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Warning: Some foul language ahead. You've been warned.

The sound of hoofbeats on the concrete flooring of the shed row was commonplace enough that no one looked up from what they were doing, Dawson among them. The repetitive sound drew closer, but he remained oblivious, continuously wrapping Ray's legs with warm cloths. The colt had done marvelously in the GI Stephen Foster H two weeks previous but had once again fallen short to Fighterjet's power. The month of July was the veteran colt's summer break before the Whitney in August. Sven, armed with glowing recommendations from Dawson, Ling, and Will, had flown back to New Orleans, promising to return that following month. It had since been oddly quiet around the barns, with Ray doing not more than light works and Drew off sulking with Erik as he waited for Sven to return.

When he finally finished wrapping, Dawson stood up with a sigh, wincing as his knees cracked. Damn, getting old sucked. He rubbed Ray's nose gently, then turned to walk out of the stall before promptly slamming into a large, warm body. "What the--" he yelped. Disgruntled brown eyes stared down at him.

"Hey, old man, watch where you're going!" Dawson's gaze slid away from the filly's to glare at Drew.

"What are you doing, boy? Who's this?"

Drew clutched the unhappy filly's lead tighter as if he feared Dawson would take her away at any moment. "My new mount."

"Excuse me?"

"TJ said so. This one's my new mount."

"TJ...?"

"You know... Our boss? Christ, old man, but you're going senile in your advanced age!"

Dawson clenched his fists and took a deep breath to prevent himself from strangling the little wretch. "Who's the filly?"

"Oasis."

Dawson was shaking his head before the kid even finished his word. "Impossible. This one's too pretty to be Oasis."

"Naw, man, I'm serious." He shook the filly's lead for emphasis. "This is Oasis, and TJ said I could have her."

Dawson's eyes narrowed as he studied the baby in front of him. That blaze did look familiar. And those birdcatcher spots proudly claimed her as a potential Booth baby. But... this creature... She wouldn't win any beauty contests, but she was beautiful in a butch kind of way. While of average height for a freshman filly, around 15.3hh, she was heavily muscled with a mature head and thick bones. "Shit," he muttered under his breath. "She sure as hell grew up."

He glanced at his son. "Alright, so it's Oasis. Doesn't matter, though, because she's not yours." He grabbed the lead and led the unhappy filly into the stall across from Ray's.

"What?" Drew squawked. "Like hell she's not! TJ promised just ten minutes ago when they dropped Oasis off!"

"If I recall correctly, TJ is doped up on cough syrup at the moment and isn't making rational decisions. Besides, I'm the trainer. I decide who gets on this baby's back. Got it?" He glared over his shoulder at Drew, who glared right back.

"Fuck you, old man! That filly's mine! You've been holding me back for weeks now. I deserve a mount!"

Dawson stood up to his full height, locked Oasis in, and turned to stare down at Drew. "You'll get a mount when I say you get one and that's final," he said cooly. Drew opened his mouth to undoubtedly let loose another string of curses, but a quiet whicker from a nearby stall distracted the both of them. Erik, having heard Drew's shouts, hung his head over his stall door and stared worriedly at the kid's colorful head.

"Go tend your colt, boy," Dawson growled, and walked off. He pointedly ignored Drew's colorful curses that followed him.

***

For the rest of the week Drew hounded Dawson, imploring TJ to support him, but she and the others deferred to the trainer on this particular decision. In the end, Will flew out to ride Oasis through her career debut. They placed eighth in a field of eleven. The following day, Will and Fox rode Callum and Savior to second- and third-placed finishes behind Sioux Brigade in the GII Tom Fool. With Neverland out of commission until November and Titanus's apparent disappearance from the racing world while his future was decided, the rest of July was eerily quiet after so much chaos. Drew moped around the barns more than ever, spending more and more time with his half-blind colt than anyone else while counting the days until his best friend returned.

***

People called him naive, and maybe Sven was to an extent. But he was also smart. If you pleased your bosses, you got more work. The best way to make people happy in this business was to win. The second best way was to make them feel like they were the center of your world and you were put on this here earth to serve them.

"You look kinda young, don'cha?" the man standing before him drawled unhappily.

"I am twenty-four, Mr. Davis," Sven replied politely, though he had to suppress the urge to roll his eyes. Really, how long would his face haunt his career? So what if he looked young? He was experienced and knew his horses. Besides that, was that not Dawson's recommendation later the old dodger was waving around?

"Well I'm packin' up shop tomorruh and headed for Saratoga. You get there and I'll consider putting you on some of my horses."

Well wasn't that wonderful? Sven was due to meet up with Dawson and Drew in Saratoga the following week. Leaving a few days early wouldn't hurt. "I wvill be there, sir," Sven promised.

"You ain't got no other plans, then?"

"No, sir. No other plans."

The old trainer harrumphed, but Sven could tell he was secretly pleased. You see? It was all about deception. Make the trainers believe you lived for them and only them and you made them happy. Happy trainers meant more work. In truth, he did live for one specific trainer--or rather, the trainer's adoptive son--but he didn't tell Davis that.

Hours later, when all his races were finished for the day, Sven headed back to his hotel room, packed up his stuff, pocketed his newly-purchased plane ticket and wheeled his single suitcase out to the waiting taxi. He had no clue why, but his heart fluttered at the mere thought of Drew's surprised expression when the younger man realized he flew in a week early. He couldn't wait.

***

The morning of August 8th was a tense one. The entire BCC team reconvened at Saratoga for the Whitney. Not to support Dawson or Sven, nor to cheer Ray on though they certainly did their best to do so. No, they were there to support each other. Even Robby flew up from his temporary retirement spot of choice in the Bahamas to lend a supporting shoulder. Of all the races throughout the year, the Whitney was BCC's own haunting ghost. It had been seven years since Tantamount, Andraste, and Devil's Reign had dueled to their catastrophic ends in this very race, and a black-and-blue-clad horse hadn't won since. Polisson had tried as a four-year-old but had placed a dismal fifth. Now, a different trainer and jockey led BCC's latest wonder into the saddling paddock, but the tension remained.

Dawson watched as Sven adjusted his helmet, then gave the younger man a leg up into Ray's saddle. "Your in gate two, so hug the rail as best you can but don't scrape off any paint, you hear?"

"Sure, boss."

"Fighterjet's on the far outside, so we've got that going for us. He and the bay in gate four, Porthos, are your main competition. Concentrate on them. Don't let Fighterjet out of your sight and damn sure don't let Porthos sneak up on you. Also, don't forget--"

"Boss."

Dawson glanced up. "What?"

"It's okay," Sven said softly as he took Ray's reigns from the trainer. "I've got this."

Dawson's jaw ticked, but he nodded and let the pair move into line for the post parade. From here on out, it was up to the jockey and his horse.

The bay Dawson was mildly concerned about, Porthos, was an up-and-coming three-year-old who went into the gate at the odds of 25-1. The fans didn't put much stock into him, but Dawson remembered the colt's career debut over a year ago in which Porthos had smashed his competition by nearly five lengths at just over a mile. Since then, the bay had been racing strictly on turf marathons and failing miserably, which accounted for his lack of fanbase now. Still, the colt was in the prime of his life and looked damn good as he trotted three horses behind Azrael.

Dawson sighed fretfully before tearing his gaze from Porthos to glance way down the line, seeking out the small, bobbing red head of Azrael's greatest competitor. If Porthos was a fit and healthy specimen, Fighterjet was a god. The chestnut pranced with a fluid stride that would have made people stop and look even if they hadn't known who he was. As it were, however, his many fans fawned over him as he rolled past, reaching their hands through the rail bars in vain efforts to touch him. Cameras flashed and newscasters chattered happily away as the current king of racing showed the world why he deserved his title.

Dawson sighed again before joining the rest of the BCC crew in the boxes just as the horses loaded into their gates. Then the bell rang and twelve bodies burst forth, writhing and colliding into one another before settling into their respective strides and positions. Azrael stalked the leaders early on as Fighterjet struggled to keep his ground in the middle of the pack. Porthos brought up the rear. No one really moved from their positions as the field made their way around the backstretch, though the frontrunner faded enough for Ray to slide into second. It was when they came around the far turn that everything began to happen; Porthos's jockey, seeing that they had nearly fifteen lengths to make up, urged his mount into motion early on, swinging the colt to the far outside and letting him loose. Happy with the track beneath his hooves for the first time in over a year, the bay dug in deep and flew around his competition. Meanwhile, Fighterjet had found a hole just large enough to slip through and did so with startling ease. Azrael had claimed the lead by then and began to draw away from his competition, but Fighterjet and Porthos were fast on his heels and closing.

Sven glanced under his elbow and cursed in Swedish under his breath. He clucked to Ray and kneaded his gray neck, urging the colt to go faster. "Come, come, Rain-man," he cooed, "Fas'er now. Let's go fas'er." Ray devoured the rein Sven gave him, pinning his ears back and stretching out his neck as he instinctually streamlined his body and widened his strides. Having not been on any champions before Ray, Sven did not fully comprehend the sheer magic that was Black Pearl's first son. The gray not only had the muscle and power to succeed, he had the drive. Anyone who had worked with him as a foal would tell you that Azrael lived to run and always had. It was what made him special.

Still, not even Ray's magic could hold off that which was Fighterjet. The small chestnut moved like a freight train toward the finish line and, try as they might, Sven and Ray could not catch him. As he passed under the wire over half a length in front, his jockey, a Spaniard by the name of Alonso Vega, stood in the stirrups and shouted his triumph to the world. Azrael and Sven finished second while Porthos and his jockey claimed a close third before strongly passing Fighterjet in the gallop out.

As one, BCC's cast and crew sighed, filled with competing feelings of relief and disappointment. One more year, gone. One more Whitney passed.

A mere hour after Ray was led off the track and hosed down, Sven was approached by a familiar face. "Not bad, boy," Charles Davis grumped. "Not the best, but I don't think anything can beat the 'Jet so I'll give that one to ya." He waved Sven toward the other side of the barn. "Got a mount for ya." The older cowboy patted the wood next to an occupied stall, then gently prodded the nose that appeared with his finger. "I want you to ride this here filly in her race tomorrow. I'll say it right now, she's not great. If you place on the board, I'll be a happy camper. Here's the racing form--" he slapped Sven's chest with a rolled up paper, forcing the jock to take it. "And here are some notes I wrote out concerning the filly. Read 'em tonight and I'll see you bright and early in the mornin'."

"Wvait!" Sven protested, head reeling from the sudden turn of events. "I never said I wvould ride her."

The trainer glanced over at him and glared. "You got somethin' better to do, boy?"

Sven clenched his jaw at being called a boy, but dutifully pocketed the papers. "No sir."

"Good. See ya in the mornin'."

"Yes sir."

Shown: Oasis
Racing Season: 2 Year Old

Art and Characters (C) Me

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Description
Continuation of:

Warning: Some foul language ahead. You've been warned.

The sound of hoofbeats on the concrete flooring of the shed row was commonplace enough that no one looked up from what they were doing, Dawson among them. The repetitive sound drew closer, but he remained oblivious, continuously wrapping Ray's legs with warm cloths. The colt had done marvelously in the GI Stephen Foster H two weeks previous but had once again fallen short to Fighterjet's power. The month of July was the veteran colt's summer break before the Whitney in August. Sven, armed with glowing recommendations from Dawson, Ling, and Will, had flown back to New Orleans, promising to return that following month. It had since been oddly quiet around the barns, with Ray doing not more than light works and Drew off sulking with Erik as he waited for Sven to return.

When he finally finished wrapping, Dawson stood up with a sigh, wincing as his knees cracked. Damn, getting old sucked. He rubbed Ray's nose gently, then turned to walk out of the stall before promptly slamming into a large, warm body. "What the--" he yelped. Disgruntled brown eyes stared down at him.

"Hey, old man, watch where you're going!" Dawson's gaze slid away from the filly's to glare at Drew.

"What are you doing, boy? Who's this?"

Drew clutched the unhappy filly's lead tighter as if he feared Dawson would take her away at any moment. "My new mount."

"Excuse me?"

"TJ said so. This one's my new mount."

"TJ...?"

"You know... Our boss? Christ, old man, but you're going senile in your advanced age!"

Dawson clenched his fists and took a deep breath to prevent himself from strangling the little wretch. "Who's the filly?"

"Oasis."

Dawson was shaking his head before the kid even finished his word. "Impossible. This one's too pretty to be Oasis."

"Naw, man, I'm serious." He shook the filly's lead for emphasis. "This is Oasis, and TJ said I could have her."

Dawson's eyes narrowed as he studied the baby in front of him. That blaze did look familiar. And those birdcatcher spots proudly claimed her as a potential Booth baby. But... this creature... She wouldn't win any beauty contests, but she was beautiful in a butch kind of way. While of average height for a freshman filly, around 15.3hh, she was heavily muscled with a mature head and thick bones. "Shit," he muttered under his breath. "She sure as hell grew up."

He glanced at his son. "Alright, so it's Oasis. Doesn't matter, though, because she's not yours." He grabbed the lead and led the unhappy filly into the stall across from Ray's.

"What?" Drew squawked. "Like hell she's not! TJ promised just ten minutes ago when they dropped Oasis off!"

"If I recall correctly, TJ is doped up on cough syrup at the moment and isn't making rational decisions. Besides, I'm the trainer. I decide who gets on this baby's back. Got it?" He glared over his shoulder at Drew, who glared right back.

"Fuck you, old man! That filly's mine! You've been holding me back for weeks now. I deserve a mount!"

Dawson stood up to his full height, locked Oasis in, and turned to stare down at Drew. "You'll get a mount when I say you get one and that's final," he said cooly. Drew opened his mouth to undoubtedly let loose another string of curses, but a quiet whicker from a nearby stall distracted the both of them. Erik, having heard Drew's shouts, hung his head over his stall door and stared worriedly at the kid's colorful head.

"Go tend your colt, boy," Dawson growled, and walked off. He pointedly ignored Drew's colorful curses that followed him.

***

For the rest of the week Drew hounded Dawson, imploring TJ to support him, but she and the others deferred to the trainer on this particular decision. In the end, Will flew out to ride Oasis through her career debut. They placed eighth in a field of eleven. The following day, Will and Fox rode Callum and Savior to second- and third-placed finishes behind Sioux Brigade in the GII Tom Fool. With Neverland out of commission until November and Titanus's apparent disappearance from the racing world while his future was decided, the rest of July was eerily quiet after so much chaos. Drew moped around the barns more than ever, spending more and more time with his half-blind colt than anyone else while counting the days until his best friend returned.

***

People called him naive, and maybe Sven was to an extent. But he was also smart. If you pleased your bosses, you got more work. The best way to make people happy in this business was to win. The second best way was to make them feel like they were the center of your world and you were put on this here earth to serve them.

"You look kinda young, don'cha?" the man standing before him drawled unhappily.

"I am twenty-four, Mr. Davis," Sven replied politely, though he had to suppress the urge to roll his eyes. Really, how long would his face haunt his career? So what if he looked young? He was experienced and knew his horses. Besides that, was that not Dawson's recommendation later the old dodger was waving around?

"Well I'm packin' up shop tomorruh and headed for Saratoga. You get there and I'll consider putting you on some of my horses."

Well wasn't that wonderful? Sven was due to meet up with Dawson and Drew in Saratoga the following week. Leaving a few days early wouldn't hurt. "I wvill be there, sir," Sven promised.

"You ain't got no other plans, then?"

"No, sir. No other plans."

The old trainer harrumphed, but Sven could tell he was secretly pleased. You see? It was all about deception. Make the trainers believe you lived for them and only them and you made them happy. Happy trainers meant more work. In truth, he did live for one specific trainer--or rather, the trainer's adoptive son--but he didn't tell Davis that.

Hours later, when all his races were finished for the day, Sven headed back to his hotel room, packed up his stuff, pocketed his newly-purchased plane ticket and wheeled his single suitcase out to the waiting taxi. He had no clue why, but his heart fluttered at the mere thought of Drew's surprised expression when the younger man realized he flew in a week early. He couldn't wait.

***

The morning of August 8th was a tense one. The entire BCC team reconvened at Saratoga for the Whitney. Not to support Dawson or Sven, nor to cheer Ray on though they certainly did their best to do so. No, they were there to support each other. Even Robby flew up from his temporary retirement spot of choice in the Bahamas to lend a supporting shoulder. Of all the races throughout the year, the Whitney was BCC's own haunting ghost. It had been seven years since Tantamount, Andraste, and Devil's Reign had dueled to their catastrophic ends in this very race, and a black-and-blue-clad horse hadn't won since. Polisson had tried as a four-year-old but had placed a dismal fifth. Now, a different trainer and jockey led BCC's latest wonder into the saddling paddock, but the tension remained.

Dawson watched as Sven adjusted his helmet, then gave the younger man a leg up into Ray's saddle. "Your in gate two, so hug the rail as best you can but don't scrape off any paint, you hear?"

"Sure, boss."

"Fighterjet's on the far outside, so we've got that going for us. He and the bay in gate four, Porthos, are your main competition. Concentrate on them. Don't let Fighterjet out of your sight and damn sure don't let Porthos sneak up on you. Also, don't forget--"

"Boss."

Dawson glanced up. "What?"

"It's okay," Sven said softly as he took Ray's reigns from the trainer. "I've got this."

Dawson's jaw ticked, but he nodded and let the pair move into line for the post parade. From here on out, it was up to the jockey and his horse.

The bay Dawson was mildly concerned about, Porthos, was an up-and-coming three-year-old who went into the gate at the odds of 25-1. The fans didn't put much stock into him, but Dawson remembered the colt's career debut over a year ago in which Porthos had smashed his competition by nearly five lengths at just over a mile. Since then, the bay had been racing strictly on turf marathons and failing miserably, which accounted for his lack of fanbase now. Still, the colt was in the prime of his life and looked damn good as he trotted three horses behind Azrael.

Dawson sighed fretfully before tearing his gaze from Porthos to glance way down the line, seeking out the small, bobbing red head of Azrael's greatest competitor. If Porthos was a fit and healthy specimen, Fighterjet was a god. The chestnut pranced with a fluid stride that would have made people stop and look even if they hadn't known who he was. As it were, however, his many fans fawned over him as he rolled past, reaching their hands through the rail bars in vain efforts to touch him. Cameras flashed and newscasters chattered happily away as the current king of racing showed the world why he deserved his title.

Dawson sighed again before joining the rest of the BCC crew in the boxes just as the horses loaded into their gates. Then the bell rang and twelve bodies burst forth, writhing and colliding into one another before settling into their respective strides and positions. Azrael stalked the leaders early on as Fighterjet struggled to keep his ground in the middle of the pack. Porthos brought up the rear. No one really moved from their positions as the field made their way around the backstretch, though the frontrunner faded enough for Ray to slide into second. It was when they came around the far turn that everything began to happen; Porthos's jockey, seeing that they had nearly fifteen lengths to make up, urged his mount into motion early on, swinging the colt to the far outside and letting him loose. Happy with the track beneath his hooves for the first time in over a year, the bay dug in deep and flew around his competition. Meanwhile, Fighterjet had found a hole just large enough to slip through and did so with startling ease. Azrael had claimed the lead by then and began to draw away from his competition, but Fighterjet and Porthos were fast on his heels and closing.

Sven glanced under his elbow and cursed in Swedish under his breath. He clucked to Ray and kneaded his gray neck, urging the colt to go faster. "Come, come, Rain-man," he cooed, "Fas'er now. Let's go fas'er." Ray devoured the rein Sven gave him, pinning his ears back and stretching out his neck as he instinctually streamlined his body and widened his strides. Having not been on any champions before Ray, Sven did not fully comprehend the sheer magic that was Black Pearl's first son. The gray not only had the muscle and power to succeed, he had the drive. Anyone who had worked with him as a foal would tell you that Azrael lived to run and always had. It was what made him special.

Still, not even Ray's magic could hold off that which was Fighterjet. The small chestnut moved like a freight train toward the finish line and, try as they might, Sven and Ray could not catch him. As he passed under the wire over half a length in front, his jockey, a Spaniard by the name of Alonso Vega, stood in the stirrups and shouted his triumph to the world. Azrael and Sven finished second while Porthos and his jockey claimed a close third before strongly passing Fighterjet in the gallop out.

As one, BCC's cast and crew sighed, filled with competing feelings of relief and disappointment. One more year, gone. One more Whitney passed.

A mere hour after Ray was led off the track and hosed down, Sven was approached by a familiar face. "Not bad, boy," Charles Davis grumped. "Not the best, but I don't think anything can beat the 'Jet so I'll give that one to ya." He waved Sven toward the other side of the barn. "Got a mount for ya." The older cowboy patted the wood next to an occupied stall, then gently prodded the nose that appeared with his finger. "I want you to ride this here filly in her race tomorrow. I'll say it right now, she's not great. If you place on the board, I'll be a happy camper. Here's the racing form--" he slapped Sven's chest with a rolled up paper, forcing the jock to take it. "And here are some notes I wrote out concerning the filly. Read 'em tonight and I'll see you bright and early in the mornin'."

"Wvait!" Sven protested, head reeling from the sudden turn of events. "I never said I wvould ride her."

The trainer glanced over at him and glared. "You got somethin' better to do, boy?"

Sven clenched his jaw at being called a boy, but dutifully pocketed the papers. "No sir."

"Good. See ya in the mornin'."

"Yes sir."

Shown: Oasis
Racing Season: 2 Year Old

Art and Characters (C) Me

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