Chapter 2

The air is arid and burns on the way down. Miles and the car are just a growing dust cloud in the shimmering distance.

"How long?" He didn't have a stopwatch on him, like a damned fool, and had to rely on Phil by his side to time the lap out on the dusty dirt roads.

“One minute, fifty-three seconds," Phil considers the position of the dust cloud in the distance, “I'd say he's about halfway through the circuit."

“Shit."

“Yeah," Phil agrees through gritted teeth, “Shit."

The two of them had been largely inseparable since the racing season's end. Where most of the other teams would take a month to recuperate before settling back into putting their cars through the paces, it had been an unspoken agreement that they would work through the usual rest period. Ken had no plans to slow down -- hah -- and Phil and Carroll were happy to accommodate him.

Having Phil by his side lent Carroll some form of stability he wouldn't otherwise have. He's certain that without Phil's watchful gaze, and habit of popping his head around corners at inopportune times, Carroll would have made irreparable mistakes several times over. And then several times again. It was, in its own way, a blessing. But Carroll would at least like to have some time to decide if some irreparable mistakes were actually what he needed. He's had seldom little time to gather his thoughts. And even less time to over-analyse that strange and quiet moment he and Ken had stolen after that race in Utah.

And that had been three months ago.

A hot gust of wind blows his open button-up around his waist. Carroll's arms lift slightly, testing to see if the wind was cool enough to evaporate some of the sweat that had gathered in his pits. He huffed when he found that it wasn't, dropping his arms back down by his sides.

The sunglasses on his face were slightly askew. Phil had told him that you couldn't tell for looking at him, but he could feel it. They sat at a weird angle, just a little too high against his right brow. Adjusting them did nothing to fix it. The glasses would just drift back up to their off-kilter position. But Carroll found his hand would lift every fifteen seconds or so, pulling down at the edge. There was little else to do apart from wait for Ken to finish his circuit. Wait for Ken and adjust his sunglasses. Wait for Ken, adjust his sunglasses, and ask for an update on the lap time.

“Two minutes, thirty-four seconds."

“Great," Carroll crosses his arms over his chest, even though it turns out to be quite uncomfortable to do so. But once they're there, he figures he's committed until Ken finishes his lap. “And what's his best time?"

Phil's crouching now. Carroll glances down at him. He can hide his impressive height entirely in the shade cast down by the workshop behind them by folding his body into thirds.

Phil checks the scrawls on the pad of paper weighted down with a rock between his feet, “Three minutes, twenty-four seconds," He considers the cloud of dust that is Ken Miles again. “He's not gonna beat it."

“Not even close," Carroll agrees.

“Maybe it's time for a break?"

“Yeah," Carroll snorts, pulling his eyes away from the car, just now coming into shimmering view, “Go ahead -- tell Ken Miles it's time to stop and tell me how that goes." He pats Phil's shoulder as he turns to leave.

“You know, you're right; he doesn't listen to me," Phil says, his knees popping as he stands, a sound alarming enough to stop any man in his tracks. “But he has this funny habit of listening to you." The words come out of him slowly, practiced. Once they've left him, Phil sighs. Relief floods his body.

'How long has this been on your mind, Phil?'

Carroll turns back to him, presenting him with a grimace. It knits his brows together, and draws his lips into a thin line. He can't ask what Phil means by that. Luckily, he doesn't need to. Because Phil shrugs, as if he didn't just open one hell of a can of worms, and takes his cue to leave. As he passes Carrol, Phil presses the still ticking stopwatch into his chest.

“Don't forget to note the lap time."

Carroll watches Phil slip into the cool workshop, jaw clenched, trapping all kinds of curses inside of his head. Nostrils flared, he couldn't even begin to think about what it would take to unpack that quiet little observation of Phil's before the telltale skidding of Ken rounding one of the final corners snapped Carroll out of his stupor.

The GT brings Ken careening around the final corner, tyres struggling to find purchase in the loose stones and the dirt. It skids to a halt - Carroll's hand twitches as he stops the timer - throwing a layer of dust against Carroll's dark linen pants. Particles stick to his blonde arm hairs on his arms crossed over his chest.

“Three minutes, fifty-two seconds, and a half," Carroll calls out. He reaches down for the notepad left behind by Phil, and makes a note of the time.

As Ken climbs out of the car, he pulls the helmet from his head. “Yeah." The heat makes Ken scrunch his face up, exposing his top layer of teeth as he breathes through his mouth, hard. His dark hair is smoothed, and slick against his head, his sunken cheeks a bright, burning red. “That one was a bit shit. Can't even blame the car - which, you know, I'd love to," anything to get under your skin, Shel , “I just…" He's planted his hands on his hips, accentuating the narrow triangular shape that his body forms in his jumpsuit. “Just wasn't feeling it."

A small canteen of water rests, shallowly buried in the dirt by Carrol's feet. Ken grabs it, taking a gluttonous swig. The water dribbles down his chin, carving a thin line through dirt and sweat, disappearing under the collar of his tee-shirt, and there's not a single doubt in Carroll's mind that he'd lap it up, if only Ken asked him to.

Carroll's mouth is hanging agape. His eyes, even behind the sunglasses Ken can see - are slightly glazed. Out of focus. He's staring, and Ken pulls his chin in to check to see if he had something on his shirt.

There's not. And… Carroll doesn't realise he's staring. 

Ken's face splits into a smirk. He reaches his hand up and presses the pads of his fingers into the underside of Carroll's chin, easing his mouth shut. “You alright, Shel?" Ken's looking at him in a way that makes him look like a concerned puppy, and Carrol's knees nearly buckle.

“It's just the heat," He swallows.

“Right." Ken doesn't sound the least bit convinced. Because he's not. But, he's a gentleman - when he's not being a bastard - so he doesn't press the issue. Things are already tense from him nearly saying something. And not the fun kind of tense, either. Had he known he was going to drive a wedge between them, he might not have driven down the hammer by saying something.

In the workshop, Elvis Presley's Suspicious Minds lilts lazily from an abandoned radio. Most of the team had called it due to the heat, and Carroll was starting to think that wasn't such a bad idea.

“Do you wanna get out of here?"

“I think I'm gonna go for one more lap."

Argh, fuck.

“Or we could do one more lap."

“Or we could get out of here."

Ken frowns. “Well, somebody doesn't know how to wait their turn." He might be cracking one of his signature grins, but Ken hates this. He'd swapped the comfortable reliability of whatever foundation they'd laid for… what? A chance at something more ? A chance that he fucking fumbled. He never was any good at sticking the landing.

Now, standing mere feet apart, Ken had never felt further away from Shelby.

“If you want to bugger off, I can keep going on my own here," Ken says, craning his neck to look into the workshop, “Looks like everyone else has already called it a day."

“It's already called that."

Ken scoffs. He almost laughs. "Hilaaaaarious."

Carroll shakes his head, “We both know that if I let you do that, I might as well start writing your obituary." He lifts the notepad to make his point, “What would you like me to say to Mollie? I'll make sure to tell Peter you loved him… not more than you loved racing, of course."

“Alright fuck off Shel," The words come out fast, merging into one garbled sound, “You and me both know that it's -- different."

Carroll's breath hitches in his throat. “It's addictive," he agrees, pulling his sunglasses from his face.

“Like, once you hit a certain speed, and the car is purring below you, rippling through your whole body, and the world shifts. It changes right before your eyes," Ken's eyes flutter closed. Whether he realises it or not, his hands drift up, and grip an invisible steering wheel. “Things that seemed important just melt away. And things you couldn't see before?" As his eyes open, they find Carroll's face, and his face grows hot.

“Well," Ken finishes, “They get pulled into focus."

Carroll swallows at nothing, and it goes down rough. They've been out here too long now, and everything is too dry. He grimaced. Not at what Ken had said, because Ken was right… Ken had an annoying habit of often being right. No, he shifts on the spot, face all scrunched up, and tries to find relief from the relentless heat.

But Ken is moving, his movements short and sharp. He chucks the canteen back on the ground, spins around in the dirt, and heads back to the car. “Get in," Ken signals to the car. He goes around to the passenger side himself, and doesn't wait to make sure that Shelby does as he's told before he lowers himself into the car.

Carroll's legs are carrying him to the car before he realises what's happening, and he pulls open the driver's side door. As he slides into the seat, Ken drops the key into his lap. The key slides into the ignition, and turning it brings the car to life. He revs the engine, and the whole car growls like an animal impatient to be released from its cage.

When he looks over to Ken, he's securing his helmet back onto his head. “Don't you think I should have one too?" Carroll asks, gesturing to it.

“Nah, don't see much point in that" Ken says, and a little huff of disbelief leaves Shelby, “If we crash, we'll both be dead long before anyone finds us."

That didn't convince Carroll Shelby. Ken's eyes watch as his hand reaches for the ignition.

“Alright, alright," Ken sputters, pulling the helmet back off. He opens the door and drops the helmet on the ground. “We square?"

Carroll's hand returns to the wheel. “Yeah."

“Good. Now drive, Shel."

And he does.

Carroll's foot hits the floor, and the car drifts in a frantic attempt to grip the ground beneath the wheels. He grunts through gritted teeth, ears growing red, and he eases up on the accelerator. He never really drove on unpaved roads, but it only takes him a few moments to adjust to the gravel-ridden track and in moments they're speeding down the first straight stretch of road. The wheels kick stones up, under the car, each one hitting with a concerning -thwack- that Carroll has to consciously put out of his mind.

The first corner speeds towards them, and Carroll feels his grip tighten on the wheel. There's a tingling sensation growing in his hands, and his palms are itchy and numb all at the same time. He chances a glance over at Ken, only to find the other man completely relaxed. He's draped across the seat, leg pulled up, with his chin resting on his hand. Ken takes his eyes off the road, and Carroll takes his eyes off of Ken in the same moment, slowing the car to take the turn without spinning completely out of control.

Of course Ken Miles wasn't worried. And he was staring now, examining Carroll. Even with his entire attention sucked into the road rolling below their wheels, he can feel his gaze tracing over him, watching his hands as he shifts through gears.

“At the next corner, you're going to go off road," Ken tells him, bringing his attention back out the front window.

“Are you fucking insane ?" Carroll spits back. His eyes blow wide at that, frankly, suicidal request.

“No actually," Ken says quickly, shifting in his seat so he's better facing Carroll, “The next bend is all of, I'd say, a quarter of a mile away from the tarmac circuit, and there's-"

“- there could be another team running laps," Carroll interjects.

“There's not," Ken assures him, and Carroll believes him, “There's no teams running laps, and there's no obstacles separating one track from the other. Now, I want you to get onto the tarmac and really open this baby up."

Silence stretched between them. Nothing but the sound of the car as it skimmed across the dirt track filled the cab of the car.

The bend's getting close now.

“If I fuck this up, we're both dead," Carroll says, but it's not an argument.

“Then don't fuck it up," Ken says, pulling his own sunglasses out of the breast pocket of his jumpsuit. “I trust you," he states, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Settling back into his seat, Ken folds his hands across his belly. “Now all that's left is whether or not you trust me ."

Carrol's eyes dart from the road to Ken and back. He adjusts his grip on the wheel, flexing his fingers around the ridged leather. His breaths come shallow and sharp. His heart - that terrible heart of his - hammers inside of his ribcage. No, that's not hammering he can feel; it's chugging, spluttering, missing a beat, and then trying to start again. His chest tightens. His knuckles go white. His jaw twitches.

The corner puts a curve in the track, and Carroll changes gear just as the car pulls off the track. The car jumps over the bank of dirt that had built up around the track, throwing and jostling the two of them about in their seats. It's enough to kick Carroll's heart back into gear, and as they hit the asphalt and pick up speed, Carroll's heartbeat slows and returns to its regular (albeit elevated) tempo.

The car growls around them, the sound echoing around the cabin, and rattles around in Carroll's brain. The tyres spit out stones they'd collected from their day of off-road lapping and cling easily to the ground as Carroll brings the car up to speed.

The track before them reaches out towards the horizon. Somewhere in the fuzzy distance, Carroll can see the impending curve of the upcoming corner.

But they have time.

Ken's whooping and hollering beside him, urging him to really floor it, and Carroll is happy to oblige, switching up gears just as the engine starts to complain that it's getting to be a bit much . Carroll watches the needle edge closer to that 7 ('000rpm), only to dip down as he switches gears. The car sings her warning siren. Carroll can feel her wanting to give out, keeping it together by a sheer force of will, hovering in that place between holding it together and falling apart.

“That's it, you bloody beauty!" Ken shouts, elated, and bangs his fist against the roof. He thumps a hand on Shelby's shoulder, and knocks a laugh out of him.

When their eyes meet - don't ask Carroll how he knows they've met from under both their sunglasses, sometimes you just know - they're both grinning. It's perhaps the most they've smiled in each other's company in months. And when Carroll turns his attention back out the windshield, Ken keeps staring.

The bend in the road is coming up quick now. As Ken peels his eyes off of Carroll, he can see it. See how quick it's coming. He knows there's not time to slow down, not now. They're going to lose control, spin out - fucking long dead before anyone finds us . It's poetic, in its way. But when he imagined living out his days alongside Carroll Shelby, this isn't quite what he had in mind. “Bloody hell, Shel," he hears the rhyme and cringes.

Carroll looks from the road to Ken, and raises an eyebrow. “Just try not to shit yourself, Bulldog," he grins, and brakes. The car throws its weight onto the front wheels. With a flick of the wheel, the back of the car spins out, wheels skimming sideways across the ground. Carroll fights against the steering as they drift around the corner at a speed he legally shouldn't be able to sustain.

Ken grabs his arm as they slide sideways around the corner. The car glosses over the tarmac, and Ken's grip tightens on Carroll's forearm. As they come out of the corner, Carroll straightens out the car, and Ken's grip loosens. 

The road straightens out again, and Carroll's foot teases the brake, and brings them to a skidding stop. The track behind them is still smouldering, black smears crisscross across the pavement. Carroll's panting. They both are.

“What the bloody hell was that?" Ken gasps. His hand is still on Shelby's arm.

“You like that?" Shelby chuckles, “I picked it up from a man named Kunimitsu a couple years back."

“Fuck," Ken lolls his head back, and shakes the stars out of his vision, “I didn't shit myself, but I think I creamed my pants."