"the hire" ficlet
Mar. 20th, 2004 03:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
zarahemlaI am in the mood to write, so if you want something, drop a line.
This is a ficlet for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
winter_baby. Because in this fandom, we're BNFs.
----
At seventeen, you first felt a real motor underneath you. Your mom drove a Chevrolet hatchback and it was a piece of shit in your opinion, though you weren't above borrowing it for dates. But your friend Jason's dad had a white '68 Mustang that roared when he revved it.
Jason hadn't got his license yet, because he failed the drivers test. You had yours a year but it felt like forever -- you'd been hell on wheels with a tricycle. It didn't change. So one summer evening when Jason, who was blond and husky like a football player even though he really was in drama club and read tons of books, tried to convince you to take his dad's car out for a spin, you let yourself be convinced.
"Twist my arm," you said, and Jason laughed and imitated your accent, which bugged the hell out of you, but then he held out the keys and you watched as he smiled and climbed into the passenger side. You turned the key and put down the clutch, and oh, it was like nothing your teenage mind could form a metaphor for.
The vibration of it carried through into your hands, and you turned your head and Jason was grinning, mirroring the motor-lust in your eyes. "Go, dude! Go!" he said, and you went. Oh, you went.
An hour later you were headed down State Street and Jason saw two girls and he told you to slow down and you did, idling alongside them while Jason chatted them up. Jason liked everyone and they tolerated him, but you know that they disliked him for his apathy toward sports, his easy knowledge of British literature. You aren't sure what they think about you and you don't care.
"Sweet ride," one of the girls said. She was darkhaired and lithe. You thought maybe you'd seen her prancing on the sidelines at pep rallies, kicking up in her short skirt, firing the imagination of every hormone-driven male on the premises. The other girl smiled and nodded. "This your car, Jason?"
"My dad's." Everyone knew Jason had no license, but he didn't seem to take offence. He said instead, "You wanna ride?"
You made some kind of noise of negativity, and Jason put a hand on your arm. "It'll be all right, dude. We'll just drive 'em home."
"Take it on the highway," said the brunette from behind you. In her voice, surprisingly, you heard the same lust for speed. You peeled out to the onramp and blew by a Chevrolet hatchback -- not your mom's, but the satisfaction was enormous.
On the highway, the engine was mellow and the road smooth. There was a brief shift as Jason and the brunette changed places. Three giggles later, and the backseat began to steam up. You glanced sideways, sort of embarrassed, but the brunette was watching out the window. She had put her hand on the dashboard and you wanted, suddenly and very much, to put your hand on top of hers.
You took the short way home as the breathing in the back became more like panting, and the brunette gave you directions softly. As you pulled up to the curb, she got out of the car, and after a minute of sitting there, you heard Jason's voice say, "Dude."
So you turned off the engine and you got out too, and you stood by the drivers door but that was too close, so you looked around desperately for somewhere to hide. The brunette said, "Hey." She beckoned from the side of the house and you went around to the back with her. The house was dark and shuttered and she lit a small candle on the patio as you watched her.
"My folks are gone," she said, "but do you want a soda or something?" You said yes and she went into the dark house and came back with two Cokes in two glasses.
"Almost the best I could do," she said, and when you sipped it you could taste the dark rum lacing it. You smiled and drank a little, knowing you were going to have to drive home.
Neither of you really talked. She said, "You go to my school, don't you?" and you told her that you do. Time passed quietly and you asked her if she thought that Jason is done.
"I don't know," she said. "I don't want to go and check, do you?"
"No way," you said fervently, and she laughed. Then she asked you if you have driven that car much. You told her that it was your first time.
"You drive really well," she said. "I felt safe, even though you were going so fast."
You thanked her. Then it was so quiet that you could hear crickets. Time passed and she sighed, putting her head back against the pad of the patio chair.
"You're under no obligation to keep me entertained," she said, "but you could say something."
You cast around in your mind. "I've seen you cheerleading. You like it?"
"No," she said. "But what else am I going to do?"
"I don't know," you said. "Jason does drama and shit like that."
"What do you do?" She turned a disconcerting stare on you and you saw that her eyes were green.
"I don't know." You couldn't tell her that your life was a jumble of softcore porn, car magazines, economic journals, and novels by Kurt Vonnegut. That you read all the time. That you wished you were reading something now. "I like cars."
"Yeah ... I gathered that." She sounded exasperated. "Well, I guess I'll go see what's going on out there."
You stood when she did and walked around the close side of the house. A streetlight was shining wetly on the Mustang and in its yellow light you saw Jason's large arm pressed against the side window, fingers gripping tightly to the drivers headrest.
"Geez," the brunette said, not bothering to lower her voice. "Some girls get all the luck."
"You want Jason?" you asked, startled, because maybe your perception of all these girls was completely wrong. Maybe they were all crushing on Jason and that's why they were bitchy.
"Not necessarily," she said, and she turned to face you. You didn't know her name or anything about her, but you learned quite a bit about her as you grappled with her clothes and then fucked her on a patio chair, her legs thrown outward and her face buried in your neck.
She sat with you, curled in your lap, until Jason poked his head around the house and says, "Let's go home." He looked terrible, bitten all over and redeyed, but he had an enormous smile.
You never drove that car again. When you got home, Jason's dad was waiting in the driveway, and he wasn't much mad because you didn't hurt the car, but he promised to kill your ass dead if you ever laid a finger on it again.
When you saw her in school the next day, you looked away and so did she. It didn't mean anything, not anything, and it made you sick to think about it, but you remembered how her hand looked on the dashboard, and one day when you found a photo of a white Mustang you taped it up secretly on her locker.
--end--
Where the hell did that come from?
This is a ficlet for
winter_baby. Because in this fandom, we're BNFs.----
At seventeen, you first felt a real motor underneath you. Your mom drove a Chevrolet hatchback and it was a piece of shit in your opinion, though you weren't above borrowing it for dates. But your friend Jason's dad had a white '68 Mustang that roared when he revved it.
Jason hadn't got his license yet, because he failed the drivers test. You had yours a year but it felt like forever -- you'd been hell on wheels with a tricycle. It didn't change. So one summer evening when Jason, who was blond and husky like a football player even though he really was in drama club and read tons of books, tried to convince you to take his dad's car out for a spin, you let yourself be convinced.
"Twist my arm," you said, and Jason laughed and imitated your accent, which bugged the hell out of you, but then he held out the keys and you watched as he smiled and climbed into the passenger side. You turned the key and put down the clutch, and oh, it was like nothing your teenage mind could form a metaphor for.
The vibration of it carried through into your hands, and you turned your head and Jason was grinning, mirroring the motor-lust in your eyes. "Go, dude! Go!" he said, and you went. Oh, you went.
An hour later you were headed down State Street and Jason saw two girls and he told you to slow down and you did, idling alongside them while Jason chatted them up. Jason liked everyone and they tolerated him, but you know that they disliked him for his apathy toward sports, his easy knowledge of British literature. You aren't sure what they think about you and you don't care.
"Sweet ride," one of the girls said. She was darkhaired and lithe. You thought maybe you'd seen her prancing on the sidelines at pep rallies, kicking up in her short skirt, firing the imagination of every hormone-driven male on the premises. The other girl smiled and nodded. "This your car, Jason?"
"My dad's." Everyone knew Jason had no license, but he didn't seem to take offence. He said instead, "You wanna ride?"
You made some kind of noise of negativity, and Jason put a hand on your arm. "It'll be all right, dude. We'll just drive 'em home."
"Take it on the highway," said the brunette from behind you. In her voice, surprisingly, you heard the same lust for speed. You peeled out to the onramp and blew by a Chevrolet hatchback -- not your mom's, but the satisfaction was enormous.
On the highway, the engine was mellow and the road smooth. There was a brief shift as Jason and the brunette changed places. Three giggles later, and the backseat began to steam up. You glanced sideways, sort of embarrassed, but the brunette was watching out the window. She had put her hand on the dashboard and you wanted, suddenly and very much, to put your hand on top of hers.
You took the short way home as the breathing in the back became more like panting, and the brunette gave you directions softly. As you pulled up to the curb, she got out of the car, and after a minute of sitting there, you heard Jason's voice say, "Dude."
So you turned off the engine and you got out too, and you stood by the drivers door but that was too close, so you looked around desperately for somewhere to hide. The brunette said, "Hey." She beckoned from the side of the house and you went around to the back with her. The house was dark and shuttered and she lit a small candle on the patio as you watched her.
"My folks are gone," she said, "but do you want a soda or something?" You said yes and she went into the dark house and came back with two Cokes in two glasses.
"Almost the best I could do," she said, and when you sipped it you could taste the dark rum lacing it. You smiled and drank a little, knowing you were going to have to drive home.
Neither of you really talked. She said, "You go to my school, don't you?" and you told her that you do. Time passed quietly and you asked her if she thought that Jason is done.
"I don't know," she said. "I don't want to go and check, do you?"
"No way," you said fervently, and she laughed. Then she asked you if you have driven that car much. You told her that it was your first time.
"You drive really well," she said. "I felt safe, even though you were going so fast."
You thanked her. Then it was so quiet that you could hear crickets. Time passed and she sighed, putting her head back against the pad of the patio chair.
"You're under no obligation to keep me entertained," she said, "but you could say something."
You cast around in your mind. "I've seen you cheerleading. You like it?"
"No," she said. "But what else am I going to do?"
"I don't know," you said. "Jason does drama and shit like that."
"What do you do?" She turned a disconcerting stare on you and you saw that her eyes were green.
"I don't know." You couldn't tell her that your life was a jumble of softcore porn, car magazines, economic journals, and novels by Kurt Vonnegut. That you read all the time. That you wished you were reading something now. "I like cars."
"Yeah ... I gathered that." She sounded exasperated. "Well, I guess I'll go see what's going on out there."
You stood when she did and walked around the close side of the house. A streetlight was shining wetly on the Mustang and in its yellow light you saw Jason's large arm pressed against the side window, fingers gripping tightly to the drivers headrest.
"Geez," the brunette said, not bothering to lower her voice. "Some girls get all the luck."
"You want Jason?" you asked, startled, because maybe your perception of all these girls was completely wrong. Maybe they were all crushing on Jason and that's why they were bitchy.
"Not necessarily," she said, and she turned to face you. You didn't know her name or anything about her, but you learned quite a bit about her as you grappled with her clothes and then fucked her on a patio chair, her legs thrown outward and her face buried in your neck.
She sat with you, curled in your lap, until Jason poked his head around the house and says, "Let's go home." He looked terrible, bitten all over and redeyed, but he had an enormous smile.
You never drove that car again. When you got home, Jason's dad was waiting in the driveway, and he wasn't much mad because you didn't hurt the car, but he promised to kill your ass dead if you ever laid a finger on it again.
When you saw her in school the next day, you looked away and so did she. It didn't mean anything, not anything, and it made you sick to think about it, but you remembered how her hand looked on the dashboard, and one day when you found a photo of a white Mustang you taped it up secretly on her locker.
--end--
Where the hell did that come from?
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2004-03-20 03:24 pm (UTC)As for writing, have you read The Talisman? Because Jack/Richard by him is non-existant, but so deserving of fic. If not, more DT fic! I love your DT fic. Maybe something about Jake? <3
(no subject)
Date: 2004-03-20 05:24 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-03-21 03:10 pm (UTC)I loved seeing The Driver as a teenager. It's so very much like him to not have anything to say to that girl. And the start of his love for fast cars!
*smooches!* *hugs
(no subject)
Date: 2004-03-21 08:32 pm (UTC)