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He keeps staring at the older man with the same blind awe he had when he learned about Doc’s racing heritage. He continues to look up as if Doc is a lightning trapped in a bottle moment, unable to replicate, no matter how much he tries to simulate the same motions his teacher puts into his drives. It tugs at the older man's heart, but he keeps his affections guarded to not startle the young man in his charge. He was no demigod worthy of the blind adulations, christened by the tongues of the press as this god of the track. Instead of any expression, Doc leans up into the vintage Hornet that garnered him all his glory, unfazed as he lights a cigarette. The unibody car creaks on its low frame chassis, but does not complain further. "Not mad you lost again, huh?" Doc gruffs through the nicotine spewing from his chapped lips.
"Are you kidding?" Lightning settles onto his own crimson 95, a perfect parallel of a newer racing model beside its blue predecessor on the tracks.
"You're the Fabulous Hudson Hornet!"
Ironic how Doc had tried to bury that part of himself, hid away in the barn loft along with the mothballs of his aging memories of anguish and the sweet burning victories of the track. He thought he never wanted to go back to those racing days, where he dominated all the champions before him, grinning arrogantly at all with his collection of Piston Cups. Cold reality slapped maturity into him, quashed his burning urge to return to that world, but here it was, clawing at him eagerly for more, more, more! It was never enough to stave off this newfound itch he could never soothe. One the kid burned slow, steady into him, hot, unending without thirst-quenching relief. He'd have to take another cold shower tonight, Doc decides.
He looks briefly into the younger blues of his protégé, "You do recall you're the Lightning McQueen, right, kid?" He gives a hoarse noise that the nicotine taints into a laugh, but some of it is partially a scoff.
"Yeah, rookie sensation, but you had the most wins, you did it all, and you were amazing--I. I--I looked up to you man. As a kid you were my idol!" Not a new spiel, Doc grunts smoke through his nostrils as he returns to looking at the sloped sands of Willy's Butte. There was no shortlist of idolizing youth who wanted to see the Fabulous Hudson in his prime, fools unaware of the price he paid for his ambitions tinged with haughty expectancy. There was no end to the proclamations of undying affirmations that Doc had heard before, so he turns away, letting the sinking sun cast shadows on his aging face. If he thought this would discourage whatever ardent zealotry within his protégé, he was wrong. Lightning leapt off his stock car with a catlike grace that seamlessly got him right into Doc's space, the younger man settling atop the Hudson Hornet as if he owned it himself. Unabashed by his intrusion upon property or space, or more accurately, ignorant to this social grace, the boy had the gall to pat at the vintage car.
"You're so cute," the blond said at last, earning a neck snapping glare that went unobserved as Lightning pat at the Hornet fondly. His fingers, intimate in their caress, traced the "TWIN H-POWER" denoting the strength of the vehicle.
Of course the man didn't mean him. How could he fall for that, ire sweeping from him with the easy full rotation of an eye roll. He was old, battered, jaded, scarred–all around he was not a handsome man, even the ladies did not spare him a glance outside the fame his name produced. Their admirations were as hollow as the trophies he left dusting on the shelf of the garage. "Can't believe this engine dominated the tracks."
"Kid, it still dominated your stock car's ass tonight at practice." The laugh was less derisive this time.
"He's one helluva cutie," Lighting pat at the hood. A noncommittal grunt is all the blond wins out of his mentor, smoky wisps filtering between the pair with their wraith-like tendrils. The toxic fumes, even the vapid noises from his mentor could not draw the other from his naked admiration to the Hornet, nor did it dissuade him from pressing that bit closer into Doc's vicinity as he finally turned those too bright blues upon him.
“Let me drive the Hornet, Doc, I can do it,” Lightning urges, hands sliding off the blue body to clench into tightly balled fists. At first Doc believes he has misheard what the boy utters, lost in the desert sands sifting about them lazily in the dry air. Then he processes it and makes a bark of laughter, a stage below derisive, but guttural and short, disbelief lacing with the smoke clouds he spills from his mouth.
“He’s not for you, kid,” Doc admits, thinking how out of place this boy would be in an antique model. Then he sees the pure anguish in those eyes, the way rivers glaze over them, and he finds himself open to debate where it concerns the Hornet.
“C’mon Doc, I can do it. He’s part of my fantasies as much as you are,” and Doc knows he is having a heat stroke, but he ignores his feverish dreams.
“It’s not a matter of just getting your hands on the wheel, you know. He’s old, he’s wounded, and he needs love and care,” and for a moment he sees some glint akin to recognition in Lighting’s stare that unnerves Doc just that little bit more. He said they were the same at one point, Doc still defies that as best as he can, being grizzled and bitter whereas Lightning is still young, capable, a radiant light that has yet to dim or burn out.
The blond licks his lips, casts his gaze back to the chrome at his fingertips as he returns to stroking the iconic Hornet rocket.
“I can do that.” Lightning says, in sync to Doc stamping out his cigarette now it loses its charm. “I can work with him, ‘cause I got you, old man. You’d teach me good an’ right.”
Doc glares down to the man, incredulous scowl marring the thin line of his lips, gray facial hair bending with the frowning muscles. “He’s not like your modern stock, kid. This is an antique.” A part of Doc is unsure why he harps about the vintage aspect of the car, when that is the furthest argument really stalling his decision. He knows why he is hesitant, even if he cannot vocalize it to this young man beside him. Because you’ll look beautiful as you do it, you’ll be perfect, fit in the seat like you were born for the 50s, on any race track in the fabled blues. Because it will break my heart, Doc thinks. It’s the last vestige of myself I never let anyone touch or intrude. How foolish he was to think all these meager reasons, when Lightning always wormed his way into those intrusive spaces Doc left vulnerable. Like he did with simple “Do Not Enter” signs, the blind contentment of others respecting his privacy juxtaposed with this nosy brat and all his hunger.
He thinks, or rather prays, the subject has been dropped for now, if not settled with Doc’s firm rejections, but as usual the blond makes a mess of all his well intended plans.
“Why are you afraid of me, old man?”
Doc blinks.
“You’re afraid I’ll get hurt in the Hud? He wouldn’t hurt me, he’s part of you, and I know you’d never hurt me.”
The older man reaches his limits by this point, jaw clenching tight, and Lightning is at least wise enough to step away, able to recognize that even gray clouds can blot out the sun in their path. The older man grumbles some nonsense or other about tomorrow, an arbitrary promise for a future he hopes he can stomach as he settles into the driver’s seat to make a pitiful escape. Lightning says nothing, only watches his mentor drive off with the old Hudson, perhaps not bothering to look at all, for Doc refuses to check his mirror. Better to dream and envision a mirage than confront the infernal folly of his foolish heart. So he leaves Lightning at the butte, gravel under tires as he drives away, a steady pace that belies the inner turmoil roiling his innards and his psyche. If he looks back, he knows he is done, knows he is leaving the apparition of his waking mind, yet another piece of himself he cannot deny.
The distance does not exculpate Doc of his wandering thoughts, an insidious purgatory of self-depreciation that worms itself tight into his chest. Still he drives the long roads then, mind gnawing, gears never ceasing, stuttering, but ever ticking with the rhythm of his galloping heart.
If anything, the further the Hornet drifts from the butte, away from Lightning, the more irrational Doc fears his fixation, thoughts constantly turning over, how to be better for the kid, to give more to him, always Lightning. How foolish was this old man to believe physical numbers could truly add up to allow him peace of mind, when his thoughts always lingered on the unattainable. Distance gave a weight onto his shoulders, sagging them that bit more than age has ever accomplished. The Hornet measures the invisible feet between the men, that singular tether of an idea that draws them together, as much as Doc shuns it or vainly tries to tear it apart. One day the kid will wise up and give up, realize the misfortune of meeting your idols, and give up on the famous race car of old along with its driver. Eventually.
Until then the Hornet’s wheel is a biting contact, nipping at calloused palms as the only sensation grounding Doc to the present while they traverse along a vacant road even the gods have forgotten. One where a breakdown would be treacherous, but still Doc guides the old car to find some misguided comfort in the distance he physically tries to put between himself and his desires. The Hornet ambles on, none the wiser of the conflict of his driver, ever diligent to carry Doc wherever he desires, a dutiful chariot of victory and remorse in a blue parcel of six-cylinders and chrome decals.
It is not until nightfall that Doc dares to return to Radiator Springs proper, slipping past any would-be onlookers with shame still on his heels. The creeping shadows feel sufficient enough to allow his presence to come slinking back to his second home.
He ignores the welcoming glow from Flo’s Diner, brimming with the bustle of life and friendly faces. Revelry is in full swing given the rowdy ambience he can hear as he coasts past on his way home. Doc staunchly ignores the crimson sheen he espies amongst the cluster of cars sidled along the diner, one that glowers with a knowing grin making up the maw of its naked fender.
The Hornet drives on, guided to his dark domicile to be wrapped in forgotten dreams as always, Doc’s mindful ritual as he works to get the cover over the antique. Hidden, but unable to be forgotten. Not when it was a point of interest to a young rookie coming into his own under the tutelage of a famous driver. Unable to appease any godly form, Doc stumbles into his empty abode to find some Jim Bean to nurse his soul.
In between one step and next towards his liquor cabinet, a most intrusive thought takes hold of Doc, one petty, but briefly consoling. He looks at the key in his hand, the warmth of the hexagonal tip weighing in his palm only briefly before it makes a swift projectile across the room unseen. As if Doc can rid himself of the tether Lightning yearns to bind them with. The poor key makes a pitiful metallic jingle as it whacks into something Doc could care less about, its noise a quiet din in the silent house.
He keeps the lights off, navigating his home with an ease only loneliness can conjure up. That night he drowns himself in familiar isolation.
In the morning he will stumble around in the daylight for the peace he lost.
–
They meet at Willy’s Butte the next day, neither talking about the day before, Doc smelling of alcohol and shame as his glazed eyes gauge his protégé. Lightning has a determined fire in his eyes, but Doc stares blankly ahead, unwilling to kindle the flames. His aged blues stare over the top of blond strands as Lightning settles a hand on either side of his mentor, seeking out validation with his jubilant, “Did you see? Did you see that old man?”
Doc steadfastly ignores how he is conveniently pinned against the Hornet by more than just the other’s sweaty palms on either side of his hips.
–
That night Doc thinks about a discus flying in seamless rotations in the wind. He fantasizes one bashing into his skull to silence the insidious whispers the empty bottle of Jim Beam cannot stilt.
–
The old man does not get drunk the next few days, only sips at a bourbon, eyes transfixed by the replay of crimson blurring over his TV screen to the trumpeting fanfare of a thousand fans.
–
Eventually he relents, because of course he does, because he is so weak, malleable heart pinned beneath those baby blues that steal his reasoning. Where logic would prevail, Lightning's lustrous eyes make a fool out of an old man's still beating heart. So he relents, unable to bring himself to toss the key to parts unseen in emotional turmoil anymore. Instead he gently proffers the key like a blind offering to a sweet god, trying to make it as ceremonial as it feels as he buries his heart.
“Pain in the ass,” Doc grouses one morning without any heat while the other vibrates with pure rapture, but enough sense to cradle the antique key like an injured bird needing the reviving touch of a tender deity. Their skin brushes for just the briefest of moments, and Doc mutedly groans in anguish at what he has done. His sacrificial offering must appease some god above or below, for Lightning smiles so blindingly bright, lips parted in silent ecstasy, leaving Doc feeling like a stand in for a more worthy being.
Lightning gasps, airy sound, a gentle zephyr in the dry air as Doc unveils his soul beneath the covers. The Old Man, as Doc endearingly refers to him, is unbothered, preening within the shine of the sun creeping into the garage that Lightning brought with him.
“So beautiful,” Lightning reverently praises, but his eyes are fixated on Doc as he says it, not the blue coupe.
Doc rolls his eyes for the millionth time in place of any vulnerability he cannot suffer to spare, grumbling in place of any honesty he is too afraid to expose.
“Shut up and get in.”
Apollo taught Hyacinthus to use a golden bow, heartstrings open to the blessed mortal along the banks of Erotas. Doc has no Erotas to go to for his worship, as no living riverbeds line the parched valleys. They have the sanctity of Willy's Butte instead, sloped terrain all to themselves as Doc surely needs all the privacy for this intimate moment.
Trepidation over the Hornet briefly filters into the older man’s mind as they settle inside the antique. A multitude of branching events cascade into his thoughts unbidden, suddenly self-conscious of the former racecar’s performance now under the hands of a much younger driver. He fears some atonal affront from the car, some aged wheeze, a gear freezing with a terrible groan. Instead, as Doc elucidates each function of the gears to this boy, Lightning takes to it as readily as someone destined for this car and all its purpose.
Fuck me, Doc briefly swears inside, impressed but not altogether surprised as the old coupe responds healthily under Lightning’s hands. In moments Lightning has the Hornet under his spell, completely and utterly tamed beneath this boy’s hands not unlike his owner. Doc can only look with glazed over eyes at how beautiful this reality is over the meek fantasies that teased at his thoughts when he was left unguarded.
You were built for this moment, Doc relishes this thought. So he leaves the kid to it, lets him drive them out of the butte, away from the practice grounds to the true trials of the road.
They start off at a leisurely cruise, keeping the Hornet to a respectful pace aligned to the legally posted limits. Doc knows the kid's itching to let the Hornet fly, like the prickle of electricity from an oncoming storm, it cuts so thick in the small space between them. The older man catches the way the blond's holding the wheel, white-knuckled, hot—hell, Doc wonders, he could be getting off to it. Riding in the famous racecar of old, with his idol, driving his idol's personal stock. He cannot tell, Lightning can be foreign to him at times.
Just not right now. Right now he can feel the pulse trying to escape from the rippling of skin, can trace the way the younger man's jaw is tight, his throat fluttering as his nostrils flare. He wants to let loose, and Doc does too, despite his old age. Age is what tempers him, however, not Lightning, so he waits, and he knows the man will ask. Sure enough those glossy blue eyes look in askance of his mentor, begging oh so sinfully for this one unspoken plea.
Doc actually cracks a wry smile on his weathered face, his gray mustache almost curling with the rest of his mouth. "Go ahead, kid. You earned it. If the Hornet likes you, he'll let you drive him hard."
That is enough, the Hornet is let off his bit-on-the-tongue restraint as Lightning takes him down a lonelier stretch of road the frantic traffic forgets in their dogged resolve to go, go, go. Lightning floors it, nimble hands shifting the gears seamlessly as if he was made for this engine. The wet cork clutch made each transition liquid smooth, overdrive put to use for the first time since a forced retirement, Lightning has mastered the antique’s form perfectly. The Hornet roars to life for the first time in decades, unwilling to be forgotten, to be relegated to the whispers on the track of a bygone era. His was a model of prestige, not to be forgotten by the tides that retired his class. The blue beauty soars under the brat's touch, probably siphoning that electricity off of him into each cylinder firing.
You can't forget me, I will never be a mere shadow in the footnote of the auto industry, the Fabulous Hudson growls through his engine, probably preening as he passes what little competition he comes across on the long stretch before them. People in their newer cars, their shinier technology, are floored to be surpassed by the vintage beauty, some unaware of the legend of the emblazoned 51 on his sides, maybe unaware of the two legends on his upholstery.
Lightning is shivering, his body is actually rattling, knuckles losing their circulation as the wheel kisses at his palms hotly, stinging its mark onto those trembling digits. Doc smiles darkly, knowing the Hornet lusts for the younger racer as much as his own driver does, drunk off the prowess of the potential locked behind those pretty baby blues. He'd kiss the blond if he didn't expect them to roll the old Hudson to their demise, even then he'd love to go out that way just as a moment seared by their joined lips while the antique car took them to their final destination beyond.
He tamps down on his heady desires when he sees the speedometer clocking well above the posted limits he saw 5 miles back, so he rests a larger palm over the vibrating fists choking at the wheel. The kid blinks, something wet dripping off his chin as he comes back to himself, coaxing the Hornet off his high into an easy canter, soothing the old man into a lighter pulse as they return to a civilized speed. The twin engines purr, mewling in pleasure as the low chassis steadies its excitement.
"Easy boy, we can do this again." He thinks he has the kid figured out, but Lightning, as usual, is capricious and only smiles like a spoiled brat.
They take the antique back home, some people gasp in admiration of the peerless beauty, at the untarnished paint, perhaps even at seeing the famous racing legend–no, not Doc, but the Lightning McQueen.
The electricity thrums between the men, not as wild, but still stifling between each breath they take in that small space. Something is changing even if Doc is too afraid to name that unspoken barrier he worked so hard to build. Then the man looks over to Lightning as they pull up into the parking garage of Doc's home, and the older man can only blink.
"Did you get off to driving my car?"
Lightning is flushed, eyes feverish, lips parted so pinkly as if he had been kissed in the most depraved manner. There is a wild tide in those eyes that threatens to drag Doc under and drown him, consume him whole.
"You kids and your weird fetishes," he grunts instead, fleeing like he always does, because it is all he can do as he slides out of the Hornet with ease. As he is closing the door, Lightning is in sync somehow, also closing his side.
Doc's become a specialist in lying, running, so he just looks at anything and everything that is on the opposite side of where Lightning is, covered in dust and shadows in the dwindling sunlight. He hopes he can spare the young man his embarrassment, but then in the private spaces Lightning always finds his way into, he speaks up to the older man.
"Thank you," he croaks out, and Doc knows he means it. Doc cannot look at him, though, because then the moment will be ruined. He cannot stare at the sun because right now he is Icarus and the sun is right here in his garage. And he is not ready to plummet back to the ground like he did 50 years ago.
There is a desert storm brewing just off in the distance, brooding and heavy, a growl of promise charging the air behind them. In lieu of a conversation Doc cannot fathom, he rounds the resting Hornet to grab at the car's covers. Somehow he manages to avoid any contact with this dream that haunts his waking hours, and torments him on lonely nights, avoiding tangible electricity as he reclaims the Hornet's key into his possession. The Hornet is garbed in his cloak, hidden like the many desires Doc locks away, tries to shun, blanketed with the pristine lust for all he cannot have. Doc thinks he has Lightning figured out and then he is back to square one, but this time, he shudders in fear. This time the older man thinks they are too much alike. So he looks away from those dangerous blues that suffocate him more than the nicotine he devours to hide himself in veiled lies and choked off remorse. He is getting too close to the sun so he needs to inch back into the shadows of the oncoming storm. He misses the flash that envelopes both of them, the wind picking up all manner of dusty particles into the heavy air. Still Doc is minutely trembling behind his feigned composed air. He is willing to pray to Zeus to avoid Apollo's favored avatar, for this boy was beyond the mortal coils of reality springing from his wildest fantasies.
"You did good, kid," Doc says at last, losing. Lightning licks his lips, he wants, nakedly and unabashedly, even if Doc cannot see. The rain is pelting the aged body now, cold needles pricking at the skin, but all the old man can feel is those warm palms cradling his scarred hands in a silent vow as the other reaches for him. You do what you always know how to do, his mind hisses, faces of loneliness tracing his foggy memories. And he does, he runs. He drops his hands from where Lightning has caught him and breaks away from their scorching touch.
The older man walks right into the empty, unlit house, droplets of shame sprinkling his clean floors as he slams the door, locking it in a single motion to hide from the angel he left in the storm.
--
It is back to the same rhythm of denial when Lightning meets up with him again for morning practice, just not at the butte. He is still in the garage, but not a drop of last night's shower has touched him, and guilt wells in the tender heart that maybe his boy stayed, like some lost animal. Doc is not like Sally by any stretch of the imagination, not when it comes to wanting to tend to the lost. Albeit, when it came to boys like Lightning, it became an eerie parallel he long since denied with the woman.
Doc still has his coffee in hand when he walks out to the garage to find the Hornet uncovered, Lightning caressing the ultramarine frame reverently, as if this is a living being worthy of all manner of worship, and to him it might as well be. To him the car is just a part of the idol he loved as a child. Doc says nothing, sipping the too-hot cup to absolve himself of the sins he will have, is having, hoping the pain will purify or at least numb him.
Lightning still hasn't turned to look at his mentor, his eyes are naked with emotion, glossy with so much feeling as the Hudson accepts every pat in its stilled rest. Doc only briefly laments letting the boy have easy access to his house via keys and codes to the private sanctum he vainly built to hide himself in. The keys to the car are in the kitchen this time, Doc hasn't tried to toss them unseeing anymore.
"I never had a man in my life," Lightning says between the twitter of birds singing with the brush of desert wind, however infrequent it could be. The storm had cleared up with no trace of its touch in the desert landscape around them, parched lands ever greedy for a drink from the rain's scarcity.
Doc hums, leaning into the door frame without comfort.
"I've never even been allowed to change my own oil for any car," and then Lightning is snagging Doc again, dragging him down to his level with just a trembling pout.
Doc does not blink, does not breathe, intimidated by this rawness from the younger man, but savoring it darkly all the same. He sips the coffee again for good measure, but it stops hurting, starts losing its function. He sets the cup aside unfeeling and closes the garage door.
Inside he is screaming, cursing, but this darkness within is in pure rapture knowing he alone is that man Lightning has never had. Even if by some small measure he has laid claim to this young man and made him all by his hand, as if some deity gifted him this fever dream he longed for since the 50s. He tries to stifle it back but Lightning always, always, breaks him. He is getting too old, Lightning is not getting any younger, boy'll wise up one day. He'll see the insidious part of Doc that the older man left in a locked closet far away back in Thomasville. Back with stolen kisses and whispered affections out of sight. Always dreaming of today, always dreading it and fearing it, because time changes and he is too uncomfortable to admit that.
"Did you even have breakfast?" Doc grunts, always losing. Apollo in his kingdom smiles radiantly, sunlight kissing this youth and even the deep indigo on the Hornet like he approves. Doc cannot stand it, the light piercing his darkness, feeling as Hades watches Persephone, so he just rolls his eyes as irritably as he can muster.
"C'mon boy, get ya some coffee in you, too." The sunlight continues its shimmering blessings as Lightning all but hops up into the doorway, hugging Doc. Doc's pinned against the door, trapped by the arms encircling his frame, a switch in dynamics he can live with.
"You're too good to me, old man." Like somehow he knows Doc better than himself. He isn't, good that is. He is avarice in human shape for all that touches this blond makes him burn in an envy he cannot stop as he can only look back and never, ever touch.
"Yeah, yeah," he says, but Lightning is looking up into him, deep into his soul, and is pulling out whatever he sees that Doc hides so well. "Love you, too, grumpy."
Doc stills, only briefly, reminds himself this isn't it, the big one, and swipes it under the rug as always to put an arm around the other's waist. "Sure you do, kid, sure you do." He grunts as he brings Lightning out of the dawning sun and into the darkened kitchen, creaking open the door to admit them passage into this new unknown. The sunlight continues its trek above the clear skies, tracing after the kid’s footsteps as he follows behind his mentor.
–
Lightning is guzzling his juice, demolishing his plate, and is still managing a childlike grin as he goes for his thirds of the meal Doc has prepared for him. Doc already gave up his appetite when the heat pooling in his stomach interfered with his other hunger.
"Slow down, boy," The man chides, using his pit crew voice to instill some dominance to get Lightning to listen. It works, albeit briefly, as the blond slows enough to swallow before talking.
"You have no idea how happy I am right now."
"Oh?" Doc sips at his freshly brewed batch of coffee, wishing it was the amber burn of whiskey instead, just so he can handle this newfound domesticity he hates himself for enjoying.
"Dude, you make the best food. I don't know how you do it."
Well, I'm gay, for one, Doc grumbles inside. He says it aloud with a growl, pushing his limit, pushing, trying to scare Lightning from what he is. The way everyone used to fear him like a rabid dog.
"And?" Lightning manages over a mouthful of pancake and syrup.
Doc blinks, his plan failed. Why hasn't the other male tried to flee? "Kid, I'm gay. Homosexual. I’ve never touched a woman." He says it all like the context alone is the key to the answer Lightning never asked.
The blond chews thoughtfully, but Doc can tell no recognition is gleaming up in his eyes. Neither is there repulsion in their sunny disposition.
With a sigh more akin to a pathetic rumble, Doc tries again, "I had to fend for myself. With no woman around, had to do my own housework."
"'S why you are so good at this homey stuff!" Lightning has recognition in his eyes, but Doc doubts he has an understanding of what was truly said. "So glad times've changed. Now we all gotta do that stuff." Lightning smiles, lips too syrupy sweet and it takes every fiber of control in Doc to not reach up and wipe it away, because touching God with wax fingers will ruin him to ashes.
"I know the feeling," Lightning begins again after a pause between them. Doc sips his coffee to avoid saying anything at all, willing to let the silence lapse between them so he can keep brooding.
"'M'not a good cook like you, but I had to learn to fend for myself mighty young," and suddenly those skies look somber in those young eyes, and Doc is filled with hatred. How can anyone put any turbulence in those eyes, already bringing his boy to a crestfallen bow as he goes somewhere far away that Doc can neither see nor reach. His boy has been hurt, and something fierce, protective and dormant is stirring in his aged heart.
"I hope to be good at this like you one day," Lightning says at last, just as Doc is stupidly reaching over to touch the young man, console him as he only knows how, ready to burn out of existence for this sin. He is trapped, heart seizing up as his hand is still hovering over the kitchen table, reaching blindly to touch the Apollo-child. Lightning is smiling, sadly, but when he sees the reach extending to him, he radiates a newfound warmth that tears Doc up. Doc swallows thickly and gives in, he's used to pain. Used to being roughed up, disgusting words thrown his way on the heels of his existence, always unwelcomed with his tainted boy-kissing lips. He is used to the aches the Hornet shared with him for his hubris, he wakes up in pain every time he is alone in bed and the sun is not in his chambers to greet nor warm him. So he reaches for the other with a hand on his shoulder. He does not burn alive, but his soul feels flayed at the edges for it.
They are not altogether different. A queer and a boy from a broken house, abandoned and yearning for affection they were both denied their entire life. And shit if that doesn't get to Doc.
"Son, finish your meal," Doc somehow manages without a tremble, fingers betraying him as they move to hold Lightning's face. He tries not to feel how perfectly this smaller face fits cupped in his large hand, the way Lightning could just lean up into his touch and fight all the demons in both their heads. "We have work in the garage today."
"We do?" The blond cocks his head, slotting his face more into the other's palm.
"Fuck," Doc whispers hoarsely, as if seeing Lightning for the first time outside his blinding radiance. "Yeah we do, but you need to be willing to work for me."
"Of course!" Of course, he shouts, same blind devotion to the idol of his upbringing, however sad it was. Doc realizes for a moment in this boy's history, he was a light for a lost child, alone and confused, not unlike himself. He'll be this kid's role model if it will help heal those nasty bruises and invisible cuts, mend the wounds he cannot kiss their pain away.
They are both made of borrowed time, a structure made of less stability than the grains of sand to the winds of change. Doc can burn with self-loathing later, right now he can afford another crash this late in his life, because it means giving this kid a chance to avoid one altogether.
--
"Alright, grab me that wrench there, no, just hanging over the shelf there. Good," Doc praises earnestly, his voice a soft purr in the garage. He is open in his affection, one chaste as he guides the younger man with his voice alone.
As usual, Lightning heeds every word instructed to him. His hero could march him right off the edge of the abyss, and he would obey. Luckily, Doc would never push Lightning to such a breaking point, never. He can tell the other man is bewildered by the commands all the same, picking up pieces of a puzzle he does not fully see. Knowing how unaware he is, that he is breaking the younger male in for this very moment, gives Doc the most obscene pleasure possible.
"Grab my mechanic blanket over there, it's hard on my joints anymore and I need something to ease us as we work."
The old man barks out a genuine laugh as Lightning collects what he is told, a confused boy in an older man's domain, only hoping for approval as he frowns quizzically at all he is asked. A shudder runs up Doc's spine as he takes the proffered items he had requested. He purposely waited for this moment for this last request.
"Now, go get that oil pan over there, kid."
Lightning is still lost as he grabs the pan, back turned so Doc can get to work unwrapping the true gift he wishes to bestow upon the blond, baptizing him for this moment like a rite of passage he is all too eager to bless. The trickling of understanding is creeping around in the other's mind, little gears turning, but they break off their springs when Doc fully removes the cover over the Hudson Hornet, like revealing a birthday gift.
"Well, you gonna stand there all day? 'Mma teach you a man's job today."
That is when it dawns on Lightning what is truly happening, and he lets out this wet noise, almost dropping the oil pan in his sweaty palms. Then he is vibrating with uneven breaths as Doc comes over to grab the last piece of breadcrumbs he left for his boy to follow.
"We're gonna change the oil on the old man there," Doc says as softly as a lover's caress. Hoping he didn't push too much on Lightning as he watches him shake and clench his fists in place of holding nothing now. For the briefest of moments he thinks he let too much of his true self out, and now the other is terrified, cornered into what he desires by the wants of an older man, but no. He is sobbing wetly, and he pulls the older man into the tightest, wettest embrace Doc has ever had in his life.
"I know, son. I know." He drops the pan to card his fingers through those lively golden locks, cradling the skull delicately. He tucks the other more into his frame as they slot along together perfectly, knees almost knocking with the proximity. He cannot resist this gravity that Lightning emits over his lost heart, so he rests his head atop the other's as the blond continues to rattle in realization.
The older man continues to press Lightning close along his body, just holding the other as he vainly tries to control his emotions, and eventually he calms to an even breath. Doc still does not remove his grasp on the other man, savoring the comfort they feed each other.
A mantra of hoarse gratitudes comes up from under him, but still Doc holds on until Lightning at last pulls out of the embrace to wipe away at his spent tears, cheeks heated pink as he sniffles. “You gunna teach me ev’ry thing, Doc?”
“Well,” Doc begins with a soft grin, arms still holding on. “I already got you this far, making you a champion worthy of the Hornet. And you're not a dirt boy no more.”
“I’m still your dirt boy,” Lightning scoffs playfully, ears a delightful shade of pink as good humor comes back into his figure.
“How about I teach you stuff even Mater doesn’t know?” A mischievous glint flickers in those steely blues, but Lightning is drawn to them like a honeybee to a new nectar source.
“This is literally the best day. Ever.” Lightning is silently panting, chest heaving as he lies on the navy blue mechanic blanket, the low undercarriage of the Hornet hovering above him. Doc is less agile, age creaking his joints as he slowly descends to settle beside the younger man.
“Sorry, not like I used to be.” Doc says, feeling he owes the other some apology for being so touched by time.
“For once Doc, I ain’t racing,” the blond drawls, eyes full of wonder, glimmering in a thousand questions burning unending until Doc can sate their curiosity and name their purpose.
“That’s new,” Doc says, not struggling to understand.
“Oh ha, ha old man,” Lightning pouts, before wasting no time in scooting closer against his mentor, as if proximity alone will instill something into him.
“Alright, you notice anything different about this car?”
Lightning strains his eyes at the undercarriage, vainly trying to divine what he cannot see. His unfamiliarity with cars, let alone antiques, is glaringly obvious, and briefly, shame flushes his cheeks. Doc licks his lips, drinking in the beauty of the naivete before him, for once keeping the darkness at bay in this moment.
“Okay Doc, ‘M just a dumb kid, I get it,” completely missing the rapture of this moment for his mentor.
“Well, you have your moments,” Doc chuckles dryly. “But that isn’t my point, it’s okay not to know everything. Wise men know they know nothing.”
“But you know everything,” Lightning protests, skin cradled by the garage light as he crosses his arms despite the cramped space. Even with the Hornet jacked up, the two are nestled intimately close to the chassis above.
“Not everything, just had a long time to learn.”
Lightning blinks owlishly, but waits.
“The Hornet was different from other cars, even then. He had a touted ‘step down’ design that made for a balanced car.”
Doc turns, finding Lightning’s befuddled pout inches from his own face, their breath mingling. The older man angles himself away from Lightning, positioning his old body to gesture towards the undercarriage of the antique before resuming. “The frame is lower than other cars. It's what gave me an edge in my races.”
Then a tide is let loose, dam broken as Lightning glows with interest, rapid fire questions on the tip of his tongue, only bitten down to allow his mentor to take precedence on this lesson.
“See,” Doc begins, hand reaching to rub his knuckles at the components that made up the Hornet's body. “Even if I couldn't beat the others with speed, I could always rely on the old man to get them in the bends.”
Lightning lets out a soft noise of awe, moist air brushing at Doc’s ear in gentle licks as the older man revels in memories of his youth, for once unsoiled by their sin. He and the Hornet taking charge, free to be themselves out there, drawing the crowd’s attention as well as admiration as they readily slipped back into the lead past the struggling rivals in the sharp corners. No one could touch them there, a singular unit flying away in open abandon, Fabulous together as they showed the world their true selves. The illusions often broke afterwards, past the victories, when open honesty awarded him jeers and open malice to those with the recognition of what Hud was doing out there. Still, when he ran with that beautiful Hudson, he became himself, no persona to hide behind, no lies to fit societal norms and conventions. It took a wreck on those sandy beaches of Florida to rip away that singular comfort, reminding both wayward souls of their place. Out of sight, out of mind.
The Hornet did not hurt him in that wreck, it was never the car's fault. Hubris made mortals of man and the machine that day.
The memories flicker away like an old film reel, rolling and rolling like the wheels on the doubled welded rim of a Hornet spinning out. On and on the memories turn over, churn up dust into the mind’s eye of things it wishes to conceal, then the Hornet is airborne, falling, falling–crashing. Doc blinks, a gentleness stirring against him, bringing him away from the tumultuous cataclysm of fractured memories. He’s not crashing again; he’s here, beside the one being he admires above all else. He comes back to himself, far removed from the sterile and antiseptic world of foreboding faces and unimpressed scowls. He is in Radiator Springs again, back to the present, where there is color and light, and Lightning, always this man. A Lightning that all but curls along Doc’s sides now, eyes glazed over in a faraway stare of his own, smile on those too-pink lips at some memory Doc must have implanted in him. This must conjure up a warmer nostalgia in the younger man, one far from the darker tides from earlier that morning. In those grayscale memories, old stills and recollections of a famous driver stalk along the younger man’s mind, cocky and sure, unlike the reality he was by the time Lightning was born. Lightning must have seen it back then, even if he had no name for what that was. Seeing something no one else saw, or perhaps knows all too well what the world saw, and craved it still. Or perhaps, what the world did not wish to see, censoring itself with its prideful retellings of a famous racer that disappeared to time, only brought up for the pageantry of the sport itself. Never, never, mentioning the Fabulous moniker past its nameplate.
In the here and now Lightning is reaching up at the undercarriage that made up the legend of his youth. His fingers trace over where Doc’s aged hand has stilled over a joint close to the axle of the front wheel. Lightning prods a questing finger here, rubs a knuckle there, feeling out all the made up this last remnant of a time so long ago. Doc gently takes the boy’s hand in his own, guiding it along the bits and parts of the Hornet, sharing what each piece entails about the antique, unafraid of the way grease and old oils mingle with their joined hands.
“You can’t separate the car from the frame,” Doc rumbles, lips against the other’s ear with how close they had become. “That ‘step down’ feature made for a better center of gravity, that’s why I had that edge I mentioned.”
Lightning was still awash in awe, silently hyperventilating in his own way at learning these little tidbits Doc fed him. With a soft, mirthful exhale, Doc gently nudged the blond. “Grab me the pan beside you.”
With a dexterous grace that Doc severely lacked, the other man all but flew from underneath the jacked car for the pan lying just beside the tire. It was a miracle the other did not whack his head on the undercarriage of the hoisted Hornet in his quick pursuit to obey.
When Lightning returns to Doc’s side, he has an all too pleased gleam about his eyes that earns him an amused huff from his mentor. “You think you could grab the wrench next, kid? It’s the–”
Without missing a beat, a wrench procured itself into the older man's awaiting palm.
“Well, look at you,” Doc purrs, unable to hide his amusement at the cocky grin being thrown his way.
“I'm a quick study,” gets tossed back with a cheeky wink.
“Good, because you’re loosen’ the plug.” Doc snickers, already nudging Lightning into place as he properly joins the taller man back under the chassis.
In between quarts of spewing oil dripping into the oil pan, a breadth of silence passes between the men below. Doc settles comfortably, or as best he can with his aged joints mutedly complaining at the lack of flexibility they once held. He sits and he waits, knowing that in a moment between this one and the next he will be pounced upon with all the voracious questions festering in Lightning's mind.
The old oil continues churning out like some liquid hourglass to measure each breath between the pair. On and on the viscous fluids drain, and still neither moves, somehow each waiting on the other for something.
Doc expects at least one of many innumerable questions to slip out from those pursed lips on the thoughtful young man. Alas, Lightning does venture to speak up, letting his mind settle on just one question, a singular query that had long since haunted him since his childhood.
“What killed him off?” Lightning whispers, a candle flickering to a zephyr.
“Your car did,” Doc’s voice is a dull thunder, not loud, not booming, just an echo from the past looking at the future as he chances a glance back to his protégé. “Hudson couldn’t keep up as Ford and Chevrolet brought out their V8 engine blocks, survived–thrived where others could not. So Hudson was relegated to obscurity when they didn’t move on with them.”
He pauses briefly to consider the crimson shadow just outside the garage, long ignored but observing the men as they work. “You got a V8 in that boy, he sprung forth from an industry that dominated and survived, Hudson didn’t, even after Nash-Kelvinator brought it into their flagship.”
Lightning leaned into Doc then, head resting on his shoulder, as if the two were having some sort of pillow talk, but it did not bother the older man. He adjusted his arms, allowing the younger man to settle more along his side as he trades his tools to hold the other’s midsection, fingers spread over the sweat-dampened cloth. Lightning ate up every word. “I’ve never heard of that company.” He admitted without shame, always ready to learn anything Doc doled out to him.
“Maybe not in that regard, but I know you have heard of AMC; Pacers, Gremlins, Javelins.” Lightning manages to scoot that bit more into Doc’s space, their perspiration mingling as they share contact. The heat of the desert did not deter the younger man as he continues to sidle as close as humanly possible.
“Then there was Renault, an assassination, and I recall Chrysler coming in finally to take hold.” Lightning blinked.
“No way,” he gasped, drinking in every word as a desert-parched wanderer to the spell of history Doc shares.
“‘Course I’m old enough to know all of that. You’d ‘ave been some brat just kickin’ out his feet,” Doc gruffs, for once not bitter in acknowledging this. Doc remembers the domino effect of Hudson’s failures, so well synced with his own decline in the racing world. His inevitable crash in ‘54 tied with Hudson’s failed gamble with the Jet they shoved out in ‘53, the last year of Doc’s high. In fact, Doc recalls, the late 80s were the final, true axe in Hudson’s legacy when AMC rolled out its final car ever. Some little Eagle Wagon, a final whimper to the eventual devouring of Chrysler the same year. A year when a young Lightning was just hitting into his own, some young and spunky kid probably. The sentimental sap in Doc wonders at parallels of extinct car brands and the soaring crimson blur that would inevitably light up his weekend TV before that fateful day in 2006.
“'S why I got you to tell me,” Lightning replies, hand now resting atop the old man's chest naturally. Doc does not stir, nor does he try to push away the tide he was once driven to fight. He accepts the natural flow of this gravity between them, drawing them together in a gentle orbit, their legs brushing together.
Even as age drags at his body, aches his bones, suddenly Doc feels youthful again. Enough to cant his hips to face more towards his golden boy, so enrapt by all he can impart.
He gets so wrapped up in this wondrous man beside him, they both miss the moment the steady chug of oil slows to a simple drip. Then to the silence of a singular droplet minutes apart. It’s Lightning who notices first, eyes darting to the now emptied oil pan curiously, blond strands caressing Doc’s face.
“Bet he’s thirsty,” the blond grins, face so close any interloper would mistake it for a kiss. Doc can only smile softly back as he hands over the oil plug into Lightning’s awaiting palm, skin brushing but no longer burning Doc in unholy fires. “It’s magnetized, just don’t go cross-threading that bolt.”
Even as he says it, he lets his larger hand cup at Lightning’s more nimble one holding the plug. With such close proximity, Doc can hear the catch in the other’s throat as he obediently holds steady within Doc’s grasp.
Doc keeps a reassuring grip as they guide the plug back into its home. Even once the worn palm lets go, dark viscous fluids connect the pair ever so briefly as they part, the Hudson’s spent oil christening them both.
The pair stare at one another in that moment, Lightning staring back in the same wonderment he always regards the older man with. A look mirrored quietly by Doc.
It takes a moment more before Doc breaks free first, soft chortle on his lips instead of a gruff rebuttal. Lightning grins knowingly, taking up the wrench beside him without prompting. He gives the plug a final tightening before Doc dares to speak to him.
“Now to get to the rest of the dirty deed,” Doc says, fighting a groan as he tries to lift himself out from under the Hornet. Unlike his aged mentor, Lightning gracefully rises up and out from under the car, proffering a greasy hand to aid the older man up. Doc takes it, for once accepting his position in this moment as he gets to his feet with Lightning still holding his hand even as he manages to right himself. Even with the slick oil between them, the grip is as secure as an anchor.
In that moment they come out, together, from under the Hornet to the bright light creeping into the garage. Lightning is haloed, sweet angel he is, but his eyes are grounded with earthly want as he casts his gaze to Doc. Doc swallows, oil coating them both, but he is distracted by the man beside him more than the engine fluids they share between them. They both stare at one another, different shades of the same color, sky meeting sea in an endless void.
Without hesitation, Doc offers an old rag from his pocket in a silent truce that Lightning accepts with a gentle smile, hands rubbing at the cloth.
It is some moments more before they return to business.
It’s all too easy to let his body go through the motions of muscle memory from five decades prior. He knows where the latch is, just under the first arch of the chrome grille, off to the side of the crimson insignia of sails and ships on the Hudson crest. Doc remembers the motion of undoing the bungee cord keeping the hood strapped for each race–a habit he’s long stopped needing. Yet he lets Lightning do the honors. Tells him where to poke and pry his nimble fingers under the grille for the hidden latch, after he’s had the man pull the lever to unlock it inside the car. He has Lightning remove the bungee cord before they fully explore the intimate space that held the soul of the Hornet before them.
A part of Doc is clinical as he points out the anatomy of the Hornet to Lightning, fingers pointing as he instills his knowledge into those awestruck eyes. "This here is the carburetor. But as you can see, the Hornet has 2, that made him a class of his own back in the day." Weathered hands motion to the crimson carburetors that took up the bulk of engine space from under the hood.
Lightning is staring with such wide-eyed wonder, his mentor ponders if those eyes will roll out. Still, he proceeds with his training, grateful to pass on his knowledge to another worthy of it. His dirt boy, his boy, learning from him. “See, Hudson had a standard engine with 145 horsepower, and it was known as the ‘H’ engine. So when Hornets rolled out these double carburetors, they got the ‘Twin-H’ moniker you see all over the old man.”
A soft mantra of “Wow, wow, wow,” escapes the younger man with panting excitement, eyes tracing the little details of the Hornet rocket shooting from its chrome line just before the wheel base. “Suffice to say that amped up the power of this bad boy.
“I also had the fortune of having what they called ‘severe usage’ parts, ‘T’s how I got the old man to be stock–but still so powerful,” Doc, unable to stop himself, passes a cheeky, playful wink towards Lightning. A Lightning who eats it up like nothing else, practically salivating with want for more knowledge. “Meant that the Hornet here had bigger axles, bigger front spindles, you name it, he was bigger.”
Here Lightning proffers a snicker of, “Huh, guess size does matter?”
Still feeling a high between them, the older man can only chuckle at the shared joke. “I do call him a ‘he’ and not a ‘she’ after all. But basically, a severe usage kit could go onto a working Hudson, such as a taxi or say a police car, but also to some regular Joe’s Hornet like me who was running on them backwoods tracks. I also owed Smokey so much for his talents under the hood.”
“Is that how you learned to tend to the Hornet?”
Doc can only nod, mind briefly fading away to a different time where he was in Lightning’s place, hands braced on the open hood, eyeing the exposed engine as Smokey instructed him how to work his engine to his advantage. With Smokey, it had been less whimsical, more informative, less intimate. With Lightning, it was so much more.
Doc returns to himself, the past fading like so many things before him, but this one less biting as he regards Lightning smiling back up at him.
“Hey, Doc, I got another question.”
“Shoot kid,” Doc rests his weight on the open hood, adjusting his weight to better regard the shorter male. Lightning mirrors his stance, elbows touching as he casually points at the hood above their heads. “What’s the deal with the bungee cord?”
“Ooh boy,” Doc exhales without any bite, just humor. “During my races, the damn hood was li’ble to go up.
“See, we couldn’t mod our cars, obviously. But you could add a bungee cord to keep the damn thing closed so you could see the road.” Doc cackles at one particular mishap in mind. “Hell, I don’t know how long it took before I stopped having the bench seats in the back–kept losing ‘em at a few races before we took it out.”
Lightning’s gaze swept past the looming hood, straight into the cabin apprehensively. “You lost the seats!!?”
“Yeah, several times. It’s a wonder I kept them to retirement. Even with the crash.”
An audible wince hisses beside him, but Doc shakes his head. “It’s done and over, at least I still have them.” They both know he isn’t talking about the Hornet’s seats. It’s as close to Doc moving on as he’ll vocalize to the other without touching on the traumas he truly endured in those days.
So he continues, “See the twin exhaust pipes there?”
Lightning blinks as he looks where the chrome traces along the Hornet’s side, just above where indeed two pipes jut forth in the midsection before the back tire. The man nods vigorously, drawing humor in his motions from Doc.
“”S ‘cause of them twin engines, but some were a single pipe out the back.”
Doc continues, knowing he has the other’s rapt attention like a boy in Sunday school. Or rather, NASCAR bible study perhaps. “Here’s where we’ll put the filter.”
At this juncture, twin blue orbs rest on the strange formation that Lightning can only ascertain as some strange almost teapot-like container. A bolt head made the top of the “pot” in his mind’s eyes. The piece sat nestled just to the driver's side of the engine and just below the twin carburetors the gleamed under the lighting.
“Hand me the wrench, would ya?”
Lightning readily complied, eyes still fixated on the strange design as Doc taps the wrench on the bolt head. “Same concept, righty tighty, lefty loosey,” the old man said before performing the very action to loosen what Lightning already mentally assigns as the lid to the oil filter.
“It’ll look a might different to your boy’s filter, but it’s all the same concept,” Doc went on, earning back those hungry tides as Lightning’s eyes flash back to his mentor. Doc only works the wrench enough to loosen the bolt, turning to Lightning to allow him to do the rest.
“Go on, boy. Loosened ‘im enough you can twist the rest,” a twinkle shimmering in those aged sapphires. And oh how Lightning wishes to please those gleaming jewels with all his heart.
When the bolt comes out, Lightning is left cradling the piece like a coveted rare gemstone.
Doc takes over again to remove a black sludge coated oil filter, using his short nails to dig up a half ring coated in fine oil. With only some effort, Doc extracts the old oil filter, a golden canister lined in small, uniform holes, numbers denoting its type, looking like an old canned soup to Lightning’s eyes.
“Weird,” Lightning whispers with reverent awe still in his breath. “I’ve seen’a filter on a ‘95 Chevy truck once, and it looked nothing like that!”
Doc laughs, “I bet. Car’s a kid beside the old man here–to say nothing of my inline 6 engine versus that brute of 350 small-block.” Still smiling, Doc places the old filter on the oil pan off to the side by their feet. The older filter drains out its old black mire into the pan safely.
“Mind grabbing me a new one off the workbench there? I keep extras in stock when I need to work on the old man.”
As Lightning hands off the box labeled FRAM Heavy Duty in bold letters across the box, Doc asks him to grab the oil bottle they’ve left to the side up until this point.
"You've been plotting this haven't you," Lightning gives a solicitous purr that Doc can only chuckle at.
Oh I wish, Doc thinks easily as he hoists the engine oil up and offers it to Lightning to grab.
"I wish," the older man admits openly, truly testing this newfound thing between them.
"No," Doc sighs in time to Lightning already opening the bottle in preparation of feeding the Hornet. "'Ve been meaning to do work on the old man is all. But 'm old and can't do as much..."
Lightning already has the engine oil open, and the silver seal off with just his dexterous fingers alone. "Don't sweat it, old man. It's why ya got me around."
And the accompanying wink makes a warmth swarm about Doc's stomach, making him feel younger again. So natural, this connection growing. Of course it is, Doc's mind growls, but this time without self-depreciation. This has ever been an inevitability with how open and engaging Lightning was being. He had been laying the foundation for this new pillar since he first crashed into Doc's life and rebuilt more than just a busted road.
“It's why I have you,” Doc agrees.
As Doc has Lightning finish the last of the oil change, feeding in new oil and teaching him to lubricate the new filter, the pair remain in constant contact. A steady full orbit like the sun around the solar system. Cold space wrapped around the bright sun. Their fingers brush against one another, they both have their hands on the Hornet when they close the hood. Doc doesn't shudder as he hands the key back to Lightning.
“Go on,” is all he has to say before Lightning is back to listening to his every word.
After testing the pressure and ensuring the amount of oil on the dip stick, the Hornet is ready for another 2,000-mile trip under his driver's competent hands. But maybe soon he'll have younger hands on his wheel more often.
The duo finishes their work, but neither breaks away. It's by silent agreement that the pair reach out to one another. Apollo carries his sun chariot onward longer still, and throughout the pair do not leave each other.
The old Hudson gleams under the stretch of sun blessing the garage with approval.
The sun sets, casting long stretches of light into the garage with its dusty shelves and forgotten trophies. The Hornet rests silently, drinking in the sun's warmth without his usual covers on. Old newspaper scraps rustle faintly in an invisible wind carrying the promise of a storm tomorrow. Even as the sun retreats from its kingdom to allow the moon to reign, the light in the garage never dims and together two lost souls cling to each other long into the night talking about nothing and saying everything. As the shadows come out, for once Doc avoids them in favor of the private corner he and the young man have made in that lit garage.