Chapter Text
It was a bleak November day. The kind that begged you to stay indoors, wrapped in pajamas, watching the pale grey sky through the window while feeling safe on your couch. And many people would do just that: families gathered in front of the TV for the long-awaited Piston Cup finale, starring a Lightning McQueen on the verge of claiming his third consecutive championship.
That was exactly why the driver hadn’t been able to roll over in bed and ignore the alarm clock, which sounded far more irritating than usual. He dragged himself out of the mattress, nearly tumbling onto the floor, stripped of his usual agility. Was there a better way to start the day of a final race?
He forced himself into the shower, hoping the cold water would reignite the adrenaline that should have been coursing through him. Instead, he stepped out shivering and disappointed, increasingly aware that something was wrong.
Being low on energy was rare for him—almost unheard of. Worse still, he couldn’t walk without being seized by chills. He felt hollow, while his stomach seemed to have a will of its own, sending sharp, unmistakable signals that it wanted nothing to do with food. “Thanks, body. Really feeling the support here”, he muttered hoarsely to himself.
He tried to put some clothes on. How come he was struggling so hard? His pants were one spasm away from tearing apart, he was too cold to tame his shaking arms.
I’m dying to see your hands on a wheel now, McQueen.
The knocking on the door relieved him temporarily from that ridiculous agony.
“Rise and shine, rookie. That buffet breakfast downstairs won’t wait for you”.
“I’m up, Doc. Not hungry though”, he let out in response. Not so sure if that rough voice was his or rather a coffee machine’s.
“You haven’t eaten in a day. What happened to Mr. 'give-me-six-seconds-and-i'll-empty-the-cafeteria’? I’ll get him back”.
A moment later his mentor was already inside his hotel room. A shade of seasoned concern in his frown.
“No chance you’re getting my bedroom keys again… ever heard of privacy, old man? Mack has”.
“As your crewchief, it is my right and duty to know whether you’re in the appropriate condition to attend a race”.
Lightning felt powerless under his mentor’s look. He should have told Doc how he felt - he was a doc after all.
That’s spectacular advice, brain.
But why should he send him to apprehensive-doctor-mode for something so stupid as an off day? He summoned all his energy to put on a crooked smile:
“I just woke up on the wrong side of the bed, i’ll be fine. Guess I’m still bad at handling people worrying about me. So thanks, but no need to freak out”.
Well, he hoped. But Doc gave him the look. The ‘you’re fooling no other than yourself’ gaze. Then it turned into something more understanding.
“Kid, I want you to race, maybe more than you do. Don’t think I’d get you out so easily. But I gotta know what we’re dealing with, or else I won’t know how to help you out there”.
Lightning knew his grumpy mentor was, as always, right. He gave in as his cold hand reached his forehead.
“You’re hot”.
“I’m always hot, Doc. Been wondering if I’m your type”, he joked. Not the slightest smile on Doc’s face.
“And I’ve been wondering if you ever quit yappin’. See why I got to be your full-time babysitter?”
“Ouch, no need to snap”.
“Really? Then try saying ‘I’m fine’ again. You’re runnin’ up a fever, Lightning”.
The only words he didn't want to hear.
“Can’t we just ignore it? Come on, you fill me up with drugs so that I don’t throw up mid-race. After that I’ll be a happy little patient, deal?”. He sounded more desperate than he’d ever admit.
Doc’s response was so painfully deserved:
“You know, a five-year-old would think more clearly than you do right now. Hard to believe, but you’re an adult - act like one. We’re talking strategy. And that doesn’t involve being recklessly larger than life. Neither of us want you to wreck right into a wall. Or in someone’s car”.
He left him time to think. After a couple seconds, still a bit embarrassed, Lightning broke the silence:
“Let me race. That’s all I ask”. Doc smiled thoughtfully.
“I trust you, rookie”. With that, the driver smiled back. A grin crawled on the older man’s face.
“Not as much as I trust my medicine degree”.
Lightning groaned, but soon joined Doc’s laughter as he handled his med-kit with practiced ease.
The race was about to start. They had a quick round through technicalities on the short drive to the pits. Even parking the trailer was a challenge for Mack: the press was there, as feral as ever. They were desperate for any glimpse of Lightning. That was so not happening.
“He is racing. A team has to do what’s best for its driver”, Doc said.
Then he stepped forward, and left no room for anyone to say anything:
“Now the show's over. We’re getting ready for the real thing”. That said, the area was finally free. Doc helped the kid jump down off the truck.
You could tell from miles away that he was not his usual bright self. His tired frown also had something to do with the fact that he had skipped practice laps against his will. Convincing him had been a nightmare, thank god he knew how to handle lawyers.
But Doc knew how hard it is to hold back, when all you want to do is to prove your worth. He had been there. And he would have chosen to race, no matter what.
Was it dangerous? Of course. But their job was built around taking risks. And happiness. And that's what Doc cared about the most, even though he didn’t show it.
The rookie was his team's driver.
His responsibility.
His kid.
He couldn't bear to see his kid being consumed by regret. Live the flat life he had lived, before Lightning sparked it up again.
That was definitely too much. Where’s that emotional detachment you brag about?
He focused on the kid’s complexion: he was really pale, almost green; glazed eyes in a red frame. That only made the lump in his throat bigger.
“Hasn’t mom taught you not to stare, Doc?” - the driver's voice brought him back to reality.
“You look horrible”.
“You’re jealous, I see. I get that reaction a lot”.
“Sure. Pandas would kill for those dashing dark circles. Now drop it, I gotta check your temperature”.
The kid chuckled, a bit annoyed. He stood still under the thermometer anyway. Hopefully his unbroken sense of humor was a good sign of health coming back. How wrong he was.
“What’s so concerning, Doc? I feel ready”.
“High fevers don't usually mix well with stubbornness”.
“Stubborn’s my middle name. I’m still me. Just… hotter”. He winked. Doc sighed.
“This is serious, Lightning”. Tension built up in the air. Then the kid's eyes lit up with his signature determination:
“Listen, I won’t say ‘I’m fine’ cause we both know I’m not. But I can drive. I can listen. And I have too much adrenaline to just sit still. It's too late to give up now”.
Silence. Lightning bounced weakly up and down, fists closed in front of him. His gaze full of excitement and expectancy.
“I promised I’d let you race. And I will”. The kid threw his arms around Doc. He didn't hug him back at first, he didn't stop him either. He was ready to race.
Lightning climbed in his car. Not after an unrequested check up. He silently blessed whatever Doc had given him right then, though; sitting made the nausea seem almost bearable.
He checked the #95’s controls. It was a clean, automatic job.
“Do you copy, rookie?”
“Loud and clear”. Doc’s radio-voice had never been more reassuring.
“For the record, kid: your freedom ends right where my judgement begins”.
“Come on, Doc. Today you're just the crewchief, not a judge”.
“We’ll see about that. How stupid are you planning to act this time?” Lightning couldn’t help but laugh at that. Once on the track, he took his spot right behind the starting line. The roaring of the crowd warmed his heart. You’re already warm, genius. How about cooling down instead, McQueen?
Time to shut everything down. Nothing mattered anymore. No more doubts clouding his mind.
Just wheels and asphalt. And the crowd’s voices.
Though only one stood out among thousands:
“Whatever happens, rookie, you’re not a hero. Just a champion”.
One breath. A silent promise. Green flag.
“I am speed”.
The track flowed under him, suspended in time. The pedals were the stable extension to his trembling body.
“Don’t stress yourself, stick to your rhythm". His maneuvers were natural to him.
The world sometimes sped up. He was left behind. Loud cheering pushed him forward. There came the nausea again.
“You got it, kid”.
Right, Doc. It's time to win.