the silent exam bay.

Right to the wall at the back.

There, above the file cabinet, hung a framed diploma. Faded, a little crooked, the glass slightly fogged from decades of exposure. Hudson Hornet, Licensed Medical Mechanic of Arizona.

McQueen stared at it for a moment, then, using one of the tools from the drawers, reached up and gently lifted it from its hook.

The sun had barely cleared the edge of the hills when Doc arrived at the clinic.

He was earlier than usual. Couldn’t sleep.

Something had been turning over in his engine all night—an ache that wouldn’t go away for almost two weeks now. He knew what it was, but it was annoying as heck and he wished it would just fade.

He’d decided to try to work it off.

He hadn’t expected anyone to be there yet.

So it caught the old Hornet off guard when he rolled through the clinic door and saw the rookie racer already inside, perched on a lift, trying awkwardly to place something on the wall.

Doc blinked. “You break somethin’?”

McQueen jerked in surprise, nearly dropping what he had attached to his tire's grip strap. “Gah—Doc!”

Hudson stared from the doorway, looking tired and surprised… and then curious.

McQueen caught the frame, straightened it, then looked over with a sheepish grin. “You weren’t supposed to catch me until after I hung it.”

Doc rolled closer, eyes narrowing slightly. McQueen fumbled some more until he got the frame hooked, then lowered himself off the lift and reversed away with an uncharacteristically shy smile.

Doc stared at the wall for a long moment. It was a long black frame. Sleeker. And inside were two certificates, mounted one on top of the other behind clean glass. Hudson Hornet’s original medical mechanic diploma on top, and Lightning McQueen’s newly printed license on bottom, both double matted with a bottom red and a top navy blue.

Unseparated. Equal.

“I thought about putting mine on top,” McQueen said, “just to rub in the test score thing. But figured that’d undo the whole apology vibe.”

Doc’s expression didn’t change at first. But after a moment, something in his eyes softened—creased just slightly at the corners.

McQueen turned toward him, nervous but steady. “I’m sorry, Doc.”

The Hornet’s gaze slowly moved to the young racer whose eyes remained firmly on the polyurethane cement floors. “I didn’t mean what I said. Not the way it came out, anyway.”

Doc let out a slow breath through his vents, some of the tension he hadn’t realized had been in his frame, easing. “Might’ve gotten a bit touchy myself,” he admitted after a beat. “You don’t need to apologize.”

“I do,” McQueen said, more firmly this time, meeting his gaze. “It was thoughtless. I got so caught up in how I felt about the nickname, I didn’t stop to think about what it might’ve meant to you.”

Doc didn’t answer right away. He just studied McQueen—quiet, unreadable—before finally giving a faint nod. “It’s a silly nickname,” he murmured. “Not worth this much fuss.”

“But it wasn’t silly to you,” McQueen said gently. “Was it?”

Doc looked away.

McQueen rolled forward a bit, closing the gap between them. “I don’t want to be misunderstood, Doc. I do love racing. It’s everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve built my life around. I don’t want to give that up. Not until I’m ready to retire. And hopefully that’s a long time from now.”

He paused, his voice softening.

“But that doesn’t mean I can’t make time for this, too. I want to be a part of this. The clinic. You. What you do here… it matters. And you matter. I want to be there when you need me.”

Doc’s eyes flicked toward him again—just briefly—but they were less guarded now. Softer.

McQueen continued, quieter now. “It wasn’t the nickname that got to me, not really. It was just… the way everyone only wanted to call me that. Like I’d been replaced with someone I didn’t choose to be. I felt like I was losing who I was… but then, I realized I was just becoming someone new. I was still me. Just... a better version of me."

Doc looked at him, the silence thick but not sharp anymore. Just thoughtful.

After a long beat, he spoke—quietly.

“You were always meant to be your own car, Lightning. I never wanted to take that from you. You’re allowed to live your life. Choose what parts of it you wanna carry with you. You don’t owe me your time.”

“I know,” McQueen said quietly. “I should’ve known it then, too. But I want to give it. When I can.”

Doc didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at the wall for a long time, like he was seeing something much older than what was in that frame.

“…You know,” he finally said, voice low, “that thing sat alone for almost fifteen years.”

McQueen glanced over.

“Just figured it would always stay that way,” Doc added.

They stood in silence again—until McQueen withdrew a paper from his wheel well. He coasted over, set it on the floor between them, and quietly asked, “Can we figure out a new schedule for me? Maybe with a few more hours, and an extra day or two this time?”

Doc finally smiled.

“Yeah, kid.” He murmured. “We can do that.”