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VII.02

McQueen flinched awake, a cold sweat upon his face as he recollected that dream, that dream where the worst case scenario played out. It felt all too real. Part of him wondered how he could have dared to fall asleep at a time like this. In any case, he was nearly shaking with relief; even as he grabbed a cup of water from the water cooler and downed it quickly, he was relieved. Thank the heavens that it didn't happen, or he never would have forgiven himself. Never in a million years.

----

The floor may as well have burned as he paced about, arms crossed and muttering his thoughts in a worried frustration. Flatlining wasn't fun. Defibrillation wasn't fun. Being unable to know the status of the situation wasn't fun. In fact, one might say those very things were the exact opposite of what any sane person would define as 'fun'.

God knows how long McQueen had been pacing out there, turning every two seconds to pace in the other direction and occasionally stopping to glare at the double doors. Questions ran through his head almost as quickly as he was stepping about (if they were any quicker, he probably wouldn't have been able to keep up with himself).

'Why did this happen?'

'What caused this to happen?'

'Is he going to be okay?'

'Was I quick enough to call for help?'

'How long had he been flatlining?'

'Was I too late?'

None of those questions went answered, and time continued to pass, ticking away agonisingly slowly. Surely it must have been hours by now? Time doesn't just decide to slow down whenever it wanted. Though, McQueen wouldn't have known anyways; he hadn't so much as spared a passing glance at a clock ever since he got here and it wasn't like he had his watch on him at that point.

The doors opened, familiar white coats of the doctors coming into view.

"Well?" McQueen instantly asked, not trying to be rude but still rather impatient from worry. "How- how is he?"

The doctor grasped his shoulder gently, silently telling him to calm down before saying, "Good news is he'll be fine."

McQueen's expression didn't change. "Okay?"

"What's the matter?"

A relatively panicked sigh. "When you guys say 'good news is', it's usually followed up with 'bad news is'." He fought to keep his voice level. "So what is it?"

"The...rest of us, along with myself, think it might be best if he...didn't do anything strenuous or physically demanding for a little while,"

"...that's it? He'll still be able to race, right?"

"Well, yes, of course, though not for another month in the least!"

McQueen sighed heavily in relief - proper relief - and lowered himself into a seat, practically thanking every god in existence.

"So...yes, that's the 'bad news is' part of the conversation, if you will,"

He nodded blankly, just relieved that things did not take a turn for the worst.

"He's awake at the moment, if you want to head in."

A quick nod again, a muttered thanks, and hurried steps back inside.

----

"You scared me half to death! Twice!"

"Then, by logic and simple maths, you should be quite dead right now,"

McQueen huffed, trying to be irritated but the uncontained smile on his face said completely  otherwise. It was rather difficult to stay irritated at someone who basically flipped off Death twice and came back acting like he just tripped a little in the park. How anyone could manage that eluded him entirely.

"Hilarious. You know you're not allowed to race or do anything 'physically demanding' for at least a month, right?"

The smug grin Francesco had planted on instanty fell, a look of horror replacing it.

"Che cosa?"

"I...don't know-"

"What?!"

"I-it was the doctor's orde-" He started backing away slightly as he braced for a torrent of angry Italian rambling.

Well he did indeed get a ramble of angry Italian; something which included 'sanguinosa inferno,' 'merda' and 'fanculo', words he could only assume weren't exactly kid-friendly. He wasn't the one fluent in Italian, now was he?

"-entire month without so much as going near the car!"

Apparently he had reverted back to English somewhere mid-rant, and was now slightly out of breath and pouting almost childishly, muttering about 'physically demanding activies' and 'doctor's orders'.

"At least he can express gratitude towards you, McQueen,"

"Wait who-..." Realisation hit him like a brick. "Don't,"

Francesco grinned challengingly.

"Please no."

And the Italian racer countered, trilling every 'r' way more than they needed to,

"Francesco Bernoulli!"

Lightning literally felt his soul collapsing.

----