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They're gliding along, in a confident first place, perfectly in sync (as they should be after training together for almost a full year). She goes low as they crest the hill, and he crouches with her, and the streamlining means they pick up speed on the decline. There's a turn at the bottom; any moment now he'll feel the gentle drag of their brakes, the lean as she prepares to take it tightly on the inside line, leaving no room for their opponents to undertake - like anyone could catch up with them anyway. That cup is theirs. Well, it's hers, but he'll be there to grab her hand up on the podium and lift it aloft as the crowd cheers and maybe, just maybe, this is the day he gets brave, and he'll grab her by her waist and dip her into a kiss that shows the world just how much his champion means to him…
They're not slowing down. They've almost reached the foot of the hill and he swears they're still picking up speed and that's not right, it can't be right. The curve in the tracks is approaching at a rapid rate.
He tugs at her couplers. "Blu-"
He's too late.
Lumber has been derailed before. Heavy loads and inexperienced engines and poor conditions are a familiar combination in winter, but the runs don't stop because of a bit of ice and snow. Christ, Rusty tipped them off the tracks once, weeks after he passed his freight training; dumped them right into a snowdrift, the two of them and Porter. They were lucky, then, that Momma and Mem came looking for their boys the minute they missed the call for dinner back home. They'd been warm and dry less than an hour after their unfortunate tumble and it had all been forgotten in a week, even if Lumber sometimes still teases Rusty about it to this day when they're out working and he makes a questionable manoeuvre somewhere out in the countryside.
As Blue Lightning hurtles headlong off the tracks with a shriek, and he follows right behind them, and the two of them tumble head over wheels, over and over, he catches glimpses of clear blue sky, the exact shade that matches her shiny racing gear. There's not even a cloud overhead - he heard a marshal remark earlier what a fine day it had turned out to be for their heat. Without the weather to blame for a slip, he doesn't know what happened, and before he can dwell on it any further, they've skidded to a stop on the tarmac, amidst smoke and the acrid smell of burning rubber.
His hands move from her couplers to her hips entirely of their own accord.
"Blue," he murmurs, as at the same time they mutter, "you stupid fucking wood truck."
He blinks for a second, dumbfounded. "Me? I… I don't think…"
And she sighs, and he swears she leans back into him for a fraction of a second before she's trying to sit up, and he's there, right at her side, wanting to help her.
"I didn't mean that," they sigh, as they press their palms into the ground and, on shaking wrists, push themself upright. He reaches out to hold onto them but they push his hand away. "Don't. I'm fine." Her jaw is set and she speaks the words through gritted teeth and shortened breaths. "The race…"
There are running footsteps, and shouts coming their way. Lumber does a quick assessment of his own injuries - scraped and bruised, he decides, but nothing too serious, thank the starlight for helmets - and hops up to his feet as the race marshals arrive.
"We want a rerun!" he announces to the camera that's shoved in his face. "She can win the whole thing, let her go again." Behind him, Blue Lightning uses his hand and arm to help them get up onto their wheels. He locks eyes with the marshal and directs the plea to his face. "Come on, man. Let us restart, it's just one race, you and I both know Blue's got it in the bag, they earned it…"
A yellow flag is waved in his face.
"Blue Lightning and Lumber are disqualified!"
"What! Control!" He glares up at the loudspeaker that rings out the news like it's personally responsible for the outcome. "Come on, we were going to win!"
"Cut it out, Lumber." Blue Lightning's voice is quiet behind him, and one of her hands is wrapped tightly around his wrist and the other comes to rest on his shoulder and turns him around, away from the marshals, away from the camera that has already lost interest and moved on to a more attractive, moving target in the form of the new leaders of the pack. "I lost. It's over."
"You- no, we didn't lose," he protests, giving her a little tug. He wants to follow the marshals; it's not too late, they can join in again, who cares what Control says, they deserve that first-place trophy.
And then he actually looks at her.
There's oil smudged around her nose - a drip that's been wiped carelessly with the back of a hand. One of her sky-blue shoulder guards is scraped to hell and back and bent at its top, and while she's standing, she's not standing unaided. There's a not insignificant portion of her weight leaning into his torso, and whilst as engines go Blue Lightning is far from the heaviest, compared to Greaseball and Golden Eagle, she's not a small train either. His focus is effectively redirected from fighting for their place to simply keeping them upright. Arms around their waist, their chest pressed against his until she finds her footing again, until her balance is restored.
"Hey, Blue," he murmurs, when she lifts her head up off his shoulder.
"I'm okay," they insist.
He wants to say you don't have to be. Instead he says "okay," and gives her another minute to recollect herself. When she starts to skate away, she's still shaky, and he follows, a supporting arm around her, right by her side instead of at her back.
"What are you doing?"
He raises an eyebrow, matching her speed, matching her strides. She's favouring her left leg, the side that didn't take as much of the impact of the fall. "What does it look like? I'm getting you out of here. Getting you home."
They scoff quietly. "You know you don't have to do all that. The cameras are gone, nobody's looking our way, and I'm fine."
"Good." He smiles wryly. "I don't need an audience. I don't care."
"No." She sighs. "I know you, and your problem is you care too much."
"… Maybe."
"I'm perfectly capable of making it back to the sheds under my own power."
"I know." He squeezes her waist lightly, where his hand rests just beneath her protective plating. "You can do it. But like I keep telling you… you don't have to. I'm here."
"You shouldn't be here." Their voice is quiet, surprisingly subdued for the usually bold, vibrant engine.
He hums lightly in agreement. "But here I am."
On better days, there are a few more lines to this back-and-forth they've shared a hundred times. I wish you weren't and do you want me to go? and a reluctant no… you can stay.
But today is not a better day. Lumber's actually not convinced today could be much worse, and Blue Lightning doesn't seem to want to continue with their banter, which is a surefire sign she's in more pain than she's letting show on her face. Her lips are pressed into a thin line, and she keeps skating, and he skates along beside her. The foundations of their pairing are built on speed and strength… but they're not so fast now, not compared to the light-speed of their downhill descent, and what strength they retain following their little accident appears to be fading fast.
She's breathing heavily by the time they step over the threshold of the engine shed. He's only been to their room a handful of times, but that's where they go now.
He's just started getting her out of the outermost layers of her protective gear, his nimble fingers making light work of the straps and clasps, when she rounds on him and pushes against his chest with both hands. Taken aback, he rolls back two feet or so before he brings himself to a stop, and tilts his head at her in evident confusion.
"What was that for?" he asks softly.
"I don't need your help," they spit, with surprising amounts of venom for someone who looks so tired that a strong wind could well knock them over.
Lumber's shoulders sink. He knows he should have probably expected this to come, because when Blue Lightning is hurting, she chooses anger as her shield.
He nods, though, and doesn't speak. It's good for her to get it out.
"I wouldn't have crashed if you weren't on my heels," she continues, ice glittering in her sapphire gaze. "You're the reason we came off. I could've made the turn if I didn't have you dragging behind me. You threw me off. You're no help. I should've taken your brother."
The last part, admittedly, stings. Porter would probably drop everything to race with Blue Lightning. He hasn't had an engine in years, not since… not since everything.
Anyone with any sense would give a limb to skate with them. Every time they wave Lumber over at partnering, a little thrill runs through him - the same thrill he felt the very first time she asked him to be her truck for the afternoon. They were young stock back then; she hadn't even been painted blue.
He'd been so proud to ride at her back.
He still is.
He knows that a day might come where they do choose Porter… or they'll choose Slick, or Hydra, or a component or coach, and he'll find himself on the sidelines. He'll cheer them on all the same.
"I'm sorry, Blue." He doesn't know what else he can say - there's nothing he can think to do that might make this any easier on her.
"You're sorry? So you admit it's all your fault?" They've dragged off their helmet, and now they look him in the eye through a mess of unstyled hair. "You crashed me. You're the reason I'm out."
"You could've won. We were going to."
"You think I don't know that, Lumber?"
He hates it when she's like this, prickling and biting, wrapped up in her pain and letting it blind her.
She always hates it too, when she's calmed and come around. And keeping her cool is something she's been working on for years, and she's better at it than she was, but that doesn't make her perfect. Neither of them are.
He tells her she's perfect in his eyes, and she always snaps back that she isn't, that nobody ever is. It doesn't mean he thinks she's any less so, even with her eyes blazing and her tongue sharp. Maybe if he'd reacted faster, they'd have been able to brake in time. Maybe he could've caught them. Next time he'll catch them.
Burned out on their fury, Blue Lightning turns on their wheels and faces away from him - or rather, they try to, but their toe stop catches on a discarded piece of protective gear at their feet, and it's enough to unbalance them. She wobbles for a second, a last-ditch attempt at regaining her footing, and Lumber watches, giving her the benefit of the doubt that she'll be able to save herself (because the last thing he needs to do right now is to intervene when it's not certain that she needs it, to give her yet another reason to uncouple him for good).
When she can't, and her knees give way beneath her to try to lessen the impact of her landing, he's there before she falls.
His arms loop around their waist and tighten, and before they can hit the floor he gets there first, and next time comes right there and then in her bedroom as he catches her tired frame against his chest and in his lap.
Her breath tumbles out of her in a rush, and he holds his, anxiously waiting for her reaction. Maybe this was a mistake, maybe she needs her space, her independence…
They curl up where they landed, and their hands come up, one covering their face while the other wraps around his wrist and holds on tight to the fabric of his sleeve.
A gentle silence settles over the room - one that's only punctuated by the sound of her breath hitching as she turns further into his chest.
He holds her tighter still. He knows better than to give her soft sobs verbal acknowledgement, but he presses a kiss to the top of her head as she tucks her nose into the unzipped folds of his jacket.
"I'm sorry," Blue Lightning whispers, after what feels like an age in which neither one of them speaks - in which they don't need to, because the way they cling to Lumber is worth a thousand words.
"Nothing to be sorry for, baby blue," he murmurs back. "It's okay. You're okay."
"It's not," she insists quietly. "I- I shouldn't get mad at you, it's not- you're not…"
"Shh… we'll talk about it later," he soothes, cradling the back of her head in a large work-roughened hand, stroking her hair in a way she's always been powerless to resist.
They don't insist on talking about it now, or apologising again. They just stay right where they are, exhaling softly against his collar.
There's a small, hot, damp patch of tears soaking into his shirt, but they'll talk about that later, too. Or never, if she doesn't want to bring it up. He doesn't need to put her little bleeding heart under a microscope.
He just needs her to know he's got her, no matter what.