Disclaimer, as before: Cars, all characters thereof and related indicia, belong to Disney and Pixar. Henry is mine.
"'Ey, what's up, Doc?" Ramone asked, sipping oil. Beside him Fillmore and the Sarge sat side by side enjoying breakfast.
"…heh…you said what's up, Doc," Fillmore remarked, a moment later. Sarge glared at him.
Doc Hudson merely pulled up to one of the pumps and tapped the go-pedal, sighing wearily as the best of Flo's hi-test gurgled into his tank. "Well, one of 'em is fine, the other one is still giving me some trouble. Think he might be in for something worse before he's done."
"Oooh, don't tell me, it's that Mustang from outta town," said Ramone. "I know dese things. He got secrets, am I right?"
"Dude, you think he's from the gov'mint?"
"Don't be stupider than you look, Fillmore," snapped the Sarge. "G-cars are black and lux. That stranger's a muscle-car from stem to stern."
"Actually," said the Hudson, stopping the pump long enough to reverse up to the nozzle with a gascan, "he's going to be just fine. It's that tuner I'm worried about."
"What, Snot Rod?" Ramone snorted. "Ain't nothin' wrong with him a rebuild and a decent paintjob won't fix. Vitamin E orange, pah."
"The Seventies weren't good to you, were they?"
Doc sighed. "He's pretty sick, boys. Lucky his hotshot NOS-head buddy pulled him in when he did."
That cut off the banter for a moment. Flo came by with a refill for her husband. "Doc, you sayin' that jacked Cuda is sick enough to worry you?"
Doc just cut off the pump when the can was full. "I'll let you know, Flo. Put this on my tab?"
They watched him roll away. "Damn," said Ramone, "I ain't never seen Doc worried about lawbreakers 'fore."
"Maybe that's cause he ain't had no lawbreakers in his clinic, just his courthouse, honey. When I think of that ol' red Mustang and how bad he was—"
She didn't have to finish. None of them particularly relished the memory of Doc rolling out and yelling for Red to get his big crimson hinder over to the clinic, stat. The 'Stang's temperature had redlined; it took three long dousings from Red's water cannon to bring him down to something approaching normal. Radiator Springs had held its collective breath.
"Man," said Fillmore. "It's, like, heavy round this place."
After Doc had brought him some fuel, and checked to see he really was recovering, and that the new fuel system parts were settling okay, Henry had been left alone. He was grateful, he supposed.
He hadn't expected that lecture from the old Hudson. Had, in fact, expected nothing more than the same vague sympathy he'd had from every other car he'd told his story. All three of them.
You think your Dayne would be happy to see what you're doing?
He scowled at the stained concrete floor of the bay. What's it to you, oldtimer? You fixed me up. Waste of your time and mine.
But it couldn't just be that. He couldn't let that go, that nagging voice. It's not my fault! She died, and without her there wasn't a reason to try living. That's all it was. Big old country-song of a life. Leave me the hell alone and go back to running your town.
…but the Hudson had listened. And the Hudson had actually listened enough to understand the words and more than the words, and had seen through Henry as if he were clear brittle glass. You've gone through hell, son, he had said. I know the look. I've been there myself.
He lit his engine, angrily, not knowing what he meant to do—smash through the door, run away, go out into the red desert again as far as he could drive—but a sound from the neighbouring bay registered in his mind, and he let himself idle, listening hard. The sound brought back immediate memories—not nice ones, either. Coughing, hard breathless coughing, just as he himself had done after the river incident; for months afterward even the slightest bit of grit or road-dust in his carbs had sent him into crippling fits of hacking. He wasn't aware of rolling off the lift or nosing aside the sliding door, but he found himself in front of the orange Barracuda nonetheless.
The Plymouth's eyes were squeezed shut, his wheels hunched in the struggle to breathe. Henry glanced around—where the hell was the doctor?—but again, without meaning to, heard his own voice speaking.
"Kid—hey, kid—"
Even without the giant blower jutting through his hood, the Barracuda looked like a dragster star. The effect was oddly jarring, given the fact that his expression was more like a demo-derby wreck. He gasped in enough breath for a few words. "Can't…breathe…hurts…"
Henry knew it did. He knew very well. "I know, okay, but you have to calm down, it's worse when you're freaking out, okay? Try to take deep breaths and wiggle your tires, think about something else."
He was somewhat, unexpectedly, touched at the immediate obedience. The Cuda's terrified gasping turned into attempts at slow inhales, and Henry could see the enormous rear cheater slicks turning as he tried to divert his concentration away from the struggle to breathe. It wasn't long before his coughing died away, and he hung on the lift, exhausted, eyes nothing more than pale green slits.
"I'm gonna get the Doc, okay? Hang tight, kid."
"N-no," the Cuda gasped. "Don't go. Who…are you?"
Henry had to chuckle softly. "Nobody worth mentioning. I guess I'm a friend, even if you and your neon buddies did roll me outside Flagstaff."
He immediately regretted the words when the Barracuda's eyes went wide and he started to choke again: but when he rolled forward the few feet to rest his pointed prow against his offside wheel, taking some of the shuddering into his own frame and grounding it, the fit subsided. The pale green gaze fixed on him.
"You…you're that Stang.Boost rolled….you. How…did youget…here?"
His words were coming in little breathless rushes. Henry didn't move away.
"I ran out of gas—well, okay, broke down—outside town, and they towed me here. Forget the roll, kid? I've had a lot worse."
The other car just stared at him. Henry looked back, calm, his own grey-blue eyes no longer feverish. "Name's Henry. What's yours?"
Now the green eyes dropped. "S-Snot Rod."
"Chrysler," said Henry. "That's even worse than that green bastard with the moustache, what's his name, Chick. What's your real name?"
The Barracuda didn't look up. He sniffled. "Colin."
"Okay, I can see the nickname, but hell, kid, you don't have to go around calling yourself Snot Rod, for Chrysler's sake. Be a Col, or something. Pick a name."
"Colin" sneezed mightily. Even with his engine off, the exhaust through his eight pipes blew paperwork off the desk in the corner. He snurfled again. "…sorry. 's…why I'm called that."
Henry sighed. "Yeah, okay. Your buddies name you that?"
The Barracuda nodded, looking down. Henry stopped himself mid-sigh. "I guess you've been told before you don't have to take that kind of stuff, right? And that you're Okay On Your Own, and that you should stand up for yourself, etcetera? Yeah, I heard it too. Listen, though, from my own experience, your name is what you make it. Pick something and make it stick. Hell, I dunno, someone had to call Speed Racer 'Speed Racer' for the first time. Anyway—I'm gonna go find Doc for you."
The pale-green eyes found him again, after exploring the floor for some time. He waited.
"H-Henry?"
"Yeah, kid?"
"I don't feel good."
Something in his works turned over. He nodded, slowly.
"Believe me, I know. I've been pretty sick myself—no, not cause of that rollover—but I know how you feel. It's gonna be okay, kid. If Doc fixed me up, he can do the same for you."
Snot Rod—or whoever he wanted to be—held Henry's gaze a moment longer, and then nodded, slightly, and sank down again on the lift with his eyes closed.
He rolled out of the clinic, enjoying the clear response of his gears and the feeling of being pleasantly full of good-quality fuel, and looked around. Ah. Well.
There was a three-car fenderbender blocking the road just two shops away, and an elderly Mercury police car and the Doc were on the scene. He nosed up to them, noting that all three cars involved were barely dented, and that all three appeared to be high-end aftermarket-kitted SUVs.
Doc was talking to one of them. "I got sand in my rims! And my brakes are all messed up, man! It's that crazy Jeep's fault I hit this dude!"
"You drive on rims like that, you deserve what you get," Doc growled. "All right. Sarge, fetch Mater, let's get these three nimrods straightened out."
"Um," said Henry, from behind them. "Excuse me, Doctor?"
Doc did a fast one-eighty. "What're you doin' off the lift?"
"You…did say I was recovering fast. And the Plymouth—Snot Rod—" he couldn't help a wince at the nickname—"he's not feeling so good. I thought I should come get you."
The Hudson's eyes narrowed. "Did you. You had a chance to think over what I said to you?"
Henry blinked. He hadn't, really, no. "Yes, sir."
"Good. Sheriff, you handle this. I'll be waiting."