It was very, extraordinarily loud in the pits. Sarge didn't have a clue how they got there- there were way too many security guards for them to have sneaked past- yet, here he was. Not exactly where he thought he would be at sixty-two years old.

McQueen's fever-dream claims of Doc being an old, washed up racer had suddenly and vividly come to light. He had shown up on his doorstep close to midnight the night prior, wearing a dusty racing jacket that likely hadn't seen the light of day in fifty years. The Fabulous Hudson Hornet…. How the hell had he kept it a secret for that long?

It was surreal, seeing Doc slip on the headset and assume the role of crew chief. His racing jacket may have been musty, but his athlete's mentality was still sharp. "I didn't come all this way to see you quit."

The smile that spread across Doc's face was a clear indicator that McQueen was pleased to see them. A few moments later, he was speeding into the pits, arm thrown out the window of his stock car in an enthusiastic wave.

"Alright, if you can drive as good as you can fix a road, then you can win this race with your eyes shut." Doc said, "Now, get back out there!"

McQueen sped off, leaving tire marks on the pavement.

"We're back in business!" Doc said. He turned to Luigi and Guido, who stood anticipatedly with their tools. "We're going up against professional pit crews, boys, you're gonna have to be fast."

"They will not know what hit them!"

Doc pushed his glasses up his nose, and barked into the headset: "Kid! You can beat these guys! Find a groove that works for you, and get that lap back!"

McQueen's driving seemed to change instantly: he lapped around his two competitors, momentum pushing him around the track. Somehow, his confidence and swagger had been completely restored. He caught up to the other two cars in no time, although it quickly became clear that it would not be a fair race: Chick Hicks, apparently unafraid of any consequences, slammed into McQueen with full force, popping one of his tires in the process. As McQueen limped back into the pit, a yellow car pulled in front of his competitors.

McQueen's truck driver, Mack, began to panic: "We gotta get him back out there fast, or we're gonna be a lap down and we'll never win this race!" he cried dramatically.

"Guido!" Doc summoned, "It's time."

Sarge had, quite frankly, never seen anyone move so fast. McQueen was stopped in the pit for fifteen seconds at most; as he sped off again, the only indicator that he had ever been there was the still-spinning tires on the ground. The team cheered as McQueen beat the pace car, speeding back into the race at full force.

Fillmore was grinning from ear to ear, fuel can in hand. "I haven't had this much fun since the sixties!" He exclaimed, mock-punching Sarge in the shoulder.

Sarge laughed in return, partially out of disbelief.

The race quickly advanced into the final lap, indicated by the white flag flown above the track. "This is it, kiddo," Doc said, "You got four turns left, one at a time. Drive it in deep, and hope it sticks! Go!"

In a harrowing moment, Chick Hicks slammed into the two other cars. They dislodged from their groove, and McQueen was sent into the turf below the track. For a moment, it seemed that the race was lost; Doc gripped his headset tightly, as though he was about to throw it off.

But, in a shining and almost unbelievable instant, McQueen pulled through: he drifted around the turf, pulling back onto the track hundreds of feet in front of his competitors.

The entire stadium erupted into cheers. Miraculously, McQueen had pulled off a move he had never explicitly been taught. Doc glowed as McQueen pushed forward, edging closer and closer to the finish line. He tore off his glasses in a heat of excitement, staring with blind eyes at the finish line.

"Lightning McQueen is going to win the Piston Cup!"

It felt as though the entire stadium leant forward in anticipation, knowing it to be true. McQueen had a clear lead, he was only a few hundred feet from the finish line, and…

The next thing anyone knew, Strip Weathers was airborne.

The car flipped once, twice, a third time… It landed right side up, smoking. The stadium went dead silent, save for the loud squeal as McQueen hit the brakes. Chick Hicks sped past him across the finish line, claiming the Piston Cup win for himself.

What the hell is he doing? Sarge thought, as McQueen got out of the car and ran towards Strip's. He yelled something nearly inaudible as he clambered through the wreckage, pulling Strip Weathers out and onto the grass. They seemed to have an exchange, as McQueen helped him up and led him away from the wrecked car.

The stadium erupted in cheers as they hobbled across the finish line together, walking instead of driving. In the few short minutes that had taken, Lightning McQueen had proved himself to be a changed man. The Radiator Springs Racing team cheered him on, just like everyone else.

"There's a lot of love out there, you know, man?" Fillmore said, resting his free hand on Sarge's shoulder.

He almost flinched away. Almost. "Don't embarrass me, Fillmore."

There was nothing left to be done, after that. Everyone went home and resumed their normal, boring lives. Lightning McQueen was to go down in Radiator Springs history, never to be seen again.

… Except, he wasn't. McQueen came back no more than a week later with a checkbook in one hand and a fountain pen in the other. He sunk his life savings into revitalizing the town, throwing around money like it was made from the very earth they walked upon.

The press hadn't caught on to his grand scheme yet- though they certainly would eventually. Sarge suspected that it was only a matter of time before the tourists flooded through, in hopes of getting a glimpse of the godlike Lightning McQueen.

Sarge once again went up and down his aisles, surveying his stock of outdated military gear. He supposed he could use the check McQueen had written him to buy new surplus… Out with the old, in with the new. He could sell the old stuff to some museum or antique collector, or better yet he could donate it. Folks were always in need of backpacks and swiss army knives, no matter how dusty they might be.

He returned to the chair by the front counter, sitting down in it with a heavy sigh. He might have to hire some help with stocking shelves…

The bell above the door jingled, and Sarge sat up anticipatedly. Instead of a customer, however, it was Fillmore who entered. He looked tired, but strangely content. It was an expression that Sarge felt he hadn't seen in years, and it was a very welcome one indeed.

"Hey, Sarge," Fillmore hummed, coming over to lean on the counter. "You got a moment?"

"It depends." Sarge replied. "What do you want?"

Fillmore hesitated, looking a little pale. "I, erm… Do you want to go out to Willy's Butte with me?" He asked, "It's not too hot out tonight, and I was hoping to watch the sunset."

He looked so earnest, leaning against the counter like he always did (or, always used to). "Yeah." Sarge said, "Yeah, alright." He may as well close early.

Fillmore beamed, and waited by the door until Sarge was able to join him, rocking back and forth from his heels to his toes. As they left, Sarge paused to lock the door, and then they were on their way.

Fillmore led him out to Willy's Butte. It was a short walk, but he couldn't complain. There was a nice view of the sunset from there, and it was just about to dip below the horizon. They sat together, legs dangling over the side of the cliff. The creeping sense of nostalgia surrounded them- everything was too, horribly familiar.

"We… need to talk, man."

"About what?" Sarge asked, somewhat meekly.

"All of it." Fillmore replied bluntly, "Everything that we've been putting off talking about for god-knows-how-long."

The statement sent a long chill of anxiety running down Sarge's spine. He wasn't prepared for any of this. He could have waited a few more days, weeks, years…Where to start? The part where they spent decades chasing after one another? Their years spent bickering? How they seemed to be falling into another repetition of the cycle, after everything they'd been through?

Fillmore gave a long sigh, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He tapped them twice against his palm ("For luck," he had once said). "I need to calm my goddamn nerves. Want one?"

"Thought you gave that up years ago," Sarge said, "Yes, thank you."

Fillmore laughed. "Fuck off. Thought you did too."

They smoked contemplatively for a few minutes; their silence pregnant. It wasn't exactly uneasy… But it wasn't comfortable, either. Something in between.

"We were… pretty awful to each other, back in the day," Fillmore said, his cigarette poised just above his lower lip. He stared at the jagged red rock and the sunset beyond, expression distant. "I don't think I knew what I was getting into."

"I didn't either," Sarge replied. "We were young. It happens."

"You know that's not a good excuse." Fillmore frowned, "And besides, that's not what I meant."

"What did you mean, then?"

"Like…" Fillmore groaned loudly, scrubbing a hand across his face. "God, I don't know. All the shit that happened led to the rest of our lives. And now we're here."

For a moment, Sarge didn't respond. There was undeniable truth in the statement, but… "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"It's not that, it's just…" Fillmore hesitated, sighing loudly. "Well, we've grown a lot, haven't we? All things have their purpose, in the end."

Sarge could tell he was holding something back. Fillmore had never been good at talking about things like this. Neither of them were, come to think of it.

"I don't know how to say this, but…" Fillmore began quietly, almost fearfully. He took a long, shaky drag off of his cigarette. "I was in love with you for a long time, even after we broke it off for good."

Fillmore looked at him, wide-eyed and earnest. "I hope you know that."

Sarge didn't like the way his stomach churned as he met Fillmore's gaze. "Me too," he managed, voice cracking, "Right up until the end, I… yeah." Saying it out loud felt like a hard punch in the gut and a massive relief all at the same time. His eyes burned as he sat forward and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Fillmore's tone changed towards gentle empathy when he spoke next, laying a comforting hand on his back. "Hey, Sarge, it's okay!" He sighed deeply, tiredly, "It's all in the past now, anyways."

"It doesn't have to be," Sarge said, almost surprised with himself, "I mean, you said it yourself. We've grown a lot, since then."

Fillmore stared at him, wide eyed. "I don't believe what I'm hearing," he said, almost smiling, "I never thought I'd see the day when—"

"Yeah, okay, that's enough of that." Sarge said, "I'm not entirely comfortable with it yet, I'm just saying—"

"No, I get it, man. It's alright." Fillmore smiled sweetly, "You know, you've really rubbed off on me over the years."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, Sarge. Absolutely nothing."

It was quiet for a moment. The birds and crickets and bees had emerged to say their goodnights as the sun set in the east. The sky had become a wash of pastel pink and darkening blue…

"Why did you come back?" Sarge asked suddenly, "After all this time, you never really left."

Fillmore avoided his gaze, taking a careful drag off of his cigarette. "I guess… it always came back to you, in the end. All these years, I was waiting for you to come around."

"I'm… Sorry."

"It's alright, man. After all, I was right about it," Fillmore shrugged, and then smiled lightly, "I mean, I've lived a great life here. I consider myself lucky, and you should too. We have a good gig here."

The sun set quickly that evening, and they returned into town for a cup of coffee. It was a blessing to see real customers at Flo's diner, after all these years; Flo herself was stationed behind her register, counting change for the evening crowd. Everything, it seemed, could finally go back to normal. Except…

"What happens now?" Sarge asked slowly, staring down into his cup contemplatively, "Now… all that's over with."

"You never know what the future holds, man," Fillmore said wisely, "I think… we both need some time, before getting back into it."

"Yeah," Sarge agreed, "I think so too."

"And after that, who knows?" Fillmore smiled at him, "We have the rest of our lives to find out." He laughed a little, and added: "Look, you've won yourself another thirty years of talking about the stoplight."

Sarge scoffed, smiling a little, "Shut up, for once in your life." He added a packet of heavy cream to his coffee, thinking about what Fillmore had said. I consider myself lucky… In a way, he agreed with him.

As he stirred, he followed Fillmore's gaze to the traffic light, watching it flick on and off, on and off. It was endless, secure. Though, come to think of it…

Sarge's eyes narrowed as he watched the light. On, off. On, off. On… off. He stared at it in half-bewilderment, mind rejecting the facts before him. He's right, Sarge thought, the sonofabitch is actually-

"Every third blink is slower." He said. "You really think that?"

Fillmore caught his eye, grinning. "What, you finally see it?"

"No." Sarge lied, "Just asking."

"You'll see it one day, man, I swear." Fillmore grinned, and Sarge was somehow struck with the thought that he was unchanged; at the end of the day, Fillmore was still the flower child from the be-in that raged in the desert all those years ago.

Sarge looked back out the window and to the light, watching its repetitions. Endless, secure… and the blinks were staggered by a half-second. On, off. On, off. On… off.

the end.