Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The paper crinkled softly against the wall as Jackson ran his fingers over it. Rough met rough as his calluses brushed the waves of the news clipping that had grown wavy over the years of the Floridian weather cycle. He traced the faded ink of the paper, his hand coming to a rest as he reached the end of a cheaply printed picture.

Jackson gazed at the image, beautiful even on the weathered page. In it, a man rested a helmet on his left hip, right hand brushing his sweat-slicked blond hair back as it glistened under the bright stadium lights. His mouth was curled into a smirk, only emphasized by his brows, drawn together as if challenging someone just beyond the camera’s view. His eyes, even as their true sky blue eluded the paper, were almost haloed with intensity. He was gorgeous. Radiant, even, in that past that now seemed so long ago.

It only made Jackson more bitter.

He took a deep breath, stepping away from the wall. His hand slipped quietly towards his side. As it did, he cast his gaze around the room. Every surface was plastered with that confident smile, the warmth it exuded. Floor to ceiling, window to door— every visible inch was a monument. A tribute to Lightning McQueen.

It wasn’t that Jackson didn’t understand why McQueen had relinquished his career as a racer. Jackson had announced it himself, right to McQueen’s face. His own words echoed in his mind, seemingly twisting to become more sinister with every repetition.

“What a pleasure it is for me to finally beat you,” he’d said. He’d intended for it to push McQueen further in its audacity. He’d expected for Mcqueen to rise to the challenge on the racetrack. After all, Jackson knew McQueen was more capable than he’d shown in that race that seemed to instead have spurred his downfall. Instead of inspiring competition, though, his words only seemed to crush McQueen’s spirit as the season went on. His performance had started to decline, slowly losing ground until it took an exponential dip as he pushed his engine too far and landed with his wheels facing skyward.

McQueen had always done best when facing the best competition, Jackson had thought. Year after year, as he watched McQueen dominate the speedway, Jackson had looked upon him reverently as his blazing turns became more controlled, his tactics more clever. He’d watched his idol refine himself into a weapon of racing, a blade honed to cut through even the toughest of competition.

“You did it for years,” Jackson muttered, looking around the room. “Why on God’s green Earth did you stop just when I finally reached you?” He scanned the newspapers that had accumulated from his spending the better half of a decade devoting himself solely to even approaching McQueen’s glory, a glory that had once seemed almost starlike in its distance. He searched for an answer. He found none.

…

…

…

*Bzzt.*

The buzz of his phone broke his reverie in a splash of cold reality. As he pulled it out of his back pocket to check it, he stiffened at the notification illuminating his screen:

“Today in Racing: Cruz Ramirez Credits Mentor Lightning McQueen for Victory!”

Cruz Ramirez. The name rolled around his mind like tar, sticking to every grand memory of McQueen and leaving a trail of filth in its wake. He had trained and chased for a third of his life to catch so much as an edge of McQueen’s shadow, and there Ramirez stood, so easily beside him.

She’d hardly even known him for a year. He’d checked.

Envy lapped at him as a metallic taste filled his mouth. He recalled the beginning of the season. He’d been the top pick for winning the Piston Cup, but more importantly, he was going to get to spend another season in proximity to the man who had irrevocably set Jackson’s career path in his magnetism. This was the year he was going to push McQueen past his limits— the year that he would help McQueen grow beyond his boundaries into a racer who could stand the test of time for decades longer. His legacy would outlast the King’s. It would stand as the pinnacle of racing, and Jackson would have the pleasure of knowing that he was the one who allowed it.

The dream had been shattered as Ramirez took McQueen’s place in Florida. Instead of McQueen, Jackson had found himself facing a girl he had never seen before, never heard of before. McQueen had chosen to pass on his legacy to someone who had seemingly appeared out of thin air. But for every action, there must be an equal and opposite reaction, and as the story of Cruz Ramirez was born, Jackson’s dream had dissipated like smoke into the swirling air of the stadium.

Disgusted, Jackson shoved his phone back into his pocket. Turning on his heel, he stalked towards the door, crushing underfoot piles of papers that he hadn’t been able to fit onto the wall. Littered among them sat flattened water bottles and a blanket tossed carelessly to the side, remnants of nights he had spent in the room, envisioning racing its subject far into the future.

Crossing the threshold of the doorframe, as Jackson flicked the light off without sparing it even a glance, he slammed the door behind him. His soul had lain itself miles away with McQueen’s career. The papers only exacerbated its loss.

As Jackson paced down the hallway, he reopened his phone, tapping on the article he’d seen earlier. It felt almost masochistic. His eyes glazed over Cruz’s overenthusiastic quotes and the writer’s dull commentary until they hitched at the caption of a photo of Cruz and McQueen racing along a curved wall of rock. Photo taken at Willy’s Butte, Radiator Springs, AZ.

Jackson paused. An idea began to creep into his mind. Irrational. Reckless. Insane. He could tell even as he thought it. Even so, it ate at him with a growing fervor until he quietly powered off his phone and walked out into his garage, eyes dulled, hypnotized by a feverish dream.

It was a terrible idea, of course. What the hell did he plan on doing once he got to his destination? He couldn’t say. Still, as he slid into the seat of his BMW i8, his body moved almost automatically. Starting the car, he pulled his seatbelt taut as it pressed into place with a soft click. What a joke. Here he was, about to make what was probably going to be one of the worst decisions of his life, and he was still putting on a damn seatbelt.

As he pulled out of the driveway, though, the more distance he put between him and his house, the more the volatile haze of his mind quieted into a low, static hum, almost singing in harmony with his car.

He wasn’t sure what he was doing, exactly. All he knew was that he had to do it. He had to do it because otherwise, he’d fall apart.
The hours blurred together as Jackson worked his way through the states. Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana. He was almost sure that he’d never so much as approached the speed limit during the trip. He was entirely sure that his engine probably resented him for how hard he pushed it, only stopping for gas and a begrudging overnight at the closest lodging he could find once he began to doze off at the wheel, right before the border between Louisiana and Texas.

An easy few hundred feet past the exit, he pulled into the parking lot of a motel whose best days were clearly long gone. Ruby Rock Inn, read the softly glowing sign standing outside of the building, sprouting from a curb of yellowed grass. Jackson could imagine that it had once shone fluorescent red in the night, but time had worn its light down to a lackluster salmon pink. Still, for reasons unknown to him, his eyes seemed to blur for a moment.

He tore his attention away from the sign, walking into the reception with creases under his eyes and the curl of exhaustion in his shoulders.

The door chimed as he entered, earning him the attention of a portly brunette sitting behind a desk littered with papers and coffee cups. She looked up, greeting him with a warm smile.

“Welcome to Ruby Rock Inn!” she said, seemingly unbothered by the late hour— almost midnight, if the clock on the wall behind her was to be believed. “What can I do for ya?”

“Room for one, please,” Jackson replied. See, he could be civil. Be nice. Should’ve been nicer sooner, whispered a voice in the back of his head. Shut up, shut up, shut up, he responded internally.

“…In there? Anyone in there?” he heard the receptionist ask, waving a hand in front of his face. Jackson coughed before straightening to reply. He must have zoned out.

“Yeah, sorry,” he replied, pulling out his wallet. Thankfully, it’d been in his pocket when he’d rushed out the door— he would’ve left it behind, otherwise. “How much?”

“Forty, even,” she responded, punching some numbers into a small desktop computer. By the time Jackson had fished out two twenties, she’d already dug out a key from a drawer under her desk.

“Room 205,” she said, dropping the key into his hand after he'd handed her the money. “Up and to your right when you walk out the door.”

Jackson thanked her, albeit shortly, before exiting the lobby. After sluggishly climbing a paint-stripped set of steps to his room, he shoved the key into the doorknob, unlocking it with a soft click. The door didn’t have much give to it, probably a symptom of the rust plaqueing the hinges.

Inside the room, a plain bed with time-softened sheets lay in the center. Jackson strode towards it, flopping onto it unceremoniously. Whatever energy had been keeping him awake quickly drained away, and he fell into a dreamless, fitful sleep.
As he woke, Jackson rubbed his eyes, squinting to readjust to his surroundings. The sun’s bright light filtered in through a window to his left, bordered with browned edges. He got up and stretched, long limbs feeling loose and light.

As he checked his phone for the time, his brow furrowed in dissatisfaction— he’d lost eight hours to his slumber. A reasonable number for health, but he would rather have been able to shave any of that time off the remainder of the trip.

Tasting his breath, Jackson wrinkled his nose. He’d fallen asleep without so much as a thought for brushing his teeth the night before, and the consequences were festering in his mouth. He’d have to pick up breath mints or something of the sort before he reached his destination.

In the meantime, though, he made do with the hotel sink, using his hands to scoop water into his mouth, swishing it around before spitting it back out. Looking up, he grimaced at his reflection in the mirror.

Despite having slept the whole night through, his stress was evident; sunken eyes stared back into his, and his usually meticulously-maintained hair had flattened on the left, a victim of his side-sleeper tendencies.

After fiddling with it for a few seconds before accepting that it was more trouble than it was worth to do so, Jackson patted down his pockets to try to take inventory of his meager possessions after his impromptu evacuation from his house.

Phone, check. Keys, check. Wallet, check. He opened the last up to see how much cash he had left— a twenty, a five, and a few ones. As he tried to close the wallet, though, a worn slip of paper fell from one of the pockets. As he reached down and flipped it over, his pupils contracted as he examined the front side.

The photo had been taken so long ago, Jackson had forgotten it was even in his wallet, figuring he’d misplaced it somewhere in his house and never found it. In its frame, a younger version of himself, brace-faced and grinning widely while holding the phone, made a peace sign next to Lightning McQueen, who held a thumbs-up towards the camera, a casual grin on his lips.

Jackson stood up slowly as he recalled the moment the shot had been taken. By some miraculous chance, he and McQueen had ended up shopping for groceries at the same Daytona Walmart. Jackson had almost evaporated with excitement upon seeing McQueen in the checkout line, stumbling over every word when he’d asked McQueen for a picture. He’d had to run back into the store after practically skipping out of it, groceries forgotten in the delight of the moment.

All those years ago, that encounter had seemed like the highlight of Jackson’s life. Now, though, the magic had crumbled away, slipping through his fingers as he’d slowly recognized the unbearably heavy fact that McQueen was not of his own merit to be the eternally glorious champion of the racing world.

Quietly folding the picture in half, Jackson tucked it into the very back pocket of his wallet before closing the latter and zipping it into his jacket. He didn’t have any remaining attachment to it, or anything, but… well. Maybe he didn’t need a reason. Maybe he just did it on a whim. At least, that’s what he told himself.

He took one final glance around the room before leaving, shutting the door firmly behind him. As he made his way down the steps to the receptionist, he noticed that in the sun, although the wear and tear of the inn was even more evident in its cracked paint and streaked walls, he could still see in its structure how it had once been beautiful, modern. Maybe it was still beautiful, depending on how you looked at it.

His contemplation slipped away as he entered the lobby. The same woman sat behind the desk, seeming incredibly unaffected by the hours that had gone by as she greeted him with the same warmth as she had the night prior:

“G’morning, darlin’! Have a good sleep?”

“Decent,” Jackson replied. He’d never been one for pleasantries.

Still, despite his curt response, the woman laughed. Maybe sitting behind a desk in the middle of wherever, Louisiana does that to someone, he thought.

“Good to hear it,” she said. “Headed anywhere interesting?”

“Arizona.”

“Ooh, I had a cousin over in Arizona. Said it was darn hot over there. What’re you headed all that way for?”

In all honesty, Jackson wasn’t sure himself. He’d started this trip in a daze, maybe hoping some grand plan of action would come to him sometime during the drive. It hadn’t.

“Paying a visit to someone.”

Short. Sweet. True. All valuable aspects of a statement, in Jackson’s opinion.

“Well, I’m sure whoever they are, they’ll be delighted to get a visit from a handsome young man like—”

Before she could finish her sentence, Jackson’s stomach growled, making both of them flinch.

“Oh, honey,” she tutted, gesturing to her right. “We have a vending machine just down that hall.”

“I’m fine, thanks,” Jackson responded. “I don’t have any small bills on me anyways.”

“Well, that just won’t do,” she said, brows pressing together in concern. “Here, I can just open the machine and grab something—”

“I said I’m fine, thank you very much,” Jackson snapped. The woman’s eyes widened, and he almost instantly felt guilt creep down his spine.

“Sorry,” he tried to amend. “Really, I appreciate the offer, Miss..?”

“Salus. Verity Salus.” She extended her hand towards him, but apprehension still lingered in her eyes. “And you are?”

He grasped her hand, shaking it firmly.

“Jackson Storm.”

“Well, Mr. Jackson Storm, I hope the rest of your trip treats you kindly.”

“Thank you. I hope you have a great day, ma’am.” He let go of her hand.

“I’ll get a bite to eat whenever I stop for gas,” Jackson tried to conciliate.

Verity smiled at him again, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Alright, darlin’.”

As he turned left, Jackson couldn’t help but feel slightly disturbed. Even so, he tried to shake off the feeling as he unlocked his car, settling into his seat as he started it.

Getting back on the road would be good for him. Allow him to clear his mind for a bit. Still, as he peeled out of the parking lot and made his way back onto the highway, Jackson couldn’t shake the feeling of contrition that had made its home in his stomach.

Chapter Text

Texas and New Mexico passed by in a purgatorial blur. It seemed to Jackson that those hours had stretched into days had squeezed into mere minutes. He had cycled back and forth between eagerness and apprehension the whole ride. What would he say? How would McQueen respond? Would he even listen?

He was so engrossed in his thoughts that he almost missed the exit, only realizing his error when he saw the road diverging in his peripheral vision.

As he cut off an old man in a mud-stained F-150 in his rush to the rightmost lane, internally apologizing when he heard the trunk honk from behind him, he found his apprehension shifting into an almost Buddhist state of calm. After two days of almost nothing but driving, this was the end of the road; whatever would happen, would happen.

As he cruised towards Radiator Springs, though, he didn’t know whether to smile or let his face fall at the absurdity of the situation. Legendary racer Lightning McQueen, a modern cultural icon… had restrained himself to some recluses’ town in the middle of nowhere. Hell, according to one of his TV interviews from back in ‘09, he’d had to pave the very road Jackson was driving on. The thought was almost laughable.

Driving into the town, Jackson absorbed the run-down ambience that had etched itself into the buildings. He pulled into the parking lot of a somewhat out-of-place-feeling diner, its cyan hues contrasting sharply with the warmer tones of the rest of the town.

Still, as he reversed into a parking spot under a tall sign marking the establishment as “Flo’s V8 Cafe,” he couldn't help but let the charm of the place seep in, washing over him like an easy tide in the fading dredges of the evening sun. For as much as he was the face of modernity— it came with the territory, driving the flagship car for a company called Next Gen— he found it quaint, almost.

The muted red dirt that ran through the alleys brought out a warm richness in the assortment of what had to be antique buildings comprising the town. It was the kind of place that you'd want to settle in after your glory days had faded. The kind of place that McQueen had settled into, despite the fact that Jackson knew he could have had so many more years in the game. The kind of place that Jackson resented him for settling into.

He shut off his car, inhaling as he opened the door. He breathed in the hot, dry air, let it sting his nasal passages in the way that the Floridian humidity was far too thick to allow.

Now that he was here, though, the calmness that had settled into him just a few minutes prior quickly evaporated— he couldn't just walk into the place and ask them where their town celebrity was. At least, not in good taste. As he stood, paralyzed, he failed to notice a woman in a grey flannel and cuffed blue jeans approaching him until she was barely a few feet away.

"Hey there," she greeted him. He almost jumped in surprise. "You’ve got a lot of guts showing up here after all you've said.” The blunt salutation made him recompose himself, straightening his posture as he met her eyes. He took in the sight of her, arms crossed with a hip cocked confidently to the side. Her turquoise blue eyes bored into his, striking a match of recognition in their intensity.

Sally Carrera— she had to be. McQueen’s lover, if the tabloids were to be believed. Jackson could understand why he chose her— she emanated beauty, stability, firmness. The feeling of someone who was used to needing to fight to get her way. He could work with that.

“I know,” he said placatingly. “I know. Please, I just need one word with McQueen. I’ll be out of your hair right after. I swear it.”

An incredulous laugh escaped Carrera’s mouth. “Wow. You really are something, aren’t you?” She uncrossed her arms, tucking her hands into her pockets. “Sorry, kid. No can do.”

Jackson bit his lip. It was frustrating, sure, but her sentiment was understandable. If he were in her shoes, he wouldn’t have wanted a person that, for all he knew, was a conceited asshole to talk to McQueen either. Still, if that was how she saw him, maybe he could find a way around it.

“I came to apologize to him,” he said, injecting his voice with earnestness. A half-truth, maybe. He wanted to— to cleanse his conscience of the darkness that had laced it as he had used his words to scrape against McQueen’s insecurities. “That’s all I want.” As he spoke, he softened his inflection, schooling his eyes into the gentlest, most genuine expression he could muster. Carrera paused for a moment, her mouth just barely open as she searched his face for sincerity. The universe seemed to sense the gravity of her response, soaking the pair in neon blue as the sign denoting the cafe flickered to life, its sudden incandescence almost blinding.

After what seemed like an eternity, her face adjusted into something bordering on pity. “I’m sorry. He’s got a good thing going for him, now, Storm. Finally getting to know life outside of racing. I don’t think it would be a good idea for him to meet you right now.”

A softer rejection than the first. Just a little bit more, and Jackson was sure he could get her to crack.

“Please, Ms. Carrera.”

She tensed as he called her last name. Maybe she wasn’t expecting him to know it.

“I just need one talk. Just the one. I’ll never bother him again after.”

Just one. And hopefully, by some miracle, he could convince McQueen to return to the raceway in that one conversation. Even as she seemed to sense his desperation, though, she turned her gaze downwards.

“I’m sor—”

“Sally! There you are.”

A voice to Jackson’s right broke the bubble of tension that had enveloped the conversation. A figure approached the pair as the sun paid its final dues of the day. The sound of the voice, polished with a merry cadence, made the hair on the back of Jackson’s neck rise in its familiarity.

“I finally got around to sending that press response you were talking about! Took a little while to write, but it turned out pretty good for being a last-minute…”

The voice trailed off as its originator stepped into the spill of blue in the night.

Jackson felt his head spin, his emotions shifting into overdrive as he slowly turned and looked upon that face, the face that had plagued his dreams and nightmares and thoughts and prayers and pastandfutureandvicesandvirtuesand—

Was right in front of him. No windshields between them. No audience screaming as they walked off a track. No press shoving microphones into their faces.

The world seemed to fall away as their eyes met, the air between them plasmatizing with tension into a crack of sharp electricity. Jackson watched as McQueen’s face turned from surprise to confusion before finally settling with a cold steeliness.

“Storm,” McQueen said carefully, his enthusiasm gone. It sent a shiver down Jackson’s spine. “What do you think you’re doing here?”

Jackson tensed, throat filling with words clawing at each other in a competition to get out. "You know what," McQueen said, raising a hand as if to stop him." Whatever you're about to say, you can say it over dinner. I'm starving.”

With that, he turned away, making a line towards the cafe doors. Tossing a look over his shoulder, he raised an eyebrow. "You guys coming, or not?" He asked. Snapping out of his trance, Jackson hurried to follow after him. Carrera trailed behind, her lips set in a tight line.

As they entered, the chime of a doorbell made way for a soft tune Jackson hadn't heard before. The entire diner was bathed in fluorescent pink light, punctuated by the checkered pattern of the floor tiles. A trademark aroma of deliciously greasy all-American food wormed its way into his nose, making his mouth water as it did.

All around the diner, the walls boasted the history of Radiator Springs. Newspapers and magazine pages were proudly displayed in simple frames surrounding the trio. Jackson’s eyes landed on an article to his left. Across the top of the page, the headline made itself known in bold letters: Meet Radiator Springs, home to champion racer Lightning McQueen! It had been published sometime in early 2010, if Jackson recalled correctly, right before McQueen had announced that he would compete in the World Grand Prix.

A woman called out to McQueen from beyond the bar. She was using a rag to dry a frosty glass mug, a grin splitting her face as she saw the retired racer. "Hey there, sugar!" Her smile only brightened as Carrera entered the door after the two men. "Sally!” she exclaimed, affection evident in her tone. Jackson noticed her eyes dart between McQueen and Carrera for a split second— a flash of uncertainty— before she continued. “It’s good to see you two! And…” she squinted slightly at Jackson. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

Jackson hesitated. He was sure she wouldn’t be pleased if she knew who he was, what he’d done, but at the same time, he couldn’t just give her a pseudonym like he normally would in that case. Not with both McQueen and Carrera looking at him, almost expectantly, like they were waiting to see what he’d do. Evaluating him.

“...Jackson,” he responded after a moment. “And you are…?”

“You can just call me Flo,” she said cheerily. “Good to meet you, Jackson.” She set down her mug and rag before wiping her hands on her apron.

“Can I get y’all anything to drink before you sit down?”

“A chocolate milkshake, please,” McQueen replied quickly. “Extra whipped cream.”

Flo laughed. “Extra cherry, too?” she asked, an air of humor tinging her voice.

“You know me too well,” McQueen chuckled.

“All right, all right. And for the two of you?”

“Water with lemon, please,” Carrera piped up.

“Black tea, please,” Jackson said, drawing a curious look from Carrera.

“Chocolate milkshake, water with lemon, and tea, coming right up,” she announced. “Feel free to have a seat anywhere. I’ll be right back.”

“Thanks, Flo,” Carrera responded. Turning slightly on her heel, she walked towards a booth just next to a window, sliding comfortably into the near seat. McQueen quickly joined her to her right, their strides falling into sync like they'd walked to that booth a million times before. Maybe they had, Jackson thought as McQueen sat next to her, leaving him the seat opposite them.

As he hesitantly dropped into it, he took a moment to study the cafe further. It was styled in an almost retro manner, with bright hues and checkers lining the walls. The booths and seats had classic red-and-white leather cushions, creating an air of familiarity- his favorite childhood restaurant had been decorated almost identically. The chatter of scattered patrons blended into euphony as Jackson took in the ambience.

Carrera deftly removed two menus from behind the condiment caddy on the table, sliding one across to Jackson before opening her own.

“What, no menu for your best friend?” Lightning intoned jokingly.

“You get the same thing every time,” Carrera said, mouth curling in amusement.

“Hey, you never know! What if I wanted to try something new today?”

“Well, are you going to try something new today?”

“No. But that’s besides the point.”

As the two continued to talk, Jackson considered their conversation. Best friend, he noted. Not boyfriend. Not husband. Best friend. Jackson couldn’t help but be surprised. Normally, he wasn’t one to trust gossip mags, but from the way the two interacted, he’d been fairly certain that the rumors the magazines propped up were based in reality in this case. Interesting.

He swirled the ideas around in his head as he read over the menu. His eyes almost instinctively skipped over the appetizers and burgers, landing on the sandwiches. He combed over the options with a forced detachment before tucking the menu back behind the condiments.

As if on cue, a shadow fell over the table.

“Hi, pumpkins!” Flo said, plucking their drinks off a platter and placing them on the table. “Y’all ready to order, yet?” she asked as she tucked the platter under her arm, pulling a notepad and pen from her apron pocket.

“Yup,” Carrera responded smoothly. “I’ll have the tuna sandwich with fries, please.”

“Could I get a grilled chicken salad?” Jackson asked.

“You sure can, honey. And for the side?”

“Just the salad is fine.” Honestly, he’d forgotten to look at the sides, but it was probably for the best anyway.

“I’ll have my usual,” McQueen said as Carrera sighed.

“Turkey sandwich with fries, grilled chicken salad, and the Lightning McQueen Special,” Flo rattled off, clicking her pen shut. “Anything else?”

“No, that’ll be all, thanks,” Carrera replied.

“Alright. Back in a jiffy!” Flo flashed the three a quick grin before turning away from the table and disappearing behind the kitchen door. Jackson stared at her as she left, an odd sort of envy pooling in his stomach. She seemed so... fulfilled in this little town. Happy to talk to customers, going through her work like she couldn’t want anything more than this job and the people it brought into her life.

A few moments after she walked into the kitchen, Jackson tore his eyes away from it, settling them back on McQueen, whose joviality seemed to fade as he sensed the weight of their focus. He returned Jackson’s gaze, eyes clouding over. Their darkening was only emphasized by the harsh pink lights that had seemed so welcoming only minutes ago.

"So," McQueen started, "Storm. You flew all the way here—"

"Drove."

McQueen’s eyebrows rose as he processed the statement.

"You... drove... all the way here. from... Florida?"

Jackson nodded slowly.

"Okay... you drove all the way from Florida to Radiator Springs… so I presume you came here to see me,” McQueen said, folding his arms in front of him.

“Don't get me wrong, I'm flattered, but you'll have to forgive me for being a little suspicious at your showing up to my hometown out of the middle of nowhere after everything that’s happened.”

Jackson could feel Carrera’s eyes on him. Observing. Testing.

"I'm sorry," he blurted. McQueen pressed his lips together, his brows raising in question. "I'm sorry for... everything I said."

As Jackson spoke, McQueen held a steady expression, but he could see Carrera relax in his peripheral vision. Good.

"It was disrespectful and unsportsmanlike of me. I should have known better, and you have my sincerest apologies for all of it."

After another few seconds of staring, McQueen opened his mouth.

"Yeah. Kind of a jerk move of you to have said all of that, y’know. Apology accepted, though. What's done is done.”

Jackson internally calmed in relief. Things were going well. He could do this. His reassurance quickly dwindled as McQueen continued to speak, though.

“I appreciate the sentiment, but did you come all the way here to apologize? 'Cause I really doubt that's really the case."

Jackson swallowed. He was caught. "McQueen," he said, careful to keep his tone stable, his eyes locked onto the other man's. Skirting around the issue would only prolong the discomfort, now.

"Please,” he said, careful to keep his voice steady as he spoke. “Would you ever consider returning to the racetrack?"

McQueen exhaled, using his hand to brush his hair out of his face and combing it towards the back of his head as his eyes went half-lidded from exasperation. He looked pretty as a picture, doing that.

"And there it is. should've known you'd ask. It was only a matter of time, I guess."

He picked a cherry out of his milkshake, tossing it in his mouth and chewing as he continued.

“I love racing. But the fact of the matter is, I don’t have the physical ability anymore to compete with you and the rest of the Next-Gen racers for the Piston Cup after the crash in ‘16.”

Jackson scoffed as his face fell. What kind of bullshit reason was that? He'd seemed to hold his own just fine against the others, even after the crash— he'd begun his final race in last place, and he had still managed to climb up the ranks before switching with Ramirez.

“McQueen,” he urged pleadingly, “You were the greatest racer of all time. Even if you don’t think you have the physical prowess anymore, you could easily make up for it with your experience and some tactical rearrangement.”

McQueen sighed, massaging his temples before responding.

“Look. I don’t know why exactly you’re so set on my returning for the Piston Cup. You’ve already beaten me. Isn’t that enough for you?”

No. No, it isn’t, Jackson thought. A million victories wouldn’t be enough. A million losses wouldn’t be enough.

If the world would let him race against McQueen forever, then, maybe, it would be enough.

Before Jackson could say anything, though, Flo returned with their food.

“Here y’are, sugars!” she said, spreading plates and utensils out on the table. “Call me over if y’all need anything else, alright?”

“We will. Thanks, Flo,” Carrera said, getting a quick nod from Flo before she turned to check in on another table.

Jackson peered incredulously over at McQueen’s plate, which was loaded to the edges with curly fries and what appeared to be a mountain of chili and cheese. Carrera, seemingly sharing Jackson’s disbelief, rolled her eyes at McQueen.

“I will never understand how you never died of malnutrition before coming here, Stickers. There’s not a lick of green on that whole plate.”

“Hey, if you think about it, the fries count as vegetables,” Lightning retorted as he picked one up and dunked it into his milkshake before taking a bite. Carrera cringed, scooting ever so slightly towards the window, even as her eyes crinkled in amusement.

“Anyways. Storm,” McQueen redirected. “We can get you set up for the night but after that, just… just go home.”

Jackson opened his mouth to protest, but found it empty of words that would mean anything. McQueen’s whole career had been built on a foundation of stubbornness, an unyielding will. Would it even be possible to sway his mind? Why wasn’t he willing to keep racing, even if he was no longer the best? Why wasn’t his passion for the sport enough to keep him in it?

Jackson hummed as he unwrapped a fork and stabbed a piece of chicken, bringing it to his mouth. As he bit into it, he found the flavor to be… distant. Good, objectively, but he couldn’t help but find it unsatisfying. Still, he probably wouldn’t have any other options for a healthy meal tonight…

He took another bite.

The rest of the meal passed in a light tension— not overbearing, but just enough to keep Jackson on edge. Murmurs of chatter buzzed around him, whispers of conversation swimming in one ear and out the other. Carrera and McQueen discussed a press conference to which McQueen had been invited. Jackson would have to keep an eye out for that one.

After the three had eaten and Lightning had paid (“I’m the one who brought you guys in here. Besides, I’ve still got a ton of money left over from the brand deals,”), they walked outside to the front of the Cafe.

“It’s late,” Carrera said, flicking her eyes out to the dark sky before bringing them back to Jackson. “I have an extra room at the Cozy Cone you can stay in for the night, but… I think it’d be best if you left tomorrow.”

Jackson pursed his lips. “Alright,” he muttered. He didn’t appreciate the obvious dismissal from the town, but maybe the extra night would give him a chance to come up with a way to persuade McQueen.

“Okay.” Carrera turned to face McQueen. “Would you walk him to cone number three? I have papers I need to look over before I turn in for the night.”

He raised a brow at her. “Sally, I’m not so sure that’s a—”

“Great. I’ll see you tomorrow, then!”

And with that, she disappeared into the darkness, leaving Jackson and McQueen standing bewildered in front of the diner.

“...Well.” Jackson broke the silence. “Cone number three, McQueen?” His own bluntness made him wince internally, but he couldn’t muster the energy to micromanage his speech like he usually did.

McQueen grumbled something that Jackson couldn’t quite catch about Carrera’s “weird psychological tactics” before responding. “Yeah, yeah, alright. Right over this way.” He began towards a vague silhouette of tall peaks across the street.

Jackson lingered in the blue fog, eyes fixated on McQueen as he walked away. Thin wisps of sand dashed by his feet, and as his figure grew more vague in the darkness enveloping him, Jackson could almost imagine that the dust had been kicked up by rubber on an open track, that McQueen was just getting out of his car after setting yet another earth-shattering record—

And then he blinked, and the image was gone. Eaten away by the soft rays of the moon as his eyes adjusted to the dimness in the open air.

He quickly rejoined McQueen, the soft thuds of his sneakers creating a bassline for the rhythmic cracks of McQueen’s boots against the pavement.

As he fell into step, Jackson’s eye caught a comet streaking across the sky. He wasn’t usually one to believe in superstition, but…

Well. Nobody would know if he’d made a wish that night for time to stop; a wish to be there at McQueen’s side, just inches away from the person who had inspired him his whole life for the rest of eternity.