The Comeback of The Ford Fairmont
Jan. 3rd, 2010 12:23 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moose_mcmooseBoredom plus Anchorman playing in the background produces this random piece.
Title: The Comeback of The Ford Fairmont
Characters: Wilson, mention of House
Rating: R (one use of strong language) Sick!Wilson
Words: 1132
Disclaimer: I don't own them. A shame, as then I could buy some new jeans.
Summary: Wilson never did like that damn car. And he hates it now. I had an urge to write something and this was the product of the urge. Does it have a point? I have no idea. But who cares.
Well, this was a great way to spend an evening.
Wilson took a breath. A heady mix of asphalt, rain and scorched rubber radiated through his nostrils, tickling the back of his throat, urging him into an ungraceful splutter. He blinked, erasing the fuzziness from his vision. To his left, two red headlights in the distance and a thick set plume of smoke ruined what was a idyllic view. He could see, even from his impaired angle, that the tree beyond the fence had took the brunt of one man's attempt at braking in the ice.
Never brake on the ice Wilson was always told. Obviously this imbecile's mother had never gave him such sage driving tips.
He craned his neck gently upwards. Another car, this time with one brake light out, was flipped onto its side. No plume of smoke, but a lovely shower of melting ice was traipsing off the two flighted wheels. How the car had managed to end up with its leg cocked in the air like a dog was beyond him.
Wilson had thought the 1978 Ford Fairmont was a distant, hazy memory stuffed well into the closet of his past. His first ever car, bought for his 17th birthday and driven tentatively for five years. The first car he ever had sex in, where he was uncomfortably wedged between the handbrake lever and the air freshener that hung loosely from the rear view mirror, his ass swaying wildly between both. The first car he had ever used for one of those cheesy drive-thru film dates (Paula Jackson. Hot, blonde, huge rack. Awful company. Bad date.). The first and only car in which he nearly collided spectacularly with a moose; choosing to drive in Canada as little as possible after that.
He never did like that damn car. And he fucking hates it now.
Being hit by a car was not a new experience for Wilson. He'd been crashed into and had himself ploughed into a wooden fence with that damn Ford Fairmont. His car usually kept the other car and obstacles at a reasonably safe distance from his actual body. The fact that this time he wasn't in his car had added a whole new facet to the experience.
For one, he couldn't tell if he was hurt. In the incident with the moose, he knew immediately he had busted something. The sharp pain in his right leg had been somewhat of an indication that he had dislocated his ankle. When he was shunted by a semi-blind, old man he knew he had garnered a nasty case of whiplash.
But here, now, he couldn't tell; he couldn't feel anything. Paralysis wasn't an option; he could wiggle his fingers and toes, and there was some tingling in his left leg. He wasn't dead because...well, he just wasn't. Saying that, he had no death experience to go from. This could be it for all he knows. The smell of wet asphalt and a decrepit old Ford Fairmont could, in fact, spell the end of his time here. But he was pretty sure he was alive. He had a pulse. He was breathing, if in a slightly laboured fashion.
He had picked a quiet road to wander on precisely for the reason that there would be very few cars and very few distractions. Fresh air, quiet and a cool breeze were just what he needed after a undeniably awful day at work. His hunting had led him to a place where there was usually two cars every half hour, where the view was crisp and clean. Perfect.
But, as usual, another great plan was foiled by unfortunate circumstance.
Instead of the two cars every hour, there was two cars within five seconds of each other. The first, squealing brakes and all, flew around the corner at an atrocious angle, sliding unceremoniously towards Wilson, horn blaring. He, like any other normal person, had jumped out of the way and watched on with a mixture of morbid curiosity and horror as the car crunched through the flimsy fence and into an unsuspecting tree.
It just so happened, not so long after that, another car was making its way around the same corner. Going too fast and too hard, it didn't notice Wilson, wrapped in a long dark coat standing on the side of the road.
Fucking Ford Fairmont.
One sickening blow later here he was, lying gracefully on his front with mud and slush in his disheveled hair. He could feel he was absolutely soaking. The ice and slushy snow making quick work of his thick coat. Now they were invading his freshly washed t-shirt and possibly his trousers, judging by that warm patch on his knee and upper thigh. Or it could be blood. He couldn't be bothered to check.
He'd expected to be in excruciating pain or shock or a grim combination of both. But in all honesty, he was bored. Lying down on a road wasn't all that much fun. He didn't have the strength the get up and flag down a car, or check on the drivers of the cars. He was sure they were fine anyway; they had bits of car around them, encasing them in a safety shell. He had nothing apart from a woolly scarf and a dumb looking hat.
He closed his eyes, unsure whether he was tired from the boredom or whether it was his body's way of telling him something was wrong. Either way, going to sleep was tempting. At least then he wouldn't feel like a popsicle that's been left out the freezer for too long.
But someone turned the lights on just as he was dozing off. Horrible, glaring, stinging red lights that were burning the shit out of his dozy eyes. Then warmth on his wrist and a dark shadow came into view, blocking the harsh lights.
"Sir. Can you hear me?"
"Mmmnnn..." He blinked, surprised at how garbled his groan sounded. Blame that damn Ford Fairmont.
"Sir. Can you tell me your name?"
"J..m..s." He tries again, this time with vowels included. "James."
"Okay. James.You've been in an accident. My name's Linda. I'm a paramedic. I'm gonna get you to the hospital okay?"
"Mmmnn..." That's his version of yes for now. He'd come up with something more flamboyant once his face felt normal again.
As he getting lifted into the ambulance he inwardly curses. That damn car. That other damn car. That damn streak of idiocy that made him jump into the road.
House is going to have a whale of time with this. So rich and thick with possibilities for endless sarcastic remarks. Great he thinks. "Nnnnn," he moans.
He promises himself to take walks along busier roads the next time. Preferably ones without Fairmonts.
Part 2
Title: The Comeback of The Ford Fairmont
Characters: Wilson, mention of House
Rating: R (one use of strong language) Sick!Wilson
Words: 1132
Disclaimer: I don't own them. A shame, as then I could buy some new jeans.
Summary: Wilson never did like that damn car. And he hates it now. I had an urge to write something and this was the product of the urge. Does it have a point? I have no idea. But who cares.
Well, this was a great way to spend an evening.
Wilson took a breath. A heady mix of asphalt, rain and scorched rubber radiated through his nostrils, tickling the back of his throat, urging him into an ungraceful splutter. He blinked, erasing the fuzziness from his vision. To his left, two red headlights in the distance and a thick set plume of smoke ruined what was a idyllic view. He could see, even from his impaired angle, that the tree beyond the fence had took the brunt of one man's attempt at braking in the ice.
Never brake on the ice Wilson was always told. Obviously this imbecile's mother had never gave him such sage driving tips.
He craned his neck gently upwards. Another car, this time with one brake light out, was flipped onto its side. No plume of smoke, but a lovely shower of melting ice was traipsing off the two flighted wheels. How the car had managed to end up with its leg cocked in the air like a dog was beyond him.
Wilson had thought the 1978 Ford Fairmont was a distant, hazy memory stuffed well into the closet of his past. His first ever car, bought for his 17th birthday and driven tentatively for five years. The first car he ever had sex in, where he was uncomfortably wedged between the handbrake lever and the air freshener that hung loosely from the rear view mirror, his ass swaying wildly between both. The first car he had ever used for one of those cheesy drive-thru film dates (Paula Jackson. Hot, blonde, huge rack. Awful company. Bad date.). The first and only car in which he nearly collided spectacularly with a moose; choosing to drive in Canada as little as possible after that.
He never did like that damn car. And he fucking hates it now.
Being hit by a car was not a new experience for Wilson. He'd been crashed into and had himself ploughed into a wooden fence with that damn Ford Fairmont. His car usually kept the other car and obstacles at a reasonably safe distance from his actual body. The fact that this time he wasn't in his car had added a whole new facet to the experience.
For one, he couldn't tell if he was hurt. In the incident with the moose, he knew immediately he had busted something. The sharp pain in his right leg had been somewhat of an indication that he had dislocated his ankle. When he was shunted by a semi-blind, old man he knew he had garnered a nasty case of whiplash.
But here, now, he couldn't tell; he couldn't feel anything. Paralysis wasn't an option; he could wiggle his fingers and toes, and there was some tingling in his left leg. He wasn't dead because...well, he just wasn't. Saying that, he had no death experience to go from. This could be it for all he knows. The smell of wet asphalt and a decrepit old Ford Fairmont could, in fact, spell the end of his time here. But he was pretty sure he was alive. He had a pulse. He was breathing, if in a slightly laboured fashion.
He had picked a quiet road to wander on precisely for the reason that there would be very few cars and very few distractions. Fresh air, quiet and a cool breeze were just what he needed after a undeniably awful day at work. His hunting had led him to a place where there was usually two cars every half hour, where the view was crisp and clean. Perfect.
But, as usual, another great plan was foiled by unfortunate circumstance.
Instead of the two cars every hour, there was two cars within five seconds of each other. The first, squealing brakes and all, flew around the corner at an atrocious angle, sliding unceremoniously towards Wilson, horn blaring. He, like any other normal person, had jumped out of the way and watched on with a mixture of morbid curiosity and horror as the car crunched through the flimsy fence and into an unsuspecting tree.
It just so happened, not so long after that, another car was making its way around the same corner. Going too fast and too hard, it didn't notice Wilson, wrapped in a long dark coat standing on the side of the road.
Fucking Ford Fairmont.
One sickening blow later here he was, lying gracefully on his front with mud and slush in his disheveled hair. He could feel he was absolutely soaking. The ice and slushy snow making quick work of his thick coat. Now they were invading his freshly washed t-shirt and possibly his trousers, judging by that warm patch on his knee and upper thigh. Or it could be blood. He couldn't be bothered to check.
He'd expected to be in excruciating pain or shock or a grim combination of both. But in all honesty, he was bored. Lying down on a road wasn't all that much fun. He didn't have the strength the get up and flag down a car, or check on the drivers of the cars. He was sure they were fine anyway; they had bits of car around them, encasing them in a safety shell. He had nothing apart from a woolly scarf and a dumb looking hat.
He closed his eyes, unsure whether he was tired from the boredom or whether it was his body's way of telling him something was wrong. Either way, going to sleep was tempting. At least then he wouldn't feel like a popsicle that's been left out the freezer for too long.
But someone turned the lights on just as he was dozing off. Horrible, glaring, stinging red lights that were burning the shit out of his dozy eyes. Then warmth on his wrist and a dark shadow came into view, blocking the harsh lights.
"Sir. Can you hear me?"
"Mmmnnn..." He blinked, surprised at how garbled his groan sounded. Blame that damn Ford Fairmont.
"Sir. Can you tell me your name?"
"J..m..s." He tries again, this time with vowels included. "James."
"Okay. James.You've been in an accident. My name's Linda. I'm a paramedic. I'm gonna get you to the hospital okay?"
"Mmmnn..." That's his version of yes for now. He'd come up with something more flamboyant once his face felt normal again.
As he getting lifted into the ambulance he inwardly curses. That damn car. That other damn car. That damn streak of idiocy that made him jump into the road.
House is going to have a whale of time with this. So rich and thick with possibilities for endless sarcastic remarks. Great he thinks. "Nnnnn," he moans.
He promises himself to take walks along busier roads the next time. Preferably ones without Fairmonts.
Part 2
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Date: 04/01/2010 12:01 pm (UTC)Thanks for reading and commenting XD
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Date: 04/01/2010 01:37 pm (UTC)