Chapter Text
Shit. Ruben would hate me for this, is the first thing Sonny thinks as his painkiller-addled mind begins to grasp the implications of his current situation. His current situation being staring straight into the glaring fluorescent hospital lights and futilely grasping at the doctor’s medical spiel he’s heard some iteration of far too many times for his liking. When Ruben had reached out and invited Sonny back onto the APX GP team as team strategist, Sonny had said no. Definitively. He’d kept his head down and used his upcoming Texan off-road race as an excuse to brush off Ruben’s well intentioned texts. He was determined not to let Ruben slip back into his life— Sonny’s second and final time leaving Ruben had to be immortalized on a high note, showered in champagne and affection. Sonny beaming at Ruben, incandescent and so alive. He’d grasped Ruben’s shoulders— he could feel the warmth of Ruben’s pristine cotton suit beneath his sweaty palms. Ruben firmly shook him back, and snaked his arms over Sonny’s shoulders. He’d felt manic. Ruben’s deep, throaty laughter and the rich, heady smell of Ruben’s cologne left him giddy. Sonny thought, I told you I could do it. This win is for you. I did this for you. “Give the trophy to him.”
From the little island of this hospital bed, that day in Abu Dhabi feels almost mythological. Through the ache, Sonny thinks, Ruben cannot know about this. This fact is an unquestionable pillar in Sonny’s mind: Ruben cannot be burdened with knowing this side of Sonny. He saw the medical records, fine. But Sonny raced for him, and won for him, and now that’s done and over with. Ruben doesn’t need to hear from him ever again. He can go on living his life treasuring the sweet memory of victory and a healthy, happy Sonny. But the real Sonny is here, kneading his fingers into the flimsy hospital bed mattress and blinking back his burgeoning headache from the horrible, horrible lights. God, he hates, hates, hates hospitals.
A doctor has arrived in the room. Sonny tries to concentrate on what she’s saying, but her words blur around the edges. He can’t make out the consonants quite right, and he only picks up certain words that stand out him. “…Severe seizure …effects of Todd’s paralysis have abated.. potential brain damage… emergency contact… family has been notified…” The doctor is a severe-looking brunette with a gentle, sympathetic smile- the kind that’s practiced for patients in a bad state, no doubt. Sonny focuses on orienting himself beyond his rising panic. Deep breaths in through the nose, out through the mouth. The machine to his left is make gentle beeping noises at regular intervals. The doctor’s coat has a small stain on the left sleeve. The last thing Sonny remembers from before the hospital is a burning white-hot pain, his vision fizzing and blurring at the edges, and the sensation of the motel room’s rough carpet beneath his scrabbling fingertips. This pain is old and well-known. Sonny hadn’t had a seizure in years, but he used to have them not infrequently after his crash in Jerez. That small, underfed, optimistic portion of his brain has hoped his seizures were over forever, that enough time has passed and his body has forever recovered from his spine being cleaved and his nerves being shredded thirty-odd years ago. The motel cleaning staff must’ve found him thrashing on the floor and called the ambulance, he thinks with no small amount of mortification. His head hurts. It hurts often, since chronic migraines are another symptom of severe nerve damage and repeated TBIs. Contrary to popular belief, Sonny Hayes is not an absolute idiot, and he understands that seizures are, in fact, not optimal for normal, healthy functioning. He’s stayed fairly consistent in taking his anticonvulsants over the years. Seizures lasting longer than five minutes can cause permanent, debilitating brain damage, he knows, so how lucky he is to escape this little encounter virtually unscathed! Lucky. Ha ha. Good thing he had his cards tucked safely into his pocket protecting him, maybe the only reason he wasn’t a vegetable right now. Sonny chuckles darkly at the thought, which makes the doctor’s expression turn worried. He probably sounds hysterical and concussed. Sonny weakly waves a hand, and dimly registers that the doctor was saying something about his discharge timeline.
“Yes. Right. I’m, uh- good to go. Really, I feel fine, doc.” Sonny flashes her a toothy grin and hopes it comes off as disarmingly handsome rather than pained. Whether she feels charmed or pitying, it works, and he’s released to the safety of his van by the end of the day with a doctor’s note, an updated anticonvulsant prescription, and a pounding headache reverberating in his skull. His skull feels cracked open like an egg, his brain scrambled and fried on hot pavement. Cooked sonny side up. Funny.
Sonny manages a hasty dinner of stale crackers and peanut butter and thinks about how badly he needs to go grocery shopping. He chews on a saltine, reclining in the driver’s seat, and checks his phone.
3 missed calls from Ruben. Shit.
Ruben picks up on the first ring. Sonny expects Ruben to immediately begin harping on him about rejoining the team and ignoring his phone calls, but Ruben doesn’t start talking right away. When he does, his voice is quiet, tense. Careful. Like he expects Sonny to explode and hang up at any moment, and he’s afraid of setting off the bomb and sending Sonny running again. Sonny’s heart leaps to his throat. Does he know? He can’t know, right? I just got out of the hospital. The only people who’d be privy to that information would be the hospital staff and Daniela, his last ex-wife and emergency contact. She hasn’t contacted him since he woke up in the hospital, which is fair enough, he supposes. She isn’t the type to grill him for information after receiving the odd call from a remote hospital in the middle of the night, which was the primary reason she was his emergency contact. The other reasons being that, again, Sonny is not a complete idiot and does understand the importance of having an emergency contact, and he and Daniela had ended on good terms. It’s not you, it’s me, and my insane adrenaline junkie racing addiction, and your, honestly understandable, need for emotional vulnerability in a partner. You get it.
Ruben speaks with measured words: “How are you doing, Sonny?”
“…Good. Real good, Ruben. Why are you calling?”
“Why am I-?” Ruben’s voice pitches up sharply, and he cuts himself off. Sonny hears his long inhale, the frustrated one he does when he catches himself getting too involved and has to pull himself together.
“Do you have a minute?”
“I- yeah? Why don’t you just tell me what’s going on and I can give you my two cents, huh?” Sonny chuckles nervously.
“Where are you now?” There’s a tremor in Ruben’s voice. It’s barely noticeable, unless you know him very well. Like Sonny does.
“Just in my van. Y’know. Winding down.”
“Right.” Sonny feels Ruben pause, reorient. He waits a beat. “I think you need to come back to the team. We have a position waiting for you. Flexible schedule, signed payroll, healthcare benefits. It is a good fit.” Sonny hesitates, and knows Ruben can sense it. “Please. Sonny. This is… please do not make me beg, old friend.”
And that’s it. That’s the last straw for Sonny. His steady resolve to keep Ruben far away from him- and safe from the burning car wreck that is his life- is fractured. If Ruben really needs him, Sonny will always come, like a loyal dog. He can still keep Ruben safe in the dark. He will have to smuggle his methods of control and secrecy- but Ruben, his oldest and dearest friend, should never have to beg him for help. Not when Ruben has occupied a corner of Sonny’s head since he was only a spry, golden-blonde twenty something with a big ego and even bigger ambitions. Not when Sonny still has Ruben’s coffee order and favorite cigarette brand memorized, still thinks about the soft ways his lips curled around the filter of a Marlboro Red 72. Not when Sonny abandoned him and left him hanging for thirty years despite the unnamed thing between them: heat and friction lingering between them on the track, long nights in a bar or hotel after races. Not when Sonny owes Ruben everything for giving him a second chance. Despite everything.
“Okay. Yes. I’ll come back.” The reply rushes out of him in one breath. A beat.
“Yes? Yes!” Ruben’s relief is almost palpable. “Good, that’s- good. It’ll be good to have you back, Sonny.”
And that’s that.