He didn't mean to crash her.

Really, Lumber swears up and down for as long as anyone will listen, he didn't - he was trying to show off, spotted Porter and Slick in the crowd leading to the hairpin and stuck his skate out too far, or at least, that's what he thinks must have happened. Maybe he wasn't paying attention, maybe he tripped her, maybe he pushed her too far when posing for the cameras they just whipped past at a million miles an hour. One moment their wind was in his ears, cold and brisk against his cheeks as he grinned, the next, he's not sure.

With a grumble, Lightning pushes herself off the advertising barrier that they'd both just slammed into, and as Lumber staggers back he can see the damage clear as day. Great ice-like cracks creep across her armour plating like an infection, sharp and angular where they've torn the grain of the metal, and her lights flicker intermittently as she sways on unsteady wheels, hissing and groaning as her eyes flutter dangerously. Of course she took the brunt of it, she was always going to suffer the worst of a crash; she said before she doesn't like others getting hurt, and any other occasion maybe this would have made Lumber's chest tight and his cheeks burn.

Instead-

"You stupid fucking wood truck," Lightning spits, oil dripping from her split lip as the marshals begin moving back the crowds, "you pushed me! You dick-"

"I didn't do shit!" Lumber argues, fear turning to relief turning to tumultuous, searing anger as Lightning bares her teeth against him, "I didn't even have my hands on you, don't blame this on me."

"That's the problem, dickhead." For a second, her breath catches, words crisp and caught as a flash of fear cracks across her face, but it's gone before Lumber can comment. "You're supposed to be my breaks, I can't slow both of us down on that hill and you know that- fuckin', shit."

A cough wracks through her, wet and painful, and as her hand comes away from her mouth, there's a shadow between her fingers that wasn't there before. In the floodlights above them it shimmers slightly, and Lumber's generator suddenly runs cold like ice has just been thrown against his battery. That's oil, that's her oil, from inside her, that shouldn't be there, and if she's coughing up oil, then-

"We need to get to the repair tent," he urges as best as he can, reaching out to take Lightning's hand before she snatches it away like he's electrified, "c'mon Blue, fuckin' hell, I'm sorry, alright?"

A wary eye follows him as he steps forward, her body moving away as he gets closer. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

"C'mon, you're hurt-"

"And you're a good for nothing, lousy as fuck partner who is just happy to let me crash because he's busy showboating," Lightning argues angrily, and he'd probably take that to heart if panic wasn't settling in very clearly on her face, eyebrows furrowing as her already oil-stained hand reaches to her chest, "I- fuck, Lumber-!"

With a lurch she trips forwards, clipped cry of pain echoing with a gasp, and all Lumber can do is hold his arms out to catch her. Under her weight he sags, but maybe that's also how unstable his legs are, how weak his knees feel as he looks down at her pallid face, eyes tensed shut against the pain, and there's something wet against his fingers. Slimy, slick, warm, out of place, there's no way that she's losing that much oil that quickly, it was only a crash into a signage board, he wasn't paying that little attention, was he?

"C'mon Blue," Lumber chuckles nervously, holding her tightly around the shoulders as she pushes herself out his arms, "you ain't too broke to talk to me, love, I'm-"

Immediately under his touch she steels. They've always had this rule, of not bringing their relationship into racing, but the nickname slips out before he can stop it; he'd hoped it would be lost under the roar of the crowd and the other engines whizzing past them on their final few laps, but the almost painful tightening of her fingers around his arms says she heard. As electric blue eyes connect with his, he can see fear there if he looks hard enough, desperation rather than anger, and the hollowness he feels in his chest is vile.

"It's fine, I'm fine," Lightning croaks, peeling one eye open as her hands fly to his biceps, "just- just get me to a repair truck, fuck - you were showing off to her again, weren't you?"

To her? What, like he's cheating? There wasn't any other engines out there that he was trying to impress, just the cameras and Porter and Slick in the back row. For some reason, the freight are never given good spots in the pens, no matter how much they queue, and Lightning should know by now, after everything they've been through, that he doesn't have eyes for anyone else. Couldn't, wouldn't, Lightning's far too impressive for that, too beautiful and too kind to him after long, hard shifts. "Who? I wasn't trying to impress anyone-"

And he'd crashed her. He'd been selfish and he'd crashed her.

"The oil tanker, hun', saw her at the back of the pen," Lightning spits, defeat laced in her tone as he slowly begins to lead her over to a bench; in the distance, Lumber can spot the oncoming marshals, repair truck in tow, but they're not getting here fast enough, "she always knows when to distract you."

Over his shoulder, Lumber casts a cursory glance, just to check; Porter's pushed his way to the front, angrily peering through the railing that's slightly too high to climb, but Slick's gone. Vanished into thin air, as if that glimmer of yellow he'd seen had never been there in the first place.

"What are you saying?" Lumber can't help but argue, feeling her hand slide down his arm as he shoots Porter a shaken thumbs up, "what, like this was her fault? Love, she weren't even here - Love?"

That grip around his wrist has loosened. It shouldn't be that loose, Lightning's got a strong grip - too strong, sometimes, she's pulled his shoulder out of the socket a few times just on account of trying to playfully pull him up off the ground after they've been scrapping again. It shouldn't be light like this, teetering on unstable wheels as the LEDs in her eyes spark and flicker, and all Lumber can do is grip onto her elbows as she falters.

"Blue?" He urges, voice barely above a whisper despite the roar of the crowd around them, but she doesn't respond, no acknowledgement from her at all as he guides her to the bench, "Blue? C'mon, love- repair truck! Here!"