Uhm. I didn't intend to make a part two but I opps'ed. Also just a note, I'm in love with Nurfhurdur's universe (as is everyone else it seems) so I've taken to Smokey being Big Brother Henry, and I make references to Ruth, but I'm not really comfortable writing her since she's someone else's character so I'll reference her, but go read her fics because they'll be infinitely better :P

By the time he'd mailed off the third letter and two weeks had gone by since, Doc had more or less accepted the fact that he was never going to get a reply, which was fine with him. He'd keep writing and sending letters. The letters had turned into a way more selfish thing anyways. He found they helped him sort thoughts out and get things off his chest, but more so lately he'd just been telling him about the kid.

So he was surprised the day he was sifting through various bills and credit card offers in the dim light of his kitchen and saw a letter hand addressed to him from back east. He'd blinked a few times and flipped the envelope over looking for some sign it was faked, that someone was messing with him. Tearing open one end and pulling out the paper, he unfolded it and tilted it towards the light.

Call.

That was all it said followed by a phone number. He studied the empty page, front and back, and then glanced at the clock on the oven. Scratching the back of his head, he quickly did the math. It was too late tonight—it was nearly two in the morning on the coast. He'd have to wait until the morning. If he got up the courage to call at all…

He hadn't slept well that night, only finally falling asleep when he was too exhausted to over think anymore. So when he got to Flo's that morning and ordered nothing other than a coffee, Sheriff knew something was up.

"Why are you staring at me?" Doc asked with a sigh, wringing his hands on the counter as he waited.

"You're all twitchy."

"I'm not twitchy."

"I'm watching you."

Doc leveled him with a deadpan stare, pressing his palms into the sides of his legs to keep them still.

"What's wrong?" Sheriff asked after a moment. Flo placed a paper to-go cup in front of Doc and poured steaming coffee into it.

"Nothing is wrong," he replied stubbornly, reaching down the counter for the little jar of sugar and a plastic stir.

"Well, something is up," Sheriff huffed, turning back to his own meal in front of him.

"Just drop it," Doc muttered from behind his cup. "It's nothing."

"Honey, you been here long enough, we can all tell when something is off," Flo murmured, leaning into her elbows on the counter. She touched her finger to the rim of his cup. "And you only order this here, when you oversleep and run out of time to make it yourself. Been that way since you drifted into this town."

"That's not true," he grunted, turning away to pull a newspaper lying on the counter towards him, digging through for the right section. He noticed Sheriff still staring out of the corner of his eye. "Will you leave me alone? Don't you have work to do?"

Sheriff laughed. "About as much as you do, Doc."

Doc rolled his eyes and slid off the stool. He muttered a quick thanks to Flo before tucking the newspaper under his arm as he headed for the door.

Lightning noticed Doc's mood as soon as the older man parked the Hornet next to him at Willy's Butte. Lightning was leaning against the car, arms crossed as he enjoyed the rare cooler weather the off-season had to offer. But when Doc parked, he could see the almost agitated movements as he turned off the car and collected a few things from the passenger seat.

Those were always the worst practice days.

-x-

It wasn't quite dinnertime on the coast when Doc finally made the call after three failed attempts. He almost hung up as the tone droned on, but just as he was about to pull the phone from his ear, the tone stopped.

"Smokey's Automotive Service," the gruff, monotonous voice said.

"Never outgrew that nickname?" was all he could think of to say.

There was a long pause and he could almost see his brother rubbing at the stubble along his jaw, lips pressed together as he considered hanging up. "You're gonna be the death of me, kid, I swear. Do you know this?" the other man grumbled across the line and Doc could hear him closing the garage door in the background.

"I'm sorry."

"We still watch the races occasionally. Nearly had a heart attack when I saw you."

Doc said nothing, waiting for it, waiting for him to drag his ass to the moon and back. Or maybe he was waiting to do that in person. Either way, he just wished something would be said to rid the line of the awkward silence, the uneasiness. He regretted calling at all. He should have just shown up in person.

"Why did you send me those letters?" he demanded.

"I don't really know," Doc sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he leaned back against the sink. "So many reasons, really. Didn't feel right to get back into it publicly without contacting you again."

"Was it to make us feel better or yourself?"

Doc let out a slow breath as he thought how to answer that, because he wasn't sure anymore. Had they started off being for Smokey? Or had they always been to make himself feel better? Did he want to contact him because he felt it was the right thing to do for his brother, or because it would ease the guilt of having abandoned the only remaining family he had?

"I'm sorry, Hen—"

"Listen," he said lowly, interrupting him. "A lot of this needs to be said in person. Don't apologize until you know you mean it. You want my forgiveness? Try in person. You have fifty years to make up for."

"I know," Doc breathed, knowing exactly what that meant. "Then why'd you tell me to call."

"Honestly? To see if you would, you little chicken shit." Doc dropped his head back and stared at the kitchen ceiling, biting back a response. "Fifty years you been hiding, then all of a sudden you've taken to snail mail? I got an email now, you know."

"Of course you do," he muttered sarcastically, pinching the phone between his shoulder and ear to free his hands. He pulled a cigarette out of the pack and moved to light it.

"That kid is really somethin'." Smokey's voice was low, fond, and Doc knew he thought of the kid the same way, even from across the country. "Been watching him all season. He's got that natural talent that you had. Great from the start."

"I'm not going to let this sport destroy him, too," he grumbled around his cigarette.

Smokey chuckled. "I know you won't. The sport is different these days, anyways, it's not as new. Not as risky to keep an injured driver."

Doc only hummed in response. "Not gonna let him crash, either."

"I didn't let—"

"That's not what I meant," Doc groaned, realizing instantly how that had sounded.

"Do you blame me?" He sounded almost offended.

"No," Doc admitted, breathing out heavily and watching the smoke curl and dissipate into the air. "I only ever blamed myself. Completely."

Smokey let out a loud breath. "Conversation for another time. Season's almost here, he ready?"

Doc tapped his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray behind him. "More or less. He needs a bit more practice, but I have confidence in him."

"I won't lie, I was surprised to see you standing with that kid that day. Always came off as the type you used to bitch about in our day."

"No one more shocked than me, let me tell you," he grumbled, picking up his ashtray and relocating to the little kitchen table, feeling some of the tension between them easing enough that he figured this wouldn't be as quick phone call as he thought it would be. "You know, I had him dragged out of this town. Called the press."

Smokey sighed exasperatedly. "I'm not even surprised anymore. What'd you do that for?"

"Didn't want him to ruin the anonymity I'd built up over the years."

"You mean the lies?"

"Yeah, that," Doc muttered gruffly, putting the cigarette to his lips. A thought dawned on him. "Were you following the season?"

"Yeah, been following every year since you dragged me into it. Hard to get out of it once you're in."

Doc smiled. "You're telling me." He took a final drag on his nub of a cigarette before crushing it into the tray. "Would you have ever bet on that kid?"

"To win? No. He's good, but he's dumb as nails for not keeping his crew around."

"We talked about the importance of a good crew."

"Oh, I'm sure you did."

Doc rolled his eyes. "He's changed a lot over the last two weeks alone. Wasn't sure it was in earnest at first, but he's building his headquarters here and everything."

"Kid, if there's one thing you in particular have taught me, it's that people can surprise the shit out of you and do the unexpected."

Doc ran a hand down his face and closed his eyes, trying not to let his words sting. But the bitterness in his voice hurt, almost as much as the fact that he was the reason Smokey was bitter in the first place.

Smokey's tone softened suddenly. "Next time you're in Charlotte at the Speedway, you should come pay your respects."

"It's been too long," Doc agreed quietly.

"She didn't deserve not seeing you for fifty years."

"She didn't deserve anything that happened to her."

"No, she didn't," Smokey agreed forcefully, "and neither did you. But don't hold what happened to you against her. I'm sure she'd like you to come by."

A silence fell between them and Doc ran a hand through his hair, unsure of what to say next. There was still so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to ask, and he knew there was just as much Smokey had in store for him, but he couldn't find a safe topic, one he felt comfortable with.

"I have to finish this maintenance before the end of the day, but I know where you are now, kid, and I'll come wring your neck if you disappear again. You keep in touch now, you hear me?"

"Yeah," Doc said, a small smile on his face. "I hear you."

"Good. Keep me updated on how the kid is doing. Looking forward to this next season. Gonna be interesting, if nothing else."

Doc pulled the phone away and looked at it as the call disconnected, feeling the decades old knot in his chest loosen, feeling lighter than he had in years.