Covers:
By Slodwick
By Annie-Lee (out_there)
Notes and acknowledgements at the end.
For Slodwick.
Fireball
by Celli Lane
The guys in the shop knew first. The guys in the shop always knew first.
"We've got a new driver."
Rodney pulled his head out of the depths of the car they were going to take to Vegas. He wasn't happy with the fuel efficiency tests. He was never happy with the fuel efficiency tests, but he was particularly worried about this car, which had screwed him over last year in Texas and run out of gas a full three laps before he'd predicted.
"Did Elizabeth make the announcement?"
"She's about to." Stackhouse grinned and jerked a thumb up towards the second level of the shop, where Elizabeth was deep in conversation with--
"No. She wouldn't."
Markham snorted. "She would and she did. She's been making phone calls like crazy all week. It's him."
Elizabeth smiled at something the man said and pointed down. He leaned forward and nodded; he seemed to be looking straight at Rodney.
Ladies and gentlemen, your driver of the Number 21 Air Force Ford Fusion, John Sheppard.
"This is a disaster," Rodney said.
***
"This is a disaster," Rodney said, not sparing the volume.
"Rodney--"
"We're already the most mocked team in NASCAR. The underdogs of the decade."
"Rodney--"
"And you want to hire the most notorious driver in American racing? The guy who couldn't keep a ride in the Indy Racing League, for the love of God. Are you insane?"
"Rodney, could we have this discussion in private?" If Elizabeth's lips got any tighter she'd lose them in her mouth.
"Don't mind me," Sheppard said. Instead of looking horrified and offended, he looked lazily amused.
Elizabeth shot him a pained look as well. "Rodney, no matter how many tabloid stories John inspired, he won races."
"He didn't win a championship."
"There's more to racing than championships."
"No, there's not," Rodney and Sheppard said in unison.
Elizabeth dropped any pretense at patience altogether. "Rodney, I don't argue with you on design issues-" which was at least somewhat true-- "and you don't have a veto over my personnel choices. John is our driver until I say otherwise."
Rodney narrowed his eyes at Sheppard, who smirked back at him.
"John, keep in mind that I can say otherwise. Sumner didn't leave this organization by choice, no matter what he tells NASCAR Nation. Screw this up for me, and I have nothing to lose by firing you. Are we clear?"
"We are," Sheppard said. Rodney looked hard at him, but he seemed sincere.
"Good." Suddenly Elizabeth was all smiles again. "Welcome to Weir Racing, John. Rodney, show him around."
"Me--but--Zelenka--" Rodney stammered.
"I need Radek for a little while yet. Show him your cars, Rodney."
"Fine. Come on, Sheppard."
"You can call me John if you want."
"...call you dog meat if you wreck one of my cars," Rodney muttered.
***
Rodney followed Sheppard down the stairs. Sheppard kept flipping his sunglasses open and closed again. It was kind of irritating. He hesitated at the bottom of the stairs and smiled blandly around at the crew members nearest him. They all stared avidly back. Rodney sidestepped a couple of people who had no business at all being in that end of the building and gestured Sheppard after him. "Everyone, this is John Sheppard," he said. "He's coming to look at the cars now. Go away."
"Here's my short-track car," he said, rubbing an affectionate hand across the raised hood of the car nearest to them. "Would have pulled a top-five at Bristol last year if Sumner didn't happen to be a complete moron. Road course car is over there, I'm not worrying about that one too much yet this season. The one you're leaving fingerprints on right now is almost set up for Daytona. I'm convinced NASCAR's going to change the spoiler rules on me again, though, so I'm not calling it done yet."
He turned to see if Sheppard was paying attention. He was trailing a hand along the Air Force logo over the rear side panel. The space above the driver's window was blank; Rodney had had Sumner's name painted over on every car the day after the last race of the season. Sheppard looked up and caught Rodney's gaze briefly. He jerked his head towards the other end of the garage. "Busch series cars over there?"
"Yeah. Have you met Ford?"
Sheppard raised an eyebrow. "Ford?"
"No jokes," they heard from off to the side, and a whirlwind in a Weir Racing T-shirt jogged up to meet them. "I've heard all the jokes. Aiden Ford. I'll be driving the 47 for Elizabeth this year."
Rodney kept an eye on Sheppard, to see how he'd react to being paired with a "diversity driver," but he didn't seem to notice at all. Maybe open wheel was better about these things. "Nice to meet you, Ford."
"Ford's not too bad, for someone driving a car with bleach on it," Rodney said.
"You wish you got all the free stuff Clorox gives me." Ford grinned. "I've got the whitest underwear in racing, man."
Sheppard grinned down at the kid, and Rodney beat down the impulse to smile too, because Sheppard was a troublemaker who wouldn't win them any races and who would make tracks as soon as he got a better offer.
Then Sheppard jerked around and stared behind him like he'd been goosed, and Rodney revised his estimation of the man's intelligence back down. "What's that?"
"What that, specifically, are you referring to?" Rodney asked, but Ford dropped to one knee and made a clucking noise.
An orange tabby cat sauntered out from underneath the Daytona car and worked its head under Ford's hand. Sheppard knelt down carefully, and after a considering moment the cat leaned its head in his direction. Sheppard scratched the ear opposite the one Ford was attending to.
Rodney remained standing. "What a slut."
He only caught the edge of Sheppard's questioning look because he was too busy glaring at the cat. "What's its name?"
"Her. Her name is Fireball."
Sheppard paused to look up at Rodney, and Fireball thwapped his hand with her tail. "After the driver?"
Rodney looked down, startled. "You know your racing," he said slowly.
"There was a driver named Fireball?" Ford asked. At the matching incredulous looks Sheppard and Rodney gave him, he added, "I thought it was because she's orange."
"It is because she's orange." Rodney's tone was one of great patience. "But also because she's a NASCAR cat, and Fireball Roberts was one of the legends of stock car racing."
"That doesn't seem like a really good nickname. Kind of ominous."
"I promise you, Ford, no car I build you will ever explode in a fireball."
"Still, I wouldn't name a cat that."
"I'm afraid to ask what you would name a cat."
Ford's eyes lit up. "Pole Sitter! Or, um, Green Flag."
Green Flag? Sheppard mouthed at Rodney, who rolled his eyes back.
"Make a note, Sheppard: Ford's not allowed to name any living thing. Ever. We may have to chip in to save his kids from a lifetime of humiliation."
"Hey!"
Fireball looked up at the sound of footsteps. She gave a yowl of welcome and launched herself at the thin legs of the man behind Sheppard, who stooped to pet her automatically.
"Zelenka," Rodney said swiftly. "I need to talk to you about the fuel mileage on the—"
"You must be John Sheppard," Zelenka interrupted. "I am Radek Zelenka, your crew chief."
Sheppard started to offer his hand, realized he was still on the floor, and stood up hastily, brushing at the cat hair on his jeans. "It's nice to meet you, Radek."
"Yes, that's nice, we can all dispense with the nametags. Now my fuel cells—"
"Not now, Rodney," Zelenka said. Rodney glared at Zelenka and Sheppard in equal measures. Sheppard blinked innocently back. "Today is not for your cars."
"Every day is for my cars."
Zelenka smiled. "True. But today is for the driver of your cars. I want to get a feel for how he drives."
Rodney continued scowling. "Good idea." He pointed at a clump of cars in one corner. They were in various stages of construction and repair, and most had only the most basic of paint jobs. "He can take that one there. I'm still getting it ready to test next week. If he breaks it I won't kill him."
"Good to know. I guess." Sheppard looked around. "Where do you usually take them?"
"There's no need to trouble the crew to load it up," Zelenka said. "We have a perfectly good road right here."
Sheppard stared at him. "You want me to take a Nextel Cup race car down the street for a Sunday drive?"
"It's Tuesday," Rodney said shortly.
Zelenka just smiled some more. Sheppard was starting to look nervous, which Rodney thought showed more sense than he'd expected. "Yes, that sounds perfect."
***
In lieu of a crew radio setup, they gave Sheppard a cell phone with a headset and Zelenka's phone number. Sheppard looked pretty silly trying to get the helmet on without dislodging it, but he managed. Ford was sent to the door as lookout, and Zelenka waved Sheppard down the road. Weir Racing's garage was at the top of a hill, so they would have a pretty lengthy view of the "Sunday drive."
"He does not look like a troublemaker," Zelenka said as they watched Sheppard ease around the first corner.
"Yes he does. And even if he didn't look like a troublemaker, do you think he got kicked out of an entire racing league for his aggressive pinochle playing?"
"Why did he get kicked out?"
"Behavior unbecoming or whatever they call Rule 12-4-A there. That's all I know."
"I will ask Elizabeth."
"She'll tell you, but will she let you tell me?" Rodney ignored the look Zelenka gave him. "There he goes, he's starting to pour it on a little."
Sheppard accelerated smoothly around the next turn. Rodney caught himself nodding. "Not awful. Could bode well for road courses."
"He follows a strong line without crowding the edge. There, you see? Good in the turns."
"We need to get him on a track ASAP. If he's better in the turns than Sumner--please God--I can tweak the setup a bit and run the tires longer. Everyone else has been working with their drivers since the dawn of time. We're behind. I hate being behind." Rodney tapped the phone against Zelenka's ear. "What's he saying?"
"He is laughing."
"He's laughing, that's great. I'm always laughing when I drive at--" Rodney's eyes widened as Sheppard turned another corner and shot forward. "At highly illegal speeds."
"Who's being highly illegal?"
Rodney and Zelenka both froze, then slowly turned.
"Hello, Elizabeth," Zelenka said.
"Ford, you suck as a lookout," Rodney said, resigned. "Hi, Elizabeth."
"I'm pretty sure I asked you to show John around, not get him arrested on his first day with our team."
"I was done showing him around. And I haven't gotten him arrested." She cocked an eyebrow at him. "I haven't!"
"John, come back up," Zelenka said into the cell phone. Rodney was pretty sure he could hear whining coming from the other end, but the car turned obediently and came back up the hill at a slightly more sedate speed.
"He does handle it well, doesn't he?" Elizabeth dug her hands in her back pockets and craned her neck to get a better view of one turn.
"Hrmph," Rodney said.
***
"Rodney. Rodney. Rodney!"
"What?" Rodney turned his head and squinted up at Elizabeth.
From this angle, she was all curly hair and pointed chin "Didn't you get my memo? There's a meeting in my office."
"I don't have time for meetings, or for that matter memos." Rodney scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Or for that matter regular hygiene."
"Rodney--"
"Look, I don't know if you've picked up on this, but the last two weeks have been insane. The usual pre-season work for two series' worth of cars would be enough, but I have to go through all the Cup cars, take apart everything designed for the moron, and put it back together in a way that may or may not help out the hotshot."
"I have asked you not to call--"
"I know, I know. If I had more time, I could remember his name. So you'd better leave me to it."
"Rodney." Elizabeth stood and crossed her arms. "I'm heading up to my office. If you're not directly behind me, I'm sending Teyla down to get you."
"I'm coming! I'm coming."
Rodney was so close behind Elizabeth walking into her office that he almost asphyxiated himself in her hair when she stopped suddenly. "Not that directly behind me, Rodney."
"Sorry."
"Did she threaten you with Teyla again?" Ford asked. He and Sheppard were at the conference table--Ford straddling one of the chairs backwards, Sheppard sitting on one corner of the table with his foot up on a chair. Next to Ford, Teyla looked on with her usual calm amusement. In her Number 47 T-shirt and jeans, Teyla looked more like a groupie than the frighteningly capable crew chief she was. Except Rodney was pretty sure groupies laughed on occasion.
Rodney slouched into a chair and put his feet up next to Sheppard's. Zelenka leaned on the table. They all looked expectantly at Elizabeth.
"We make the announcement in two days."
Oh, hell, Rodney thought. The crew chiefs looked resigned; Ford looked over at Sheppard, who puffed out a breath.
"On a scale from one to media circus, how bad is this going to be?"
"Challenging," Elizabeth said, and from the tense look on Sheppard's face, he'd gotten to know her well enough to interpret that correctly. "Radek, I want them to hear a little bit about how well testing is going. Rodney, first of all, stop making that face every time testing is mentioned. We learned a lot, that does count--"
"Three right front panels I've had to replace. Three!"
"--and I don't want you talking about that anyway. Come up with a couple of tidbits of car design you can mention in public. Preferably some I can spin as advantages of having John on the team. And practice not looking disgusted. Please."
Rodney rolled his eyes.
"That, for example, would be unacceptable. Aiden, Teyla, I'd like you there as well. The entire team should be part of this announcement."
She started talking about sponsors, but Rodney was distracted by the faint sheen of sweat on Sheppard's face. Oh, God, he was going to lose it and throw up in the middle of the announcement, Rodney just knew it. And then he'd have to tweak the cars all over for some other malcontent.
He made sure to follow Sheppard down the stairs. He grabbed the driver by the arm and dragged him off into a relatively unoccupied corner.
"Can you handle this?" he hissed.
"What?" Sheppard whispered back.
"Are you going to freak in the middle of the announcement? Because there'll be tons of press there, and most of them think you're incompetent. If you can't handle that, we need to know now, before you humiliate Weir Racing in public."
Sheppard looked at him for a long moment, then reached for his ever-present sunglasses and slid them on. "I can handle it, McKay," he said, and walked away.
"Why are the good drivers always assholes?" Rodney demanded loudly of the room.
Zelenka looked over as he walked by. "Sumner wasn't very good."
***
Rodney stood at the side of the stage Elizabeth had had set up in the parking lot. They'd been forced into their uniforms for the press event, and he always felt like an idiot wearing his away from the track. It made him look like a navy blue astronaut-slash-billboard. He sighed.
Sheppard and Elizabeth (she got to wear a suit, damn it) approached the podium, along with Major Paul Davis, the Air Force PR rep. He'd only met Sheppard twenty minutes before the event was scheduled to begin. Rodney suspected that was deliberate.
Zelenka followed them up and stood between Rodney and Sheppard. Rodney blinked at the flashbulbs going off. "Is he here?" he muttered without moving his lips.
"Of course. I tried to describe him to John so he would be ready."
"If you said to look for a weasel with a press pass, you described him perfectly." Elizabeth finished her canned presentation, and Rodney applauded dutifully. The Major stepped up to make the speech about how excited the Air Force was to be part of the team, blah blah blah. Rodney applauded some more.
"We're happy to answer any questions you may have," Elizabeth said. Yeah, right.
Without actually looking away from the stage, every reporter present turned their attention to the tall thin man standing in front of stage left. "Peter Kavanagh, Speed News," he said too quickly. "John, what can you tell us about your expulsion from the Indy Racing League? Any truth to the rumors that they're considering prosecuting you for your altercation after the last race?"
"No truth to it at all," Sheppard said, smiling like he'd been asked about his pet poodle. "In fact, I doubt anyone but you has even heard the rumors, Peter. I'm sorry that I didn't end my time in the IRL better, but I'm excited about my new opportunities in NASCAR."
Zelenka was nodding. "Nicely done."
But every question after that made reference to Sheppard's prior bad behavior. Temper tantrums. Sanctions from the IRL for deliberately wrecking other cars. Fistfights Sheppard claimed never happened. (Note to self, he thought. Keep Sheppard far, far away from Tony Stewart.) Sheppard's drawl got thicker with each question, until it seemed one of the Dukes of Hazzard was addressing the press. Major Davis was beginning to look slightly concerned, and even Elizabeth's happy face was starting to wear around the edges. She didn't bring Zelenka or Rodney forward, but summed up their testing and design talking points herself, and then started shepherding everyone offstage.
"Hey, McKay!" Kavanagh yelled. Everyone froze, except Sheppard, who looked over his shoulder at Rodney. "The fansites are betting Sheppard will wreck every single race this season. How do you feel about having your cars destroyed?"
Rodney could feel his ears go red. He stepped forward before Elizabeth could say anything. "Only the fansites you belong to say that, Kavanagh. I've told you to stop posting as 'wannabedriver03.'"
The press audience held its collective breath. Kavanagh turned purple.
"John Sheppard has an advantage no one else in Nextel Cup racing has. He's driving my cars. And I expect him to drive a respectable number of them into Victory Lane. Now if you people will excuse me, I have real work to do."
He stalked off, ignoring Elizabeth's tight face and Ford's look of glee. "Don't make me look stupid," he told Sheppard quietly enough that the microphones couldn't pick it up. "I can't stand to look stupid." He kept going before Sheppard could do anything ridiculous like agree with him.
***
Speedweek at Daytona was the equivalent of a really loud country fair, complete with marching bands, fireworks, and vendors selling disgusting yet delicious fried food. There was even one gigantic ride, although only forty-three people got to participate.
The big question for everyone at Weir Racing was whether or not John Sheppard would get a ticket for it.
All their attention was focused on the second of the Gatorade Duels, which Sheppard had made with a respectable qualifying time. All right, it wasn't respectable, but it was adequate. All right, if he didn't improve by at least ten spots in the Duel itself they would have to endure the humiliation of not even making the first race of the season and Rodney would have to kill him and Kavanagh both.
Which was why Rodney was sitting in the garage at two in the morning, organizing his tools for the umpteenth time. He couldn't improve the car anymore. Hell, he wasn't even allowed to touch it or NASCAR would kick his ass. But a really shiny set of socket wrenches couldn't hurt, right?
He heard the door open behind him. "If you're here to hunt for souvenirs, I'll give you a lump on the head to take home with you," he called out. "Come back and ransack the pit area after the race like the rest of your mindless brethren."
"I think Elizabeth would object if you hit me."
"Sheppard? Get out where I can see you. What the hell are you doing here? You need to be asleep. You have to drive a hundred and fifty miles tomorrow, are you insane?"
"Do you really think I'm going to fall asleep at the wheel?"
"Of course not, but--never mind." He could see Sheppard's face clearly now, and it was startlingly pale. "I guess you can make yourself sick if you want to. Come here. If you're not going to be smart, be helpful."
They were knee-deep in Craftsman labels when Sheppard finally spoke. "How badly do you think I'm going to do tomorrow?"
"What?"
"You stopped looking me in the eye two days before we left Asheville. How do you think I'll screw up the Duel? A wreck, or just a shitty finish?"
Rodney kind of wanted to hit himself on the head with a wrench. He was no good at this kind of moral-supporting-humanity-affirming kind of thing. He lectured. That's what he did. Oh, the hell with it. "A shitty finish."
Sheppard's head snapped up.
"I think you're intimidated. The Great American Race. A legend in its own mind. Who the hell cares? Doesn't mean it can't be won."
"I'm not going to win, McKay."
Rodney rolled his eyes. "Fine, I'll give you until next year to win it," he said generously. "Do you know what you have to do this year to make everyone happy? You just have to survive it. If my car crosses the finish line on Sunday, every single person at Weir Racing will go through the roof. Swear to God."
"How?" What was that, a whine, a wail?
"What do you mean, how? I don't know how. I build the cars; you drive them. It's a division of labor I'm very happy with."
Sheppard rolled his eyes. "Please tell me Elizabeth doesn't let you give the pre-race pep talks."
"Not anymore," Rodney muttered.
"Okay, you win. I'm going to bed in self-defense."
"Bye now." Rodney waited until the door closed behind Sheppard before he put his head down on a toolbox.
They were going to get killed.
***
Sheppard was an island of quiet amidst the insanity of the pit area the next morning. Rodney kept an eye on Sheppard as Zelenka set up the pit around them. Occasionally Zelenka would draw Sheppard's attention with a question or a quiet comment, but as soon as the conversation ended, Sheppard's shoulders would hunch again and he'd go back to staring at the track.
Rodney was surprised, then, to find Sheppard standing next to him as he watched Zelenka go over some last minute points with the tire changers.
"I'm surprised you're not out there doing more of this."
"Not my job," Rodney said shortly. Zelenka had better be reminding them about keeping the air hose out of the way. If they got a penalty for it, whoever screwed up was going to get a ride home strapped to the grille of the hauler. "The car chief runs the garage; the crew chief runs the race. I understand the need for clearly defined authority and responsibilities."
"You do?"
"I resent that implication." He looked over to see Sheppard grin. "Oh, shut up."
"Ford looked good in practice," Sheppard said, which was contrary to the principle of shutting up, but Rodney let it go.
"Yeah, he's handling the car well. He's got some momentum coming into this season too--three top five finishes in the last ten races last year. He's pretty psyched."
"That's great. Hey, who's that guy?"
Rodney turned his head. "Oh, hell."
"Oh, hell? Which car does 'oh, hell' translate to?"
"Number 11."
"Oh, hell," Sheppard said faintly as Marshall Sumner zeroed in on them.
"McKay," he said with a wave of his hand in Rodney's general direction. "I'm surprised you're still working in this madhouse."
"Sumner. Heard you were driving the FedEx car this year. Nice part-time job for you, hm? Tell me, do you think your team can manage to qualify for more than two races this year? Or are your Sunday afternoon naps more important?"
"And you must be John Sheppard," Sumner said as though Rodney hadn't spoken. "I knew Elizabeth was a complete failure as a car owner, but I didn't think she could stoop this low."
Sheppard had the same lazily amused look he'd worn when he first entered Weir Racing. "You know, I was surprised to read the program and find out your first name is Marshall. According to the guys at the shop, it's That Moron. Learn something new every day, I guess."
"You know, Sheppard, you're an embarr--"
"Wait! Wait!" Rodney waved his hands wildly. "Can't you hear that? They're calling for driver introductions. You need to get out there, Sumner. All three of your fans are waiting for you."
Sumner started to say something, glanced at Rodney, then focused straight at Sheppard. "See you on the track," Sumner said, and the menace couldn't have been any clearer. He stalked off.
Rodney waited until Sumner was out of sight, and then moved his foot off the top of Sheppard's.
"That wasn't really necessary," Sheppard said.
Rodney eyed the angry flush still covering Sheppard's face. "Maybe."
They actually did call for driver introductions then, and Sheppard tugged at his collar. "Okay. Time to go get booed."
"Try to dodge the bottles. Sometimes they throw them before they're empty."
Sheppard stared at him.
"What? I told you I don't do pep talks. Go get this over with so you can drive my car."
They did boo him. Rodney's only comfort was that they pretty much ignored Sumner. Ha.
***
A race didn't start with the national anthem, or "Drivers, start your engines," or with the first lap. It started with your crew chief on the radio shouting "Green-green-green!" and the reverberation of a few dozen engines roaring to life as all their drivers hit the gas at the same time.
Sheppard was a little slower off the mark than Rodney might have liked, but nothing major. Rodney was ensconced firmly in his domain at the base of the pit box. His two laptops were ready and waiting to monitor fuel use and tire wear, and the FOX feed was playing clearly on the monitor.
He'd never felt so useless in his life.
Thank God the world of NASCAR had been slow to recognize his genius. Elizabeth was still the story of Weir Racing--the woman trying to make it in a man's world, the underdog struggling little racing team, et cetera, ad nauseum, and so forth. Which meant that the cameras were always focused on her face. And while Rodney would admit that it was a pretty face, mostly it felt like they were waiting for her to burst into big girly tears. What bullshit.
He tried to focus on his calculations--at 60 laps, they'd have maybe two pit stops unless something went wrong, and he was a little worried about left side tire wear--but he kept getting distracted as the cars went by. Sheppard was down on the inside line, and if Rodney craned his neck around the pit box right sometimes he thought he could see the white 21 on the door as it shot by. Due to the quirks of the Daytona qualifying system, they were shooting for one of basically eight spots. The network feed was showing Sheppard lagging behind the leader by a good four seconds. On the one hand, he might be conserving a little fuel at this speed. On the other hand, this was a race, hotshot.
A clipboard dropped on his head. Rodney glared upwards.
"Lap times for the first ten laps!" Despite being only a few feet down, the only way Rodney could make out Zelenka's words was through the headset.
"Did you have to throw them?"
"Got your attention, yes? Read the note!"
Rodney looked down at the clipboard. It was decorated with a Post-It in Elizabeth's handwriting: Stop worrying, Rodney. He rolled his eyes at it and started entering lap times into the fuel calculation spreadsheet.
The pit stop went better than Rodney had feared. He wasn't one of the seven crew members over the wall, so he stood out of the way with a video camera. It would supplement any footage they could wheedle out of FOX, and give them a better idea which individual parts of the stop could be improved.
It went like clockwork. Slightly slower than optimal clockwork. Rodney noted with approval as Bates got the car up on the jack in one smooth motion. "Quarter turn, popohnat koho," Zelenka snapped into the radio, and Markham made the chassis adjustment without ever letting his catch can slip away from the gas tank's vent.
Less than ten seconds after all that, and all four tires were on, the gas was overflowing into the catch can, and Stackhouse was standing at the front of the car, waving Sheppard out.
"Nice work, people," Zelenka said. Rodney raised an eyebrow at him--even Zelenka should know that stop was at least a second and a half too long--but received only a blank expression in return. "Good work, John."
"Hey, I just sit there and file my nails," Sheppard said, his grin carrying through the static on the radio. "Your crew does all the heavy lifting. Thanks, guys."
Rodney rolled his eyes and grabbed the nearest crew member to start measuring tire temperature.
The rest of the race was like that--adequate, but not up to speed. Literally. The crew gave a collective sigh when Sheppard crossed the finish line a solid 26th. They would make the rear end of the Daytona lineup. Thank God.
Rodney was busy packing up laptops, glaring at fans who came too close, when a driver-shaped shadow crossed in front of him. "Yes?"
"How bad was it?" Sheppard's voice was a little too quiet--Rodney's ears were still adjusting to the lack of engine noise, and he wasn't sure he'd understood him.
"How bad was--the race?"
"How bad was I?"
Oh, God. When had he become a quasi-mentor for drivers with more speed than sense? Rodney rolled his eyes. "You were fine, Sheppard."
"Oh, whatever."
"Really. You gave Kavanagh a minimum of material to work with, and for that--" Rodney shoved an armful of equipment into Sheppard's arms. "You get a cookie!"
Sheppard eyed him over two air guns, three headsets, and a tangled mess of computer cords. "Really?"
"No. No cookies here. Now take that to the hauler and move, you're in my way."
***
National anthem. Rodney stared at Sheppard's feet two down from his and tried not to shift his own.
"Drivers, start your engines!" He slid his headset on and spent way too much time adjusting the fit of the mike.
The pace car pulled out, and Rodney couldn't take it anymore. He clattered up the ladder to the pit box. "I want to--let me--oh, forget it." He grabbed Zelenka, pulled him close, and spoke into his headset, ignoring the extreme flailing Zelenka was doing in protest. "Hey, hotshot!"
"McKay?" Sheppard sounded both startled and amused.
"Don't wreck my car."
Sheppard burst into laughter. So did Elizabeth, and some of the guys down on the pit wall were smirking. "Yes, sir."
"Get out! Get off!" Zelenka bopped Rodney over the head with his clipboard. "Go watch your computers and stop grabbing crew chiefs, crazy person!"
"I'm leaving, I'm leaving, stop hitting me!"
***
Fans at a superspeedway were always waiting for The Big One, the wreck that would take out a chunk of drivers and rewrite the race. They might be bracing themselves for it and wincing, or they might be leaning forward in anticipation, but it was always on everyone's mind.
After a couple of false starts--a five-car incident in lap 40, a spin in lap 93 that only took out two people, both of whom limped back into the race shortly thereafter, assorted other small cautions--The Big One hit the Daytona 500 in lap 158.
From the announcers booth, it was "--number 97 getting into the 34, oh, hitting the wall and catching the 38 in the--"
From the spotters' balcony, it was "--wreck in turn 3, John, stay up, up, up, stay steady, watch out, the--"
From the pit it was "Oh God, oh God, oh God, he's coming straight at--"
And then every person in the place was on their feet, open-mouthed, staring at the number 38 car of Elliot Sadler. It flipped on its top, then back to its wheels, seemed to pause, then spun up and into the air again, scattering sheet metal across the hood of John Sheppard's 21 car as it barely, just barely brushed its hood. The 38 landed with a crash that seemed to shake the track somewhere south of the 21, and Sheppard, in defiance of multiple laws of physics and engineering, kept driving.
Rodney unclenched his fingers from the pit wall and tried to remember to breathe. Zelenka's voice cut in on the radio. "John, are you okay? Are you unhurt?"
There was a brief, painful silence, then a shout that made Rodney jump. "YES! I'm fine, I'm fine, did you see that?" Sheppard was laughing, great whoops of laughter that rolled through the headsets. "I love racing. Oh my God. Did you see that?" And he was whooping again.
Rodney covered his eyes with a hand. Drivers.
***
Sheppard tumbled out of his car at the end of the race still laughing. "Did you see that?" he demanded yet again, this time of Elizabeth, who was waiting for him with a huge smile on her face.
"Yes, John, you were wonderful," she said. "I've never seen--"
The rest was cut off as Sheppard hauled her in for a big noisy kiss.
"Yes!" he said as he let her go. "I am wonderful! Did you see that?"
The spotter came running up, and Sheppard turned to him, open-armed. Lorne took a quick step back. "Hey, I'm perfectly happy with a manly handshake."
Sheppard laughed and gave him a manly backslapping hug instead. "You saved me out there, Lorne. Fantastic work."
"Fantastic work all around," Elizabeth said, still a bit pink around the edges. "And a twenty-fifth place finish in our first Daytona--particularly with the damage we picked up despite John's driving--is better than I'd hoped for. Congratulations, everyone. Let's get everything loaded up so I can buy you a round of drinks."
Rodney bent to check the damage across the front bumper and fender.
"So did I not wreck it by your standards?"
"I don't know," Rodney said, peering under the wheel well. "If I say yes, will you kiss me, too?"
Sheppard's answer was lost in the babble of crew members and approaching cameras, and Rodney tuned it out to focus on the car.
***
The Weir Racing garage was a zoo of engines roaring and tools pounding and people waving to get each other's attention. It took Rodney forever to get from his office door to the car he wanted to be working on. First he had to shoot down one of Simpson's ideas about air flow. ("Oh, look, the car would overheat and boil in its own oil! You want to go to culinary school, do it on your own time.") Then, he had to admit Grodin had a point about a safety issue ("Dear God, I think this might work, despite your appalling math. Get Miko to redo it all for you entirely, and I might consider it.")
Then he ran into Zelenka.
"Three more miles per tank."
"'The Miracle Worker' is a play. No."
"Three more."
"Radek--"
"Texas."
"Hey," Rodney said, stung. "There were extenuating circumstances."
"Three miles."
"I'll think about it. Now if you'll excuse me, I promised to look at one of the Busch cars and I'm more afraid of Teyla than of you."
Zelenka let him pass with a narrowed look that promised to change that.
Ford was sitting in the window of next week's car, smirking. Rodney popped the hood. "Shut up and start the--wait, where's Fireball?"
Everyone prepared for the usual pre-ignition search, but Sheppard said, "It's okay, I've got her." Rodney hadn't even noticed him, leaning against the slightly battered hood of last week's Busch car. Fireball was shedding all over Sheppard's black T-shirt, but he didn't seem to care.
"Okay. Stay there. Hit it, Ford."
Rodney had Ford take the car up through increasingly escalating RPMs. It wasn't as good as being on the track, of course, since the wheels and brakes didn't come into play, but then again, he wasn't going to sit on the edge of the car and check out the engine while it was in motion. Huh. He could take the hood off and mount a camera during the next testing day, if they let him--he made some quick notes to the side of his measurements.
"Up into fourth."
The car shifted a bit--Ford had to keep the brake depressed while shifting, of course--but Rodney just shifted his knees away from the front of the bumper and leaned in farther.
"What are you checking?" Sheppard was right next to him all of a sudden, still holding the cat. Rodney reached out and scratched the top of Fireball's head.
"A number of things, but at the moment the spark plugs. The modifications I made seem to be working. Oh." He made a note. "I still need to take extras of the old kind in case I don't pass inspection."
"Why, are they illegal?"
"Of course not!" Rodney smirked. "Yet. But the officials might get persnickety about it. There was this whole thing with shocks last year. So I'm being prepared."
"Do you make a lot of modifications that aren't illegal, yet?"
"Everyone does. It's the Junior Johnson philosophy of stock car racing. Do it 'til they call you on it. Then find a new way to do it."
"There are worse role models."
"Hey, can you hurry it up out there?" Rodney had forgotten Ford was there. "My left foot is cramping."
"Sorry, sorry!" Rodney pushed Sheppard back. "Go away, you're distracting me. Fifth gear!"
***
California was okay. So was Las Vegas. Atlanta was better than okay; they came home with a top-ten finish that Sheppard credited to driving, Rodney to engineering, and Kavanagh to unspecified cheating. (The spark plugs had been okayed provisionally, but NASCAR was still thinking about it.)
It was probably more accurate to give thanks to Sony for the finish. Carl Edwards had done an interview his rookie year about using NASCAR video games to get a better feel for the tracks than a few laps in practice could give you. Someone passed the article along to Zelenka, who cleared a corner of his office and, much to Rodney's disgust, set up a big-screen TV and a Playstation. The biggest problem at first was keeping everyone else off it long enough for Sheppard to try it out, but that was solved by allowing Teyla to explain the situation to them. Everyone backed off after that, except Ford, who claimed it was work for him too.
"Damn it, Ford, fool around with this thing often enough and it's going to screw up your ability to focus on the way a Busch car handles," Rodney said.
Ford just grinned and kept maneuvering around the curves at Charlotte. "I'm not going to race Busch forever, you know."
Rodney grabbed the controller out of his hand, ignoring Ford's protest and the violent crash onscreen. "You're not racing anywhere today. Now get out of here and let me go over the tire changes with you, or I'll send Teyla in after you. Again."
He was contemptuous of Sheppard's game time, too, but since Zelenka was so obviously not on his side, he settled for eyerolling and hoping out loud that Fireball's habit of curling up half on top of the console would make it start playing sideways or something.
They had two weeks between Atlanta and Bristol thanks to Easter, and while most of the team took it easy for once during those first few days, Rodney doubled his output. There were Cup champions who had gotten their asses kicked by this course for their entire careers, and while he couldn't magically impart a new skill set to Sheppard, he could make sure that he had the most Bristol-friendly car possible.
He was halfway in the garage, his mind on setups and banking, when he realized that he wasn't the only person in there. He frowned and checked his watch. Nobody else got there before seven, and it was quarter to six. He followed the light he hadn't turned on across the garage and into--
"For the love of God, Sheppard, have you been sitting here all night?"
"Hang on," Sheppard said, twisting the game wheel sharply. "I'm almost done."
"All night. All night. I'm sure it's a lovely toy, but--"
"It's not a toy," Sheppard said. He flipped a switch and the screen went blank. "It's a tool."
"It's a game."
Sheppard had that flat look he always got right after he wrecked in testing. "It's my only chance to make mistakes on this track. I'm not going to physically see it until the practice right before the race, when 42 other drivers, the television cameras, and fucking Kavanagh will be watching my every move. Back off, okay?"
"I--okay."
Sheppard rubbed his eyes. "All right, fine, I probably shouldn't have stayed up all night doing it. I hope I don't have any publicity things today."
He didn't, not until next Tuesday, but Rodney didn't say anything.
Sheppard walked past him. "I'm going home to crash for a couple hours. Tell Elizabeth I'll be in by noon."
"Okay," Rodney said, belatedly, after Sheppard was already gone. "...okay."
***
Rodney was waiting for Sheppard at noon, sitting outside the door of his house. (Parking spaces. Freely available parking spaces. Rodney loved the small-town South...sometimes.) Sheppard stopped right outside his door. Rodney could see the raised eyebrows over the sunglasses.
"McKay."
"Sheppard."
"Why are you here?"
"Maybe I felt like a Sunday drive."
"It's Wednesday."
Rodney smirked. "I know. Come on."
"I don't need a ride to work."
"We're not going to work." Rodney tossed him the keys. "At least, we're not going to the garage. Drive, hotshot."
They were out of town and at least fifteen miles down the Blue Ridge Parkway before Sheppard relaxed a little. Rodney could tell because their speed went from "normal" to "only just below supersonic."
"Did you just squeak?"
"What? No!"
"What's the problem?"
"Watch the road!" Rodney flailed at Sheppard until he turned back towards the windshield. "I just remembered what a Sunday drive entails for you, that's all."
He obsessively reminded himself of the extra safety features he'd installed (what was the point of running a race shop if you couldn't borrow all of your own best innovations?) until he managed to relax. Somewhat.
Sheppard grinned sideways at him.
"Hey, McKay," Sheppard said after another hour or so of curves in the road and arguments over the radio (Rodney thought that as car owner, his public radio choice should be respected; Sheppard said that he was driving, and he wanted some decent country music, damn it). "I was wondering something about Weir Racing."
Rodney looked over at him.
"Elizabeth hired a really diverse crew, didn't she?"
"How so?"
Sheppard rolled his eyes. "You know how so. She's got the only regular minority driver in the Busch series right now. There's seven different countries represented in the garage crew, I counted. One crew chief from Czechoslovakia, one who's female and--where the hell is Teyla from, anyway?"
"Ford says she's from the planet of the scary-yet-hot people."
"Yeah, sounds about right." This time, when Sheppard looked at him, Rodney didn't squeak and slam on his imaginary brake. Well, he didn't squeak. "And of course, her car chief--"
"--is Canadian, yeah, could you look--"
"I was going to say gay. I didn't know you were Canadian."
"But you knew I was gay?"
Sheppard shrugged. "Canada? Really?"
"Did I sound like a good old Southern boy to you?"
"I thought you were from Minnesota."
Rodney just stared at him.
"You know--yeah, sure, ya betcha?"
"Please die," Rodney said, and meant it.
"Okay, but after that, what's the story?"
"I don't know what the story is. Kavanagh calls us the 'misfits of NASCAR,' which is cute in its own retarded way, but I don't think she set out to hire…us." He let a couple of mile markers pass by before he continued. "You know what racing's like. If you don't know the good old boy who grew up down the road from you in 'Bama, forget even getting your resume seen by a crew chief or a car owner. I have a doctorate in mechanical design engineering, I turned down nine offers from six different governments, and no one who owned a stock car thought I was anything. When Elizabeth called, I was about to go to Europe, give Formula One a shot. My French sucks, by the way."
"But Elizabeth had heard of you."
"Well, it was the other way around for her. Nobody wanted to work for her, because they figured when she crashed and burned--bad metaphor--they'd be too much of a joke to get work anywhere else in the sport. So she thought outside the box. She heard me speak at a conference. Zelenka, she poached from a lesser job in F1. Grodin was a designer at Ford. And then after a few people figured out she was the real thing...we were used to being outside the community. So we built our own community."
"I guess that explains me, then."
"Well, you have some modicum of driving talent, or so they tell me."
"Thanks."
"Sumner was one of the only establishment guys in the bunch--she wanted a Cup veteran, and she paid good money for him. And he was a disaster, of course." Rodney shrugged.
***
They stopped in a little town--Rodney didn't notice the name--to buy Mountain Dew (Rodney), bottled water (Sheppard) and gas (Allison--not that Rodney would admit to anyone ever, Sheppard twice over, that his car had a name).
"I bet you're wondering how a...Canadian...like myself ended up in NASCAR," Rodney said, leaning against the passenger side door as Sheppard squeegeed the windshield.
"That's exactly what I was wondering," Sheppard said, dipping his sunglasses down on his nose to check a spot. "How NASCAR was fortunate enough to get someone like you."
"They almost didn't, can you imagine? The loss to the sport..." Rodney shook his head.
"A horrible thought. Get in."
Rodney was a little disappointed when Sheppard turned onto the highway heading for home. "I didn't want to be in racing when I was a kid. I wanted to be an astronaut."
He tensed when Sheppard laughed, but it wasn't that kind of laugh. "Cool."
"I thought so. But there's only, like, ten Canadian astronauts, and I figured as a Canadian, NASA would let me do about anything but go up in space, and I wasn't wasting twenty years of my life on the off chance that they'd realize I was perfect for the program."
"Let me guess. NASCAR was next in the phone book."
"Ha. No, I'd been working on a science fair project on aerodynamics. I used a friend's car as an example. It worked so well, we took it to a local track just to see, and the rest is racing history."
"And that's why you liked racing? Because you were good at it?"
"Isn’t that why you like it?"
"Never hurts," Sheppard said cheerfully.
"Exactly. Plus--racing--it's a sport descended from the ones emperors and kings used to watch. But it's based on a real, everyday experience--most of us drive. Most of us drive next to someone else. It's the most basic thing in modern life, and at the same time the ultimate marriage of technology and skill. There is no better sport anywhere, and why are you smiling at me?"
"I don't get to just smile?"
Rodney made himself shut up.
"Question," Sheppard said a minute later. Rodney noticed he was still smiling, the bastard.
"What?"
"Then why are you acting like you're scared of heights and on your way to the moon?"
"What?"
Sheppard pointed at Rodney's hand, clenched white against the passenger door. "We're in a fast car. You like fast cars. It's like racing, but with a much lower chance of getting bump-drafted. What are you freaking out about?"
Rodney stared at him. "I forget," he said, and when Sheppard started laughing, he laughed too. "Oh, leave my neuroses alone and drive, hotshot."
The car opened up a little more, enough to feel the pull on the wheels as they took a curve, but Sheppard's hands stayed easy and controlled on the wheel the whole time. "Christ, I can't wait to see you on a road course," Rodney said with sudden exultation. "Can you go any faster?"
***
"I can't believe you gave her the ticket," Sheppard said. "Stop laughing like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're an evil genius and making your boss pay your speeding tickets is the next step to world domination."
"I don't want to dominate the world, just the sport," Rodney said reasonably. "Also, it wasn't my speeding ticket--"
"--it was your idea--"
"--it was your hands on the wheel. And you, stop rolling your eyes."
***
When Rodney was in the garages, he could forget there was a difference between one track and the next; after only a few badgering lectures, his people had learned that all the tools went in the same place no matter what, damn it. Time was laps was points was money during a race, and if he needed to do repairs they needed to be done quickly, efficiently, and with the kind of exhaustive planning that would make a brain surgeon balk.
Oddly enough, the midway area of the track had the same feel. Same booths, same vendors, same food--oh, yes, the rib guy was there. Rodney loved the rib guy. Same fans, most of them with every inch of their bodies reflecting this driver or that sponsor. Same blazing sun and lack of shade.
Rodney cut in line in front of a Brian Vickers fan--if you had Tony the Tiger on your shirt in public, you didn't deserve ribs--and waved Sheppard over from the T-shirt stand next door. "Sh--John, get over here. Ribs!"
"I'm coming, I'm coming." John? Sheppard mouthed at him.
"Well, I didn't know if you wanted--" Rodney gestured around them.
"We should be so lucky," Sheppard said ruefully. "Don't worry about it. They don't even have my T-shirt out there."
"Maybe they ran out."
Sheppard gave him an incredulous look.
"Shut up and order."
They detoured briefly to a drink stand, then found a convenient table under the stands. The Saturday morning crowd was light enough that they didn't have to stare anyone down for it, even. Rodney was vaguely disappointed.
"When do you have to be back?"
Rodney checked his watch. "Half hour or so. The car's under impound until qualifying, and Teyla gets cranky when I hang around too long before Ford takes the track." Sheppard made a commiserating sound through his mouthful of barbecue sauce. "But this is good, because when you send someone to get ribs, half the time they come back with about a third of what you know you paid for, and lemonade, for the love of God, and--"
"Excuse me." A kid hovered uncertainly on the edge of Sheppard's personal space. She was barely in her early twenties, Rodney figured, wearing a pink baseball cap with the NASCAR logo on it and a Ford Racing T-shirt. "Are you Shep? I mean, John Sheppard?"
Sheppard looked confused for a second, looked terrified for a second, then grabbed for the napkins Rodney was shoving at him. "Yes! I mean, yes, that's me. Hi."
"I knew it!" She turned and waved at a mixed group about her age. They crowded around her. "This is so cool. I can't believe you're just eating ribs out here the day before the race."
"Well, it's the day before the race," Sheppard said, and the kids grinned at him like that actually meant something.
"What are you even doing here?" one of the other kids asked. "Shouldn't you be having a party in your motor home or something?"
"Dude, turn off the Speed Channel," Sheppard said. "I'm here for the race just like you. Gotta support my teammate."
There was general approval from the group, and autographs for Jennifer and Elliot and Sean and Rachel. Then there were pictures, of course. "Rodney, wipe the sauce off your chin and help out," Sheppard said cheerfully, producing a camera of his own that made Rodney do some serious eye-rolling.
"Wait, Rodney?" Elliot said--or maybe he was Sean, who knew. "Not Rodney from Shep's team?"
"I beg your pardon?" Rodney demanded.
"Oh!" Rachel said. "Don't-wreck-my-car Rodney!"
They all laughed. Even Sheppard, the bastard. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"FOX talked about it last week," Elliot-maybe-Sean said. "How you say it before every race."
"No, I don't. Wait, I do?"
Sheppard rolled his eyes. "Of course you do. It's our thing."
"Our thing? Oh, well, good to know we have a thing, Shep."
Apparently he was famous enough for that that he had to be in the pictures. Rodney tried to smile without showing what were probably sauce-covered teeth and disentangled "Shep" from his fans as quickly as possible. "No--sorry, we have pre-race, important team stuff to do. Yeah, nice meeting you, too. That was weird," he hissed in Sheppard's ear as they drifted out of earshot.
"Yeah, but cool. People know us. We have a thing. I have a nickname!"
He was vibrating with joy, and Rodney tried not to grin too obviously. "Yes, you have a nickname, congratulations. We can call you like a dog now. And it's better than the one Sterling Marlin gave Greg Biffle."
Sheppard paused. "Wait, what does Sterling Marlin call Greg Biffle?"
"Bug-Eyed Dummy."
***
"Don't wreck my car, hotshot," Rodney said into Zelenka's headset. Now that Zelenka knew it was coming, he didn't even beat on Rodney anymore. Much.
"I'll do my best," Sheppard said.
Rodney looked out over the track. From the pits, the turns looked...intimidating. He looked back over at Zelenka and Elizabeth. Elizabeth looked rather solemn; she was probably thinking of Ford's spectacular spinout the day before. Zelenka had a small smile on his face, though. Rodney was not for any reason going to ask him why. He bopped Rodney over the head with his clipboard. "Pro štestí. Go now."
Rodney went. As the cars sped by not far from him, he tried to keep his head down and his mind on his tire calculations--Zelenka had developed an obsession about having strong tires at the end of this race--but he couldn't stay away from the network feed. Sheppard had qualified twentieth, and was making some decent progress through the field. About a third of the way in, he was sitting comfortably in fifteenth, and Rodney let himself imagine another top-ten finish for just a moment before forcing his brain away.
Just as he'd made himself look away from the monitor again, there was a flash of white and a flurry, then a barrage of shouting from Lorne, Zelenka, and--was that Elizabeth sounding outraged in the background? Rodney looked out towards the track, but whatever it was had happened far enough down the front stretch that he couldn't see. Zelenka seemed to have gotten himself under control, but he was still clearly furious as he called for the pit crew to prepare for a stop.
Rodney looked back at the monitor. Yes, thank you, finally, replay. He stared incredulously as Sumner forced the Number 21 up and into the wall. Fortunately, his radio wasn't on, and the pits were too loud to make out someone cursing without the help of a radio. He watched it twice more before going to the pit wall.
"Who got him?" Bates was asking into his radio. Rodney looked up to the box and saw Zelenka shaking his head at him.
"Tell you after the stop," Rodney said. Zelenka was right. The last thing they needed was the pit crew abandoning their positions to run over to the Number 11 box and set things on fire.
They could do that later.
Rodney stayed on the wall, grabbing tires as they were thrown at him, trying to get a look at Sheppard's face. But seeing any expression through a helmet and safety webbing was impossible. He sounded edgy but not insane over the radio, at least.
"How far back does this put me?"
"Caution came out as you got to pit road," Zelenka told him, not sounding like a Zen master either. "You should stay on the lead lap."
"All right. All right." Stackhouse gave the signal, and the car peeled away from them. "We're still in this, guys," Sheppard said, and Rodney saw several crew members nodding at each other. "I'll get back up there."
Bates climbed back over the wall. "Now what happened?"
Nothing got set on fire, sadly, damn Elizabeth and her threats to fire people.
They had some good luck, the kind of luck that meant other people were having bad luck. Kyle Petty spun out just as several of the leaders were pitting under green, which gave them a good nine positions. Then Sheppard got away from a slugfest between Robby Gordon and some unfortunate rookie. And then--he just drove the hell out of the car. He took the highest banking turns in NASCAR like he was in Rodney's car, ambling around a North Carolina highway. There was some collective breath-holding when he came nose-to-tail with Sumner, but Sheppard passed him cleanly, easily, and moved into seventh.
On the last pit of the race--God willing, the last pit of the race--he'd gained another spot, and he had Zelenka's beloved new tires. Rodney abandoned his spreadsheets entirely and joined most of the rest of the crew at the pit wall. If they stood on it, they had an unrestricted view of the start/finish line. Twenty laps left. Five drivers in front of him. "This is already his best finish yet," Stackhouse said, and was nearly tackled to the ground by Grodin.
"Don't jinx him, you bastard!"
Eighteen left. He passed Labonte, who had opted to go with two tires on his last stop. Fifteen left, and he came up even with Harvick. It took two laps to muscle his way past him. Eleven left and he got past Biffle, nearly running them both into the wall at turn three to do it. With seven to go, he took a high line into turn two and passed Carl Edwards.
"Good work, John, you've got it," they could hear Lorne telling Sheppard. "Only six laps to go."
"And Jeff fucking Gordon in front of him," Bates said.
"Second place--" Stackhouse started. Rodney helped Grodin shove him off the wall.
Sheppard pulled almost even with Gordon. Fell back in the turns. Came back and pulled ahead of him, but not far enough to sustain it during banking and fell back again. There were two laps left, and Rodney was out of ways to pray.
"Come on, John." Everyone whipped around to look up at Elizabeth. She never talked to the drivers during a race, but there she was, on her feet and staring at the finish line like she could see how it would end. "You don't have to get past him, just stay with him. It only takes an inch to win."
"I hear you," Sheppard said--the first thing he'd said since his pit stop. Their car came out of the last turn of the last lap like a shot, and as they crossed the finish line the nose of the Number 21 was ahead--just inches ahead, but ahead--of the Number 24.
The Weir Racing pit went completely, irretrievably insane.
***
Rodney had thought long and hard about how he would behave if--when his team won a race. He'd imagine himself taking a stance as a professional, watching with condescension as the crew behaved like teenagers at a rave, standing out as the sole beacon of maturity among his team.
As Sheppard finished his victory lap, Rodney found himself running for the car along with the pit crew. Sheppard did a row of donuts and landed in the infield grass, and Rodney -- who deplored drivers who put added stress on their cars, causing more work for the people in the shop as they tried to prep the thing for the next race -- shouted encouragement.
Grodin grabbed the steering wheel as Sheppard shoved it out the window, nearly braining a FOX cameraman with it as he tossed it aside. Rodney helped pull Sheppard out of the car. The cameraman then had to dodge the helmet. The entire crew converged on Sheppard, but Rodney bodychecked fucking Stackhouse and pulled Sheppard into a bone-cracking hug.
"I won!" Sheppard shouted at him.
"I saw!" Rodney screamed back.
There was a blur of movement that translated itself into Elizabeth. Rodney stepped aside just as she flung herself into Sheppard's arms so hard he fell backwards against the car. Rodney cackled with laughter, and then they were all crowding around Sheppard and Elizabeth and Radek, one gigantic sea of navy uniforms and waving hands.
Afterwards, Rodney only clearly remembered the look on Sheppard's face when he climbed out. Somebody found him a wire photo of the two of them grabbing each other's shoulders and grinning widely enough to break both their faces. Rodney framed the photo and hung it on his office wall, next to the framed first page of his dissertation.
They'd won a race. They'd won a race.
***
"Attention!" Rodney called. His staff, showing a shocking disregard for their respective employment statuses, kept talking. "I need to--can I get your--oh, hell."
He grabbed someone else's toolbox, climbed up on a chair, held out his hand, and let go.
Everyone jumped, but more importantly, shut up.
"As I was saying," he said, folding his arms and glaring around, "the last thing we can do is slow down. Everyone will be gunning for us. Sumner doubly so."
"You know, it might have been an actual accident," Grodin said from what he probably thought was a safe distance away. "NASCAR didn't cite him."
"Do I care? No, I do not," Rodney informed him. "You're wrong, but as I mentioned, I don't care. I care about Martinsville, which is next week, and which that guy over there is going to do well at, because this team is clearly capable of top performances and because if we keep winning, eventually I'll have the credibility to tell Kavanagh to shut it, and we all know that's my life's ambition." Sheppard looked slightly surprised to be mentioned.
"Is he supposed to be congratulating us?" Stackhouse asked Bates.
"Actually, no. You were congratulated already. Remember the scantily clad women? And the alcohol? I am motivating you. You did well. Now do better. Go."
***
Everything would have been fine, or so Rodney liked to think, if Sumner had let it go. It was his fault, after all, and they'd still won the damn race. But, of course, he didn't.
"Shit!" Rodney screamed at the top of his lungs. One well-placed tap from Sumner sent Sheppard spinning straight into the Texas infield, doing victory-style donuts. Sheppard straightened out and got back in, but three-quarters of the field was ahead of him and his tires were filled with muck.
"I'm going to kill Sumner," Rodney muttered.
Sheppard was maintaining an ice-cold radio silence. The pit crew exchanged nervous looks.
"Didn't Sheppard wreck a guy in the IRL for doing that to him?" Stackhouse asked.
"Third time he was suspended," Rodney said grimly. "Ran him into a wall and broke his leg."
"I thought he broke the guy's nose."
"That was the time before that, and he just punched that guy."
"Oh, well, that's fine then."
Rodney waved him away.
***
"Sheppard," Rodney shouted across the floor. "Get down here."
Sheppard, who was standing on the staircase talking to Zelenka, shot him the annoyed look that Rodney had seen in one of his publicity photo shots the other day. Rodney supposed some people thought it was hot; he just thought it made Sheppard look like a sulky adolescent.
"No, seriously. Here."
He took his sweet time about ambling over, naturally. Rodney eyed him with a rancor that had only grown over the last few races.
"Sheppard, I'd like you to meet your next ride. This is W299, our latest intermediate design. She's fast, she's got downforce, and she's brand freaking new. Do you know what I want you to do with this car?"
"Win races?"
"That would be nice, but what I really want is for you to keep this car as far away from Sumner as you can."
Sheppard looked bored. "That's nice, McKay."
"I'm serious."
Sheppard leaned back, half-sitting on W299's hood. Rodney winced. "I actually don't need this lecture again."
"What do you need, then? Another lecture from Elizabeth? Another warning from NASCAR? A ticket back to open-wheel?"
"Don't tease me, McKay."
"Don't fuck with me, Sheppard."
Sheppard straightened up suddenly, putting him fully into Rodney's personal space. "If you'd all leave me alone to do my job--"
"Your job? When did that include driving Sumner off the road?" Rodney could feel his blood pressure increasing. He jabbed a finger into Sheppard's sternum. "I'm not going to say it again. Knock this shit off, Sheppard."
Sheppard gave Rodney a hard enough shove to send him back two steps, then stalked off.
"I mean it!" Rodney shouted after him. "Leave it alone, Sheppard!"
***
Rodney was going to kill Sheppard. He was aware that this would affect the Weir Racing points standings--they were actually doing quite nicely, with a string of successful finishes. But still. He'd be doing it for the good of humanity and even NASCAR.
He looked up from the shredded side of the Darlington car. "Do you know what this is?" he asked Elizabeth. "This is a memento of Sumner's car. Sheppard threw away my perfectly good W299 on that moron."
"Rodney," Elizabeth started, then stopped and took a deep breath. Next to her, Zelenka sighed too. "I will admit that John was more aggressive than I'd have liked in this last race."
"We're lucky he didn't get fined. Or benched for a week, if they were in one of their snits."
"You can't say for sure that John deliberately--"
"What do you mean? I've seen him drive a couple thousand laps in my car. I know when he's being deliberate and when he's not. He and Sumner have been working up to something like this for weeks. He's not listening to a damn thing I say. You have to talk to him. Or Zelenka."
"And say what?" Zelenka demanded. "Please don't drive next to Marshall Sumner?"
"It's a start."
"Consider me talked to." The three of them whipped their heads around. Sheppard was at the door to the garage, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses. "Or at least talked about."
"Hey," Rodney said. "You want someone to talk to you? I'll talk to you. Knock it off, hotshot. If you're going to insist on having a feud, let Sumner take the lumps for it. Now if you'll excuse me, I have several thousand dollars of repairs on this car to oversee, in addition to everything else I'd planned to do today. And you, fan club presidents." He made shooing motions at Elizabeth and Zelenka. "Go away too."
***
Ford stuck his head in Zelenka's office. "Are you done yet?" Zelenka, Teyla, and Rodney looked up at him with varying degrees of annoyance and relief.
"Just finishing," Zelenka said. "Did you bring it?"
Ford held up a bottle.
"Czech beer?" Rodney raised an eyebrow at Zelenka. "If this is what Ford gets for a top-five finish, I might have to start driving."
Zelenka grinned at him.
"Come on," Ford said. He tossed bottles to each of them. "Shep's out there guarding the rest."
Rodney set his bottle down on the desk. "I'll catch up with you. I still want to do a couple of spot checks." He flipped through the papers on his clipboard until everyone else left.
After that, one of the Busch cars needed some maintenance. Coincidentally, it was a few feet from the case of beer that Sheppard's feet were resting on. He and Ford had the slightly slurred tones of people who were feeling ethanol's effects. Teyla sounded just like herself, just with more spaces between the words, and Zelenka was unaffected. Zelenka could drink the entire Weir Racing staff under the table, and this was an actual proven fact.
"...grandparents still call me every time someone from home gets married," Ford was saying, ruefully, as Rodney started testing the wires leading into the battery. "Two guys I graduated high school with just had babies."
"You are far too young to marry," Teyla told him sternly.
"I'm twenty-two!" Ford protested. Rodney rolled his eyes; everyone else laughed.
"Ford had a more...traditional upbringing than some," he heard Zelenka say.
"How so?" Sheppard asked. "I thought you said you lived with your grandparents."
"Oh, not that kind of traditional. My grandpa was a pastor."
"Ahhhh, a preacher's kid. I knew I liked you, Ford."
Ford laughed.
Sheppard laughed, too. Then his voice dropped. "Known a couple of memorable PKs in my time."
"Oh yeah?" Ford asked, managing to smirk verbally. "What was her name?"
There was a bit of a pause, and then Zelenka spoke up, sounding sly. "Or perhaps we should be asking, what was his name?"
Rodney became very busy tightening something on the engine block.
"Damn you, Zelenka," Sheppard said, but he didn't actually sound pissed. "It was Joshua--"
"Of course," Ford said.
"--and his dad was our minister. Suspicious as all get out, Reverend Laurence. Between his congregation and Josh's three older brothers, he thought he knew every way a young man could find himself some sin. He thought our camping trips were a great idea, although he searched the car a few times for beer or other contraband."
"Which he never found?" Teyla asked.
"Well, of course there was never any beer in the car before we left town." There was a long pause, and the sound of a beer bottle clinking against the concrete floor. "Camping, man, I tell you. To this day when I see a sleeping bag--well. It's practically Pavlovian."
A bolt squeaked protestingly under Rodney's hand.
***
Inspection took forever, for no apparent reason. (It had taken practically forever the week before, too, which was ridiculous. "It's the All-Star race, it's not like points are on the line, who's going to risk the wrath of God and Bill France to cheat?" Rodney had snarled, but fortunately no one other than Elizabeth heard him.)
But the officials were particularly persnickety--even more than usual--and after a morning spent literally sanding the car down to meet NASCAR templates, Rodney was short-tempered, sweating, and behind schedule. When the drivers started their warm-up laps, he kept his head down and his hands busy on the laptops, ignoring the expectant looks from every direction. "Wreck if you want," he muttered. "Told you not to before and you did anyway, it's not like you need my permission."
Sheppard's instructions for this race were simple: stay on the lead lap, milk the fuel mileage for all it was worth to get them through the full 600 laps, and stay the hell away from Sumner. Rodney was expecting some curt engine comments, or maybe sullen silence. He was taken aback, then, by the first real comment of the race, about fifteen laps in:
"Shit."
Rodney's head snapped up. "John?" he heard Zelenka ask.
"Um, are my heel cuffs back there anywhere?" Sheppard sounded more sheepish than anything.
"Are you kidding me?" Rodney said. No one could hear him, of course, so he buttonholed the nearest crew member, Grodin, and tried again. "Is he kidding? He forgot his heel cuffs? He forgot parts of his protective gear? Why didn't he just set a match to his feet before he started the ignition?"
"You didn't--" Grodin gestured up towards Zelenka's spot, then pointed at his headset.
"No, but--that was an hour after he got dressed! One has nothing to do with the other!"
Grodin shrugged and walked off.
"This is so not my fault!" Rodney yelled after him.
Meanwhile, Elizabeth was breaking her self-imposed rule again to radio Sheppard. "We'll have them ready for you on your first pit stop."
"That won't work," Rodney said, just as he heard Sheppard say, "That won't work, Elizabeth, you know it won't. We'd have to take the wheel out to get to my feet. There's not enough time."
"John--"
"It'll be fine. I'll just be a little uncomfortable."
Which, of course, was some sort of signal for debris to fly into the grill of the Fusion, and the car spent about a third of the race nearly overheating. They hosed down the inside of the car at every pit and Elizabeth tried twice more to talk Sheppard into putting the protectors on, but he refused, getting more and more abrupt as the race went on.
They limped into a seventeenth place finish, and the network cameras were right there to record Sheppard being helped out of the car and mostly carried into the infield care center. Rodney stayed at the pit box, watching the FOX coverage until they went back to interviewing Jimmie Johnson for the millionth time. "All right, people," he said to the crew members watching over his shoulder. "Zelenka's otherwise occupied, let's break everything down. You know what to do."
"Sheppard's probably getting a foot rub in there," Stackhouse told Markham, who looked less than convinced. "He'll be fine."
***
"You have second-degree burns," Elizabeth said sternly.
"I'll be fine," Sheppard said.
"I've heard that before, John. I agree with the doctor's recommendation. A week out."
Behind them, Rodney saw Zelenka drop his head back against Elizabeth's office wall. Teyla leaned over and said something to him quietly; he just shook his head.
"We can't lose an entire week's worth of points!"
"You won't have to," Rodney said reluctantly. "If you take the first lap and we switch drivers, the points still go under your name."
"But the time to switch--"
"Don’t make me point out that if you'd done it to put on the damn cuffs, you wouldn't smell faintly charred and we wouldn't be having this argument," Rodney snapped.
Sheppard subsided, looking wounded.
"The question is, who do we put in for the remaining laps?" Elizabeth looked at Teyla. "Is Aiden ready?"
"No," Rodney said.
"Rodney."
"I'm sorry, I like Ford as much as the next guy, but he is not ready for Cup racing yet. These guys will eat him alive."
There was a suspicious thump from the stairway leading up to the office; everyone in the room carefully avoided looking towards the door.
"Teyla," Elizabeth said with more emphasis, "is Aiden ready?"
Rodney glared over at her.
"I am concerned," Teyla said slowly, looking only at Elizabeth. "Aiden has only raced at Dover twice."
There was a sound of protest from the stairs. Rodney rolled his eyes.
"However, John is right, by the time we change drivers we will be down at least a lap. Without the pressure to win, it may be a useful introduction to this level of racing."
"He deserves it," Sheppard said.
Rodney crossed his arms, knowing he probably looked as sullen as Sheppard. "He deserves it because he's a good kid, or because he's a good driver?"
"He deserves it," Sheppard said, clearly speaking to Elizabeth and no one else.
"Oh, well, if Colonel Hot Feet thinks he deserves it, then by all means." Rodney left, waving off Elizabeth's protest, and stomped back down to the garage. "Don't give me that look," he snapped at Ford, who was loitering at the foot of the stairs. "I'm still right about this, and no wounded puppy looks will change my mind. Also, the next time you're listening in on a conversation secretly? Try not to argue with the people having the conversation. It tends to blow your cover."
He headed for the Cup car, stopped, waited, then turned back to Ford. "Well?"
"Well what?" Ford said. Wow, who knew someone that baby-faced could look that surly.
"Well, get over here. We all know what the powers that be are going to decide, and you need to learn this car for next week, don't you?"
Ford beamed.
***
They didn't open the pits at Dover until four laps in. Sheppard hoisted himself partway out of the driver's seat--Rodney could see him wincing as he tried to put pressure on his feet. Bates and Stackhouse pulled him clear to make room for Ford and set him on the pit wall.
Rodney, who had placed himself next to the wall very purposefully, kept an even more purposeful eye on his watch as they loaded the steering wheel back into the car and sent Ford on his way.
"Shut up," Sheppard said just as Rodney opened his mouth.
Rodney gave him an immensely superior look and went back to work.
Sheppard sat on the wall, looking fiercely at the track, until he got displaced by the crew setting up for a pit stop. Then he gingerly made his way to Rodney's corner of the world.
"You're blocking my light," Rodney said around the pencil in his teeth.
"The light from the computer screens? How's he doing?"
"Stellar. Spectacular. Brilliant. He's two laps down and surrounded by the biggest names in the sport, how do you think he's doing? Why are you standing up?"
Sheppard just shrugged, his eyes glued to the network feed. "I only see about a tenth of the track from over there."
"You could watch from the sponsor area."
"McKay," Sheppard said, obviously horrified.
"Right. Right. Find a stool, or a stepladder, or something, and you can stay. Unless you touch one of the laptops, and then I'll kill you."
***
"Oh, come on, use the banking, Ford."
"You know, you're a backseat driver without a backseat in sight," Rodney said.
"Up, up, up, up," Sheppard was saying, mostly in sync with the spotter. "What'd you say?"
Rodney rolled his eyes.
"I heard that!" Sheppard yelled over the roar as half the field went past them.
They both turned back to the monitor to watch as the action moved out of easy eyesight.
Rodney pointed at the screen. "He's awful--"
"Yeah, he's following Junior too closely--"
Bump.
Skid.
Crash.
Ford's voice came clearly through the headsets. "Oh, I totally did not mean to do that. Please someone, tell them I didn't mean to do that, okay? I'm sorry."
Rodney and Sheppard exchanged a glance.
"Someone raised him right," Sheppard said.
Rodney rolled his eyes. "Yes, he'll finish last in a mannerly way."
***
Halfway through the race, Rodney said, "You know, what we need right now is a caution. One--damn it, Sheppard, if you pop up off that stool one more time, I'll weld you to it."
"I'm fine, I'm fine."
"Sit." Rodney turned back to look at the lap times again. "He's really catching up to them. If we can get a yellow flag, he'll get the Lucky Dog and get on the lead lap. Come on, come on. Blown tire, debris, something. Is it too much to ask for one little wreck?"
Sheppard stood up again. Rodney turned to snap at him again, but that put the TV feed directly into his line of vision.
"Oh, God."
***
The broadcasters analyzed angles and momentum, roll bars and safety walls for most of the rest of the race.
The race blogs were filled with photos of the car spinning, the impact with the Turn One wall, and then the second slam as Mike Skinner's car lost control and plowed into Ford, knocking the driver's side of the car back into the wall even harder.
Kavanagh wrote, with less snideness than usual, about inexperienced drivers and the difficulty of the Dover course.
Everyone wanted to interview the other drivers about it, and none of them wanted to talk about it.
Elizabeth Weir gave her team's statement from in front of the hospital, huddled in a team jacket despite the above-average temperatures.
"Weir Racing would like to thank everyone in the racing community for their concern and support. I'm afraid I don't have much information for you; Aiden is stable but we won't know much until he--until he wakes up. Thank you."
The cameras showed her walking away, her arms wrapped around herself, oblivious to the questions.
It would be reported the next day that while thankfully Aiden Ford had regained consciousness, the head injuries sustained during the crash were significant, particularly the damage to his left optic nerve. Ford's team, everyone said, was taking it about as hard as you'd expect.
***
Rodney kept making demented circles around his living room. Design plans for the short-track Cup car spread across his coffee table--no. The remote for the TV, which when turned on wouldn't even show the replays of Ford's accident, because ESPN and the Speed Channel had overplayed it and were backing off--no. A bottle of Jack--tempting. Maybe. Not yet.
So he was staring out the window when he saw Sheppard's Mustang pull up. He didn't think it was only injured feet that had Sheppard walking to the door like an eighty-year-old man. Rodney had time to think about what he was going to say twice over before the doorbell rang.
He and Sheppard stared at each other through the screen door. "Ford says thank you," Sheppard said finally, and Rodney pushed the screen door open for him.
"We raided the CD collections of everyone in the shop. Tell him he doesn't have to listen to anything he doesn't like, but if he doesn’t like the Tragically Hip they need to do another MRI."
"You can tell him. There's a phone right in the room, you know."
"I'm busy working." Belatedly, Rodney turned away from Sheppard and wandered into the living room.
"I can see that."
"Hey, I have things to do with my time. Just because Ford's out for--for a while doesn't mean the Busch team takes it easy. We have to find a new guy. We have to train a new guy."
"McKay."
"We have to explain to a new guy not to stare at Teyla until his brain shorts out, probably. Why they don't get that she can kill and eat them if they piss her off, I'll never understand."
"Rodney."
He jerked his head around at the sound of his first name, but kept the "What?" more irritated than startled.
Sheppard closed the distance between them. "Rodney," he said again. Rodney felt something hot and painful against the backs of his eyelids. He leaned forward and kissed Sheppard.
Sheppard's eyes stayed open - which Rodney knew because he was watching - and his mouth stayed closed against Rodney's, but he reached out and grabbed him, fingers digging into Rodney's side.
Rodney ground their bodies together and applied teeth and tongue. Was it wrong to feel smug when Sheppard closed his eyes first? "What--what do--John," he mumbled against the suddenly open mouth playing with his.
Sheppard jerked his head away and blinked over at him. His lips moved without sound, shaping his own name.
"You're right," Rodney said. "We wrecked a kid's life together. We should be on a first-name basis."
There was dead silence for a moment. Then a nod as Sheppard's other hand came up to rest right above the waist of Rodney's jeans.
"Rodney," he said, and then again, and then Rodney really, really didn't care anymore.
***
Rodney was certain that he was in the middle of an extended fantasy, that he'd come back to himself in a minute and be standing in the garage with Fireball looking at him funny. Except, except he wasn't. John fucking Sheppard was standing in his bedroom, and instead of smirking at the clothes on the floor or checking out the diecast collection of classic racing cars on one wall, he was staring at Rodney like people just didn't. It was like porn.
"Get on the bed," Rodney said. He'd meant, "get off your feet," but from the low sound Sheppard made in his throat, any way he meant it was good. Sheppard climbed on the bed from the side, one knee at a time, then turned to face Rodney. His hands were braced on his thighs, his knees apart, and as Rodney watched, he closed his eyes and pressed one hand hard against the front of his jeans.
Rodney forgot to breathe.
He crowded into Sheppard on the bed, trapping his arm between them. Sheppard smiled at him and curled his hand deliberately up against Rodney's cock. Rodney said something very profane.
This kiss was just an excuse to bite Sheppard's lip, really. Sheppard didn't seem to mind.
"Rodney, let me--give me--" and Rodney leaned back. Sheppard jerked on Rodney's button-fly, and the second it was open--Oh, God, oh, Christ, that felt good--attacked his own zipper.
"In a hurry?" Rodney asked.
Sheppard looked away from Rodney's waist and up at his face. "Fuck, yes."
"Good."
Sheppard tugged down on Rodney's jeans and boxers while Rodney yanked up on Sheppard's shirt. It should have been funny, and it was, but even the laughs were only half-expressed, harsh and panted out into each other's ears. Rodney wanted to lick Sheppard's nipples, he wanted to bite his stomach, God, he wanted to blow him.
"John," he said into the spot under Sheppard's Adam's apple. "John--fuck--"
"I know."
Sheppard wrapped one hand around Rodney's cock. Rodney heard himself half-moan, half-shout Sheppard's name. He pushed Sheppard's pants away and slid both hands down and across his ass, digging in harder and harder with his fingernails as Sheppard pumped his cock with short, hard strokes.
"Hurry," Sheppard said, and Rodney came.
Sheppard was vibrating against him when Rodney's brain started processing again, breathing in short gulps. Rodney ground his hands harder into Sheppard's ass, probing with one finger until Sheppard's head snapped up and his glazed eyes met Rodney's. Rodney gave him an open-mouthed grin.
"Come on."
Sheppard's hand moving from Rodney's cock to his own made Rodney stop breathing again. He was the only thing holding Sheppard up. Sheppard's head was back, his eyes almost entirely closed, and his hand was slick and shining as he stroked himself. Rodney's thighs were burning, his arms strained against Sheppard's weight. He pushed his finger in further and watched Sheppard work himself faster. "Come on, John. Come on. Come on."
Sheppard tried to say Rodney's name when he came, but it came out as a croak. Rodney heard him anyway. He let Sheppard's lax weight carry them both to the bed, and allowed himself one last grind into Sheppard before untangling himself and rolling over.
When he looked over, Sheppard was asleep, face and shoulders turned toward the window. Rodney fell asleep watching him.
***
Rodney made his way blearily into the living room the next morning. He fiddled with the papers on the coffee table, then leaned forward and peered through the blinds. His car was the only one in the driveway.
He stood back up. "Right. Coffee," he said and walked into the kitchen.
***
The first order of the day at work was a strategy meeting. Rodney worked on his fourth cup of coffee and doodled spark plugs on his legal pad.
"We could wait another week," Teyla said. "Surely no one would blame us."
"The sponsors would," Elizabeth said grimly.
"I can drive in Nashville and fly up to Pocono overnight for the Cup race." Sheppard had no pen, no coffee, nothing in his hands. He was sprawled back in his chair, staring at the edge of the table.
Zelenka shook his head. "Too much pressure on your feet. Cup race only, John."
"I agree," Elizabeth said, and Sheppard stopped mid-protest.
"I might know someone who is available. A friend in the Truck series sent me a tape of a driver who did well for him last year. I will show it to you, Elizabeth."
"As long as it's not that guy you were talking about a couple weeks ago," Rodney said, drawing a flat tire in the center of his page. "Unlike you, I don't think a stock car can be redesigned to fit the Incredible Hulk."
Zelenka was very, very quiet.
Rodney looked up. "No. Zelenka..."
***
Zelenka said Rodney was exaggerating Ronon Dex's size, but Rodney really wasn't. He had at least five or six inches on Ford, legs the size of small trees, and hands bigger than Rodney's head. About the only thing of average size about him was his hair, which was in a short-to-buzzed cut. At least they might not have to have the helmets custom-made.
He stood in front of the 47 car, nodding down (and down) at Elizabeth. Rodney glared in their direction.
"Dude's a mountain," Stackhouse said behind him.
"A mountain we have to fit into a molehill-sized car," Rodney said shortly. "I hope you were planning on overtime this week."
Elizabeth waved him over, and Rodney sighed.
"Ronon, I'd like you to meet Rodney McKay. He's the car chief for John's Cup car and for the 47 as well."
"Nice to meet you. How much leg room do you need, exactly?"
"Rodney?"
"What? It's Wednesday. The race is Saturday. Do you want me to be nice, or would you rather he drove the race with his knees under the wheel instead of under his chin?"
"Four inches," Dex said. "Six would be better."
"Six would be a miracle, without entirely new roll bars. Come on, people, let's get this door off so I can get in there."
***
Both drivers helped with repairs, although Dex was better at it than Sheppard, who kept tripping over the cat. "Dammit, Sheppard," Rodney snarled after the third time in one day, "are you trying to damage my cat, your feet, or both? You're not helping."
"You're not letting me help."
"Putting a dent in the side of the car with your head is not helping, unless you know something about aerodynamics I don't."
"Bite me," Sheppard said, and walked off.
"Take the stupid cat with you!" Rodney yelled after him.
***
"We did okay," Rodney said into his cell phone as he tried to fasten his seatbelt one-handed. "Stayed in the top twenty for most of it. You saw the finish, right?"
"Yeah, seventeenth, I saw." Rodney could hear post-race coverage in the background behind Ford. "Should I call the new guy and congratulate him?"
"Sure, it's not like it'll cost you much in cell minutes. Dex makes mimes look talkative. Also short. And yeah, I suppose, he did fine. Not bad for a car held together with--"
"Spot welding and duct tape, yeah, you said that already."
"Whatever." Rodney finally got the damn belt fastened. "You would have done better."
"Thanks, McKay."
They were quiet for a minute. Rusty Wallace was talking on Ford's TV, and flight attendants were talking about pillows not far from Rodney.
"Listen, I should go," Rodney said. "We're taking off soon."
"Good luck tomorrow," Ford said. "Tell Shep I said to kick some ass for me."
"I'll write it on the inside of his helmet if you want." Ford laughed, and Rodney felt a vague sense of accomplishment. "Talk to you later."
"Anything to drink after we take off, sir?" the flight attendant asked him.
"Yeah, is there a wine that goes with Dramamine? No, never mind. Just get me about three of those pillows and Sports Illustrated. And a blanket. And some water."
***
Rodney felt like he hadn't slept in a week--which was actually close to the truth. He yawned, and then winced. Racetrack air was disgusting. The roar of the engines starting made things hammer on the inside of his brain, but he kept his head down and his eyes open and on his notes.
Someone tapped his shoulder. Rodney turned. "What are you doing off your high horse?" he yelled.
Zelenka held out his headset to Rodney.
Rodney pushed his own crew headpiece off and took Zelenka's. He tried to sigh, but it just turned into another yawn. He pulled it on. "Hey, Sheppard?"
"McKay?" Sheppard sounded a little surprised.
"I have a message for you. Ford says to kick some ass."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Direct quote." Rodney rubbed a thumb over the earpiece. "And don't wreck my car," he said, probably too fast to be understood.
"I won't."
Rodney handed the headset back. "Happy now?" he asked Zelenka.
"I will be when we win," Zelenka answered.
They did.
***
Rodney stood on the edge of the mass of crew members in Victory Lane and looked around. Sheppard was flanked by Zelenka, who was grinning like an idiot, and Elizabeth, who had one hand on Sheppard's elbow as she talked animatedly to a reporter.
"Now, this is a great story."
Rodney didn't turn around. "Go away, Kavanagh."
"Feel-good entertainment. Like a Disney movie with car crashes."
"If we're a Disney movie, does that make you the dwarf or the crab?"
"How's your spark plugs, McKay?"
"NASCAR-approved, you asshole."
"Can I quote you on that?"
It'd be hard with Kavanagh's arm broken. Rodney jammed his hands in his pockets. "Since when do you bother quoting people by name? Or will you write that an 'anonymous source' called you an asshole? Because that would be funny."
A military uniform appeared in front of him, and Rodney blinked a second before realizing it was the Air Force PR guy. "Time for the hat dance," he said cheerfully, and handed Rodney an Air Force baseball cap. He turned a bright smile Kavanagh's direction. "Will you be in the pictures, too?" He held out another hat.
"Like I'd want to be associated with a third-rate team with delusions of competence."
Rodney and the major rolled their eyes at each other, but when Kavanagh put it in his column the next day, it was harder to dismiss it.
***
He had to rebuild the car completely for Dex, not just speed-modify it the way he had before Nashville, and then, after an afternoon in testing he had to tear the damn thing apart and rerebuild it for the way Dex drove when he was comfortable in a car--throwing himself into corners like an old-school dirt driver. Concrete and asphalt didn't give the same, though, so Rodney had to set the car up tighter and try a few million variations on air pressure, and it all gave him a completely sincere reason to spend night after night hammering away on one car or another, no matter what Elizabeth said.
***
They weren't even to the midpoint of the season. Rodney had that plodding endless feeling that he'd be bending sheet metal, eating cold pizza and making duty visits to Ford in the hospital until he died.
He jerked awake one night from a dream of working at his desk to realize that...he was at his desk, and he'd drooled on top of a set of fuel cell schematics. Lovely.
Sheppard was standing in the doorway. "Hey," Rodney said, surprised by the rough sound of his own voice.
"Can I come in?"
"Can you--yeah, sure." Rodney balled up the fuel cell paperwork and tossed it in the garbage. (He'd have to beg Grodin for copies in the morning, unless he could make up a good enough story about some fatal flaw that needed to be corrected so they could be reprinted. Since the only flaw he could recall at the moment was that they weren't absorbent enough, begging seemed more likely.) "What's wrong? I didn't forget to change to the new spoilers, did I?"
"No. I don't think so."
Rodney scribbled a note to himself anyway. "Right. Okay. What?"
"Nothing. I guess. I just--they're letting Ford out of the hospital Thursday."
"Already?"
"It's been two and a half weeks."
"Still."
"He's done with the inpatient PT, and there's nothing they can do in or out for his eye."
"I need coffee. Do you want coffee?" Rodney pulled out a drawer and went digging for his Motorsports Hall of Fame cup. "Did Elizabeth say--what he's doing next?"
"He's still on the payroll."
"Of course he is. Your contracts all have clauses for stuff like this." Rodney froze.
"What?"
"I...never really thought about why before, I guess." 'Don't wreck my car' had always been--not a joke, but it was about saving the car and winning the race, not about avoiding injury. "There hasn't been a serious crash at the Cup level in a while."
"Open-wheel's not as safe. We lose a guy every other year, give or take, at the Indy level. One of my teammates flipped in practice, not last year, but the year before. They had to do the whole pins in his bones thing."
"You're kidding."
Sheppard shook his head.
"I'm--good thing you're here, then," Rodney said.
"I guess."
"You don't think about it when you're driving, though, right?"
"Of course not. I think about the setup, and drafting, and keeping Tony Stewart in my rear-view mirror as much as possible." Sheppard half-smiled. "Sometimes I think about--I wonder what you're doing."
"Swearing at the fuel cell spreadsheet, usually."
"That's what I figured."
"I used to be backup to the pit crew. I mean, technically I guess I still am, but have you seen Bates's arms? He could bench press me."
"You used to work the pits? Seriously?"
Rodney shrugged, ignoring the way Sheppard's eyes lit up. "You do what you have to do in this sport."
"Which job?"
"Well, that's what backup means, Sheppard. All of them."
"I'm having a hard time seeing you throw the jack over your shoulder."
Rodney winced just thinking about it. "Son of a bitch hurts. Leaves a weird bruise too. Actually, I was best as a tire carrier. I'm stronger than I look, and pretty precise."
"Really." Sheppard was smiling all the way now. "Cool."
"Yeah. Yeah, it is." Rodney grabbed one of his Fusion models off the shelf by his desk and leaned forward. "You know you have to line it up so the lug nuts slide right on, right? But everyone, everyone, their first try, they're too tentative about it, and when you get all wishy-washy about it, it's a total disaster..."
***
Rodney was half-under the 47 car, seriously contemplating tearing out the defective fuel cell entirely, when it got really quiet in the garage. He craned his head. Ford and Dex were standing about ten feet from him, staring at each other. At least, Ford was staring. Dex was just sort of there, like always. Behind them, he could see Sheppard and Elizabeth looking uncomfortable.
Teyla saved the day, which shouldn't have surprised Rodney. "Aiden!" She appeared from behind Dex. Ford's eyes popped wide when Teyla hugged him, and so did Rodney's. Teyla saved hugs for winning races, or very occasionally for winning a pole. Rodney didn't do either of those things, so she'd never hugged him.
Teyla's enthusiasm was the signal for a crowd to form, swallowing the two of them up in exclamations and backpats. As Rodney turned back to the car, he saw Sheppard approach Ronon. Rodney couldn't hear what they were talking about, but they were both solemn and intense. Ronon shook his head once at Sheppard and walked away. Rodney stuck his head back under the car. Fucking fuel cell.
***
The race at Michigan was a slugfest. Sheppard brought home orange, red, and purple paint on his ninth-place car, and almost no bumper. Dex also made the top ten in the Busch race. Rodney maintained that he did it by looming over the other drivers somehow.
The night after the race, Rodney supervised the unloading of the haulers at the garage as usual. Then he drove to Sheppard's house and sat outside for a good twenty minutes. He nodded off once, jerking awake an inch from the steering wheel.
Sheppard answered the door in sweats and five o'clock shadow, looking as exhausted as Rodney felt.
"I wasn't...safe to drive," Rodney said lamely.
Sheppard didn't ask the obvious question--so you drove here?--but opened the screen door with a yawn. "You want a Coke or a beer?"
"Beer."
Sheppard had a beer already, sitting next to an ugly overstuffed armchair that someone's mother had probably been delighted to pawn off on him. Rodney sat on the end of the couch closest to Sheppard and they both propped their feet up on the coffee table.
They watched the Speed Channel without much conversation, although when they showed footage of Sheppard spinning Kurt Busch, Rodney snorted.
"Hey, Rusty Wallace says I remind him of a young Dale Jarrett."
"Well, if Rusty Wallace says so, it must be true," Rodney said with maximum sarcasm.
Sheppard flipped him off.
The recap of the recap of the recap eventually ended; the overnight programming was a rerun of a race so old the cars had fins. Sheppard fell asleep during a commercial break. Rodney watched him and listened to the race. Then he picked himself up off the couch, used the first toothbrush he found in the bathroom, and laid down on Sheppard's bed.
He woke up a couple of hours later to see Sheppard leaning over him.
"No Goldilocks jokes," he said fuzzily.
"Wouldn't dream of it," Sheppard said, and kissed him.
Rodney slid one hand up Sheppard's shoulder and cupped the back of his neck. He could hear the television still broadcasting the race from the living room, and when Sheppard slid a hand under Rodney's shirt, there was a well-timed cheer. Rodney snickered. "Who won?" he asked between kisses.
"One of the Allisons, I think."
"Mm," Rodney said, toying with the waistband of Sheppard's sweatpants with his free hand. "I always liked the Allisons."
"I know." Sheppard lifted his head to grin at Rodney. "You named your car after them."
Rodney sputtered. "Who told? I'll kill them. I'll beat them to--"
"Rodney."
"--little tiny pieces--"
"Shut up."
"Hey--"
Sheppard straightened up and pulled his sweatshirt over his head.
"Okay," Rodney said swiftly.
***
Rodney kept working himself to death. Ford periodically showed up, petted Fireball, argued with Elizabeth in her office, and left. Sheppard had a top-five in Sonoma. He and Rodney had sex eight times in the two weeks before and after that race, although three of the times were the night Rodney made a fuel mileage breakthrough.
***
Rodney felt a certain anticipation about returning to Daytona. "Of course, it might just be the sex," he said as he sat in Sheppard's hotel room the night before the race.
Sheppard dragged his attention away from the tape of the 500 he'd watched three times that week and looked over at him. "Now?" he asked, confused.
"Not now. Recently. You don't think that's it?"
"I think it's that we're going to kick restrictor plate ass tomorrow," Sheppard said with a grin Rodney returned. He went back to watching the tape.
After a few minutes, Sheppard said, "But the sex doesn't hurt."
"Yeah?" Rodney rolled his eyes and started shutting down his laptop. "Good to know."
He was halfway through the door connecting his room to Sheppard's when Sheppard said, "McKay?"
"What?"
"Ride back to Asheville with me tomorrow after the race?"
"I usually go back in the hauler with the cars."
"I know."
"We'll have to stop halfway if we leave after the race instead--"
"I know."
Rodney blinked a couple of times. "Oh. Okay."
"Good night, Rodney," Sheppard said, and turned back to the TV.
***
A camera crew caught Sheppard and Jeff Gordon exchanging friendly insults as they walked to their adjacent cars before the race.
"You be careful, kid," Gordon said, nodding at the rookie stripe across the back of the Number 21's bumper. "Someone could knock that stripe right off your car today if you're not careful."
Sheppard just laughed. "Gordon, I promise you, the side that stripe is on? It's the only side of me you're gonna see today."
"Oh, that'll make all the post-race coverage," Rodney groaned, watching the feed in the war wagon.
Zelenka just smiled and handed over his headset.
***
Gordon tried to bump-draft Sheppard in lap 127, after apparently getting tired of the view of that rookie stripe. Actually, he succeeded; Sheppard wobbled up the racetrack, and his right rear caught Jeff Burton's front left. Burton, in turn, wavered into a spin and came straight down into Gordon, who hadn't cleared the pack yet.
The crew of the 21 was greatly satisfied by this.
***
Gordon was actually man enough to come over and shake Sheppard's hand. Sheppard was leaning back against the car next to Rodney, both of them in whatever the last sponsor hat of the day was (possibly Little Debbie, but Rodney didn't feel like looking).
"That was...mature of him," Rodney said with a snort.
"Hey." Sheppard nudged Rodney with his elbow, and ignored Rodney's glare back. "You know what I did today?"
"Kicked Jeff Gordon's ass at Daytona?"
"That's exactly what I did today."
"Not a bad Sunday's work," Rodney said, and they grinned at each other.
***
"Are we there yet?" Rodney asked, embarrassed by the hoarse tone of his own voice.
Sheppard huffed out a laugh. "Tired?" He grinned over at Rodney, the dashboard lights outlining him against the dark window. He looked rumpled and probably smelled sweaty. Rodney wanted to lean over into the driver's seat and find out.
"Yeah," he said, clamping one hand on the shoulder strap of his seatbelt. "I'm exhausted."
Sheppard gave him that fake innocent look. "Me, too."
"Seriously, drive faster."
Rodney tried to focus on the race recap playing on the satellite station. It wasn't very effective until he caught the words "Weir Racing" and "controversy," and then they had his full attention.
***
"--accuse me of cheating," he was still sputtering when they stepped into the hotel room. "My shocks are perfectly legal. I went to NASCAR with my modifications, how many times do I have to say that?"
"I know, McKay." Sheppard dropped his bag on one of the double beds in the room, and Rodney tossed his next to it.
"I'm not a cheater. I'm an innovator. And, okay, maybe sometimes my innovations are disallowed, but there's a long and noble history of that in racing!" He pulled off his jacket and tossed it on top of the bags. "Now, when I get the Texas car tweaked for the fuel mileage Zelenka wants, then--then--then they can call me controversial. They'll be accusing us of everything they can think of and it won't matter, because we'll have won! Legally," he added as an afterthought.
"Can you do it?" Sheppard asked.
Rodney blinked the room back into focus. Sheppard was sitting not far away on the other bed, looking faintly amused and faintly...something else Rodney couldn't quite figure out. "Can I do it?"
"Can you drop the fuel mileage another three miles?"
"I have an idea. I want to test it first, but I think if I adjust the chassis just within the legal limits, and we keep it a little looser than usual--" Sheppard reached out and hooked the first two fingers of each hand through the belt loops at Rodney's hips. "--John?"
"You want to keep it looser, I'm listening." Sheppard towed Rodney towards him a few inches.
"Right. It's going to change how the car drives, of course, but that's what you do professionally, they tell me, so I'm not worried about that." Sheppard let go of his belt loops, and...right, that was his zipper. Rodney stared a little wildly at the top of Sheppard's head. "I'm convinced that all I need is the right setup, something counterintuitive, because really, it can't all be scientific in racing, no one would have ever bump-drafted if, you know, I can stop talking if you want."
"Why?" Sheppard had those damn fingers under the waistband of Rodney's boxers. He looked up and gave Rodney the same grin he'd had in the car earlier. "I like it."
"You--okay."
Sheppard pulled the boxers down. Rodney took a deep breath. "The thing about the traditional, um, chass--" He hissed out a breath and groped for something to brace himself on. "--chassis setup is, oh God, that everyone wants to play with the shocks, which is fine, but they're all married to their tire setups." He babbled on about shocks and aerodynamics and the differential. Sheppard made encouraging noises every time he paused, even though Rodney really wasn't sure after a while what he was even saying.
Shortly thereafter (although not too shortly, Rodney had some pride, after all), Rodney collapsed awkwardly next to Sheppard on the bed. "That was...unexpected," he said.
Sheppard flopped backwards, one hand idly rubbing at the front of his jeans. "I thought that might be hot," he said with a certain amount of smugness.
"Yes, you were right, hotshot," Rodney said automatically. "Really? You think I'm hot when I--"
"Oh, yeah." Sheppard's expression was kind of demented.
"I'll remember that," Rodney said thoughtfully. "You know what I think is hot?"
"We don't have a Cup car here."
"Shut up, I'm never telling you one of my fantasies again," Rodney said. "Strip."
***
The sun was shining, the birds were singing, the air was crisp. Okay, the air smelled like gas and grease and the birds had mostly been scared to a safe distance by the engines. But the sun was definitely shining. Rodney enjoyed it as he berated the pit crew.
"You know," Bates said after a while, "the race day browbeating is usually Zelenka's job."
"I'm helping!"
Bates just looked at him.
"Look, this is a very important race. Winning this race is very important."
"Winning every race is very important."
"Yes, yes, of course, but this race is particularly vital," Rodney said patiently. "We've recovered from our early-season disasters. Somewhat. If we get a run of good luck, and several other people get a run of bad luck, we have a shot at the Chase."
"Get serious, McKay. There's not enough races left. The only way we crack the top ten that fast is if half the field gets kidnapped by aliens between now and then." He walked away.
"It could happen!" Rodney yelled after him.
"What could happen?" Sheppard asked, coming up beside him. He'd shrugged out of the top half of his uniform; there were patches of sweat along the collar of his navy blue T-shirt.
Rodney looked away quickly. "Kicking ass and winning points could happen," he told the air molecules in front of him. When he looked back, Sheppard was grinning at him. "What?"
"Yeah, you want to win for the points."
Rodney flushed. "The points too!"
"Right."
"So did you hear Stewart brought his monkey?" Rodney asked desperately.
"What? He said something about his monkey in the drivers meeting today. He wasn't kidding?"
"Hell, no. He has a monkey named Mojo. I'll spare you the jokes about pets resembling their owners. He doesn't bring him to the track anymore, though."
"Why not?"
"Because it's a monkey and this is a racetrack?"
"Lots of guys bring their dogs."
"Do you feel left out? We'll get you a hamster. Maybe you can be in Greg Biffle's next charity pet calendar."
"But then when would I have time to play with you, Rodney?"
"Go drive," Rodney said, turning away.
Sheppard just leaned in closer. "See you after I win," he said, sending goosebumps down Rodney's neck.
***
Rodney was a determined, disciplined, focused man. He'd done tire changes with a bruised rib from getting hit in the chest with a jack. He'd gone three days without sleep or a shower when a harmonic balancer went out of whack. He'd even gone an entire season without punching Sumner in the face, which deserved some kind of Presidential recognition.
But nobody's discipline and focus could stand up to John Sheppard.
"Hey, hotshot," he said into Zelenka's mike, trying to sound normal and thinking he probably sounded like one of the Chipmunks. "Don't wreck my car, okay?"
Sheppard usually laughed, but today he said, "I promise, Rodney."
Rodney smiled weakly at Zelenka and handed the headset back. Nobody looked at him funny. After all, Rodney was his name, and if Sheppard usually saved it for times when he was naked, well, who knew?
Rodney shifted so his clipboard was more squarely in front of him and went back to work.
***
They did well but not spectacularly through most of the race. Sheppard stayed solidly in the top fifteen. He was in a top-three mood, though, which kept the crew cheered and Rodney on edge. When he completed a very tricky pass around none other than the monkey owner himself--and Tony Stewart was not an easy man to pass--he all but broke into song. "Yes! Who's the god of stock car racing, my friends?"
"You are, of course," Zelenka said. "Perhaps you could use your superpowers next on Jamie McMurray?"
"Hell, yeah," Sheppard said.
Rodney leaned his head against the TV screen. Was Sheppard trying to kill him?
"Are you all right, McKay?" Rodney looked up. Grodin was standing behind him, holding a tire temperature gauge and looking concerned.
"Yes. No. Wait." Rodney grabbed Grodin by the arm and dragged him in front of the monitors. "Watch these."
"What?"
"Yes, yes, normally I'd give you years of training first, but this is an emergency. I'll be back in ten minutes."
"But--"
Rodney tossed his headset to Grodin and bolted.
He hurried into the nearest raceway bathroom--mostly empty at this stage of a race, thank God--and locked himself into a stall. He was flushed, more from being embarrassed than turned on. What the hell was wrong with him? He was a grown man, a professional, a mechanical genius. Why was he behaving like this?
Then he remembered the way Sheppard had leaned into him before the race and closed his eyes involuntarily. That was why, of course.
***
The entirety of pit road was in chaos when Rodney got back. Almost every team was clustered around the monitor on their war wagon. He could see a couple of Kurt Busch's crew members shouting at Tony Stewart's whole crew (wow, was that a bad idea) with a nervous-acting NASCAR official looking between the two groups. Rodney grabbed Grodin.
"What did you do?"
"Nothing!"
"What happened?"
"Where did you go?"
"I was in the bathroom! What happened?"
It took three crew members, and countless rewatchings of the footage before Rodney could really figure it out.
***
Here's what he found out:
As the leaders came around Turn Four, several of them noticed a commotion in the pit area. But before any of them could get a solid answer out of a crew chief, something small and brown darted up the apron and onto the track.
"What the hell?" Kurt Busch screeched into his mike, barely steering around the thing at 120 miles an hour. There were similar shouts from the drivers behind him as the cars dodged up and down the racetrack to avoid whatever was on the track ("How many of those things are out here?" an exasperated Jeff Burton asked over his radio) and each other. The calls went out over the spotters' radios: "Red flag! Red flag! Stop wherever you are, right now!"
The smoke rose thick from the track as the drivers slammed all their weight on their brakes. There were no major incidents, although Dale Jarrett did run into the back of Ken Schraeder a little.
Greg Zipadelli, crew chief for the Number 20, keyed his mike. "Uh, Tony?"
Tony Stewart yanked his safety webbing down and climbed out of his car, ignoring the wild gestures of the NASCAR officials at the bottom of the track. He tossed his steering wheel and helmet back in the car and knelt down, gesturing to--
"Stewart's monkey is on the track?" Sheppard asked Zelenka.
"It appears so."
Sheppard burst into delighted laughter. "I think that's the funniest thing I've ever heard."
The other shapes on the track resolved into three dogs, and Greg Biffle and Dale Earnhardt, Jr. tore out of their cars.
Sheppard kept laughing. "Dogs, too?"
Jimmie Johnson was on the radio with his crew chief, too. "Chad, why are Foster, Gracie, and Killer on the track? Don't we usually just have stock cars on the track?"
Kurt Busch approached Stewart on the track, his helmet in his hand and his brother right behind him. No one could hear them, of course, but the Buschs' excited hand gestures toward the cars and Stewart's dismissive motions told the story. Then Kurt threw his helmet to the ground in disgust, clearly scaring the monkey. Stewart came up off the ground, one arm curled protectively around Mojo, and punched Kurt squarely in the nose. Kurt flailed back and hit the asphalt.
Kyle Busch charged Stewart, only to be caught up from behind by Biffle, whose dogs sat obediently behind him as Biffle made calming gestures.
Kyle hit him anyway, of course, and it was hard to do anything but cheer for Biffle as Kyle joined his brother on the ground.
It took the officials a few too many minutes to collect their scattered wits and move onto the track. By that point, half the field was out of their cars.
"Zelenka, maybe I should--"
"John, if you put one finger out of that car before the end of this race, I will punch you in the face myself."
"...okay."
Junior and Kevin Harvick, of all people, were rolling around on the ground in front of Harvick's car, while Killer bounced around them, nipping at any body part he could reach.
"This is still the funniest thing I've ever seen," Sheppard said.
Meanwhile, back in the pit, Rodney was asking Grodin rather desperately, "The monkey did what?"
(What Mojo had done, for the record, was get out of his cage and Stewart's RV, and then open every RV door he could find until the dogs he'd released banded together to chase him onto the track. Stewart had to pretty much sign a contract in blood agreeing never to bring Mojo back to any track again, but the monkey got some of his own back when he starred in a whole series of Coke commercials, becoming one of their most popular spokes, um, monkeys.)
Sheppard joined Rodney in the pits after his third-place finish. He still had a tendency to break into giggles at odd moments. "I hear there were too many drivers in trouble to fit in the NASCAR trailer. They're having to yell at them in shifts."
"Huh," Rodney said.
"God, that was the weirdest thing ever. We had a lot of shit go down in open wheel, but no monkeys."
"Mm-hm," Rodney said.
"What did you think when it all started happening?"
"Um," Rodney said. He looked towards the bathroom. "Um."
***
Most of the crew clustered on one side of the garage the next Tuesday to read the official press release from NASCAR.
"NASCAR would like to apologize for the ill-considered behavior this past Sunday at the Chicagoland Speedway," Grodin read.
"Wow, that sounds even more pompous in your accent," Stackhouse told him.
"Just shut up and read the penalties," Rodney said from the edge of the crowd, where he was fidgeting between Sheppard and Zelenka.
Grodin looked at him oddly--everyone was looking at him oddly lately, come to think of it--but turned back to the computer. "Oh. Oh, my."
"What?" seven people asked, including Rodney.
"Twenty-five driver and owner points for anyone who got out of his car during the incident."
Zelenka leaned across Rodney to poke Sheppard.
"Fifty points--additional--for anyone who threw a punch. And a hundred even to Kurt Busch for starting the whole thing."
Everyone had stopped laughing and was staring at Grodin as the numbers sunk in. Rodney felt Sheppard grab him hard just below the shoulder.
"The points standings," Zelenka said faintly. "Check the points standings."
Grodin scrolled and clicked and then just stared dully at the computer.
"Well?" Rodney demanded.
Grodin looked up at Sheppard. "You're ninth."
"Jesus Christ," Sheppard said.
***
"Why does everyone keep looking at me like that?" Rodney asked Sheppard a day or two later, when Sheppard had come out of his oh-God-top-ten-in-points daze.
"Who's looking at you, like what?"
"Suspiciously. And Grodin. Everyone. You."
"Me?"
Rodney glared at him.
It took fifteen minutes, a completely non-credible threat to set the car on fire, and a whole lot more glaring, but Sheppard finally cracked.
"You--they think I--you-"
"Well, you never leave the pit during a race. And nobody actually saw Mojo getting out of his cage." Sheppard looked monumentally uncomfortable. "It's just funny timing, that's all."
"I was in the bathroom!" Rodney wasn't going to blush. He wasn't going to blush. He wasn't going to blush. "And everyone thinks this? God, they're not repeating it to anyone, are they?"
"Of course not!"
"Which means kids working on their go-carts are talking about it, and it'll be in Kavanagh's column next week. Great. Just great." Rodney ran a hand through his hair. He looked up to see Sheppard staring at him. "What?"
"Why are you blushing?"
Rodney dropped his head to the desk. "Shut the door."
Sheppard did.
Rodney told him.
When he finally looked up, Sheppard was standing next to the desk, smirking down at him. Rodney scowled up. "So now you know, and you know why no one else needs to know. Will you let me go back to repressing it all now?"
"Probably not."
"Thanks." Rodney started to push his chair back, but Sheppard caught the back of it with one hand and held it still. Rodney could feel the tilt of Sheppard's smile against his mouth and gave only the briefest of thoughts to unlocked doors and unwelcome visitors before bracing his hand against Sheppard's shoulder and kissing him back.
"This isn't going to help, you realize," he said as Sheppard leaned back, looking smug.
"Try it in a racecar some time."
***
When Rodney climbed up to grab Zelenka's headset in New Hampshire, he almost smacked Ford in the head by accident.
"Hey!" Ford snapped. He was wearing the world's darkest sunglasses and, from his flinch, hadn't been able to see Rodney's hand in his peripheral vision. Rodney looked past him at Elizabeth, who gave him an overly bright smile.
"Sorry," he said belatedly. "Didn't see you there. Zelenka?"
Zelenka handed over his headset.
"Sheppard," Rodney said into the headset, looking somewhere near Ford's left shoulder.
"McKay." Sheppard sounded a little tense. Maybe he'd seen Ford before the race; maybe he was planning how best to pass Sumner before the first pit stop. Rodney couldn't tell.
"Don't wreck my car, okay?" Ford's shoulder shifted an inch or two.
"Will do."
Rodney tugged Zelenka's headset off, tangling it with his own twice before handing it over. "See you after the race."
As soon as he was off the war wagon, he buttonholed Grodin. "Why didn't you tell me?" he stage whispered (more like quietly howled, the engines had already been started).
"You were under the car!"
"Next time pass me a note, damn it." Rodney stalked off, trying not to think about Ford glaring down at him. He turned his headset up to hear Sheppard laugh at something Zelenka was telling him. "Think about racing, McKay," he told himself, and went to run tire wear simulations until he forgot to look up.
***
Sheppard brought home a respectable if not particularly interesting sixth-place finish. Rodney stayed at his station, idly flipping through the day's notes, and turned up the volume on the TV feed.
"We're here with John Sheppard and Aiden Ford," Kavanagh said. Rodney crossed his arms and glared at the screen. Who'd put Kavanagh on TV, dammit? "John, you seemed a bit tight all day. Did you feel you had a winning car today?"
Ridney bristled at that, but Sheppard smiled at Kavanagh like they were best friends. "The Air Force Ford is always a winning car. I have the best team in NASCAR, and they were great as always today. Did you see that green-flag pit stop? I got caught up a bit in traffic, and you know Sumner, he won't let me pass the salt if he can help it, but I can live with sixth."
"And how was it to watch John race today, Aiden?" Kavanagh asked.
"Shit," Rodney heard Bates say behind him.
But Ford actually smiled, although the sunglasses stayed on. "Watching Shep race is always a good time. Did you see him when he finally did get around Sumner out there?" He used his hands to demonstrate. "Just caught a good line and--whoosh--right around him. That's good racing, man."
Sheppard grinned over at Ford, and Kavanagh looked confused.
***
Ford showed up again a few days later, this time at a Weir Racing charity project. Elizabeth had signed them all up to refurbish a playground in a small town outside Asheville.
"Okay, it's a good thing you're a brilliant driver, because if you had to make a living as a carpenter, your children would starve."
Sheppard grinned at Rodney through a mouth full of nails--inefficient and unsanitary, perfect. "It's a good thing I'm the talent."
Rodney grinned back.
"Am I interrupting anything?" Ford sat down on the other side of the sandbox so abruptly that Rodney jumped.
"Just Sheppard's startling inadequacy with a hammer," he said.
"Hey, Ford," Sheppard said indistinctly.
"For the love of God, get those things out of your mouth."
Sheppard spit them out. "I didn't know you were coming today," he said to Ford.
Ford shrugged. "It's in my contract, promotional appearances and whatever."
"I'm sure Elizabeth--" Rodney started. Sheppard oh-so-subtly dropped his hammer on Rodney's foot. "Ow! I'm sure Elizabeth is glad you're here." He glared at Sheppard, who raised an eyebrow back.
"I guess."
"Hey, you were great with the TV people this weekend," Sheppard said. "Nice job not killing Kavanagh."
"I guess he could have asked it a lot worse than he did."
"Still, he's an ass," Rodney said. He brightened. "We should let you talk about our cars all the time, though. When Sheppard talks about his race, he always sounds like he's narrating his latest chess match."
"Hey!"
"You sounded like you were in the booth, though."
"Better than Darrell Waltrip," Sheppard said. "Quick, say boogity boogity--"
"Oh, bite me," Ford said, but he was smiling.
A loud tinny version of the Notre Dame fight song filled the air. Ford and Rodney both looked over at Sheppard.
"What?" Sheppard said, fumbling for his cell phone.
Rodney shooed him off. "Go. Talk. Don't hammer anything with your phone."
He sat in awkward silence with Ford for a while. "So...tenth place, huh?" Ford asked, turning a paintbrush over in one hand. "You guys gonna make the Chase?"
"We've got a shot. A lot of things have to go right for us, though."
"Cool. Cool. And Dex is doing okay."
Rodney looked over his shoulder. Dex was digging industriously on the far side of the playground. "Look at him, there's a reporter right next to him and he's ignoring her. Who needs a shy driver? The sponsors don't know what to do with him."
"Also, his arms are bigger than a house."
"Also that," Rodney agreed.
Ford smirked a little, but didn't say anything else. And when Sheppard came back, he was oddly quiet, too. Even Rodney didn't feel much like complaining anymore.
***
"So," Grodin said, looking out at the track.
"So what? I'm hip-deep in lug nuts here, Grodin." Rodney was presetting the lug nuts on each of the new tires to be used during the race. Too tight and the tire wouldn't slide on smoothly during the pit stop; too loose, and it'd fall off and he'd have to kill someone.
"So, Richmond, that's what. Do you remember when it was just another race, when we didn't come here hoping to make the Chase?"
"Yes. It was just last year, when Sumner was running a solid 29th. Remember?"
"I was speaking globally."
"Oh. Well. In that case--yes, because NASCAR only switched to the Chase format three years ago."
Grodin kicked the bottom of Rodney's shoe.
"I'm sorry, am I spoiling your moment?"
Grodin peered down at Rodney. He looked pretty stupid from that angle. "You know that Stackhouse comes by after you do this every week and redoes it the way he likes it, right?"
"What? No. What? Are you kidding me?" Rodney tossed the box of lug nuts down and scrambled to his feet. "I do that every week for nothing? Well, crap."
He caught up with Sheppard on his way back from the drivers meeting. "Hey, did you know Stackhouse has been--"
"Redoing your tires? Yeah, he does it every week."
Rodney threw his hands up. "Why didn't anyone tell me?"
"Because we didn't realize you were blind?"
"Hey," Rodney said uncomfortably.
Sheppard waved a hand. "Sorry. Just...Richmond."
"I know."
***
From the way the Number 21 team celebrated when Sheppard crossed the line eighth, he might as well have won. Stackhouse, Markham, and Bates did some sort of bizarre country dance in their pit stall, Ford was talking animatedly to some of the news crew, and Rodney caught Elizabeth wiping away tears as she hugged Zelenka for the fourth time. Sheppard seemed to have completely forgotten his nerves from earlier and beamed at everyone in sight. Rodney just sat on the pit wall and took it all in.
"Hey," Sheppard said, leaning next to him.
"Hey."
"What are you doing?"
"Critiquing the dancing. Is that supposed to be disco?"
"Don't ask."
"I don't believe it," Rodney said. "We did it. We made the Chase. A rookie driver of uncertain reputation, an upstart racing team with no credibility, and with a lot of skill--on your part, too," he admitted generously, "we took our rightful places in history."
"You know what I really want to do right now?"
Rodney raised an eyebrow in Sheppard's direction.
"I really want to find a bar and raise a glass to Mojo the monkey."
"Oh, him."
"Admit it, McKay, we couldn't have done it without him."
"Next year we will."
"Well, this year we owe him. Come on, first round's on me."
***
Rodney was banging a dent out the frame of one of the Busch cars--not his job, really, but it worked off nervous energy--when Ford practically chased Sheppard through the door.
"What the hell's wrong with you?" Ford's shout echoed off the shop ceiling.
"It's no big--let's not talk about it right now, okay?" Sheppard called over his shoulder.
Ford got close enough to shove Sheppard in the back, hard enough to send them both off balance. Sheppard turned on Ford, fists bouncing up in front of him before dropping back to his sides. "Knock it off."
"You bastard," Ford's voice was raw and furious. "You selfish bastard. Don't they teach loyalty in open wheel?"
The commotion had brought Elizabeth out of her office and down the stairs. She reached out a hand to Ford as Sheppard said, "P
