Wilford Warfstache (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cottoncandypink) wrote2018-05-15 02:18 pm
cottoncandypink) wrote2018-05-15 02:18 pm
“Go home. Think about it. Call me in about a week,” Dr Clarke said.
Wilford hated the dentist. It sucked. But he hadn’t been in a while, and he was pretty sure it was time to go get something fixed, so there he was. Good teeth were important in his line of work.
Worse, it was the first time he’d seen this particular dentist, so he was in for a whole new line of scolding and getting his face wrenched around in ways that it didn’t want to move. First visits also meant X-rays and weird scolding about grinding his teeth. As if he could help it.
X-rays weren’t supposed to hurt. Be uncomfortable and weirdly invasive, sure. But most people probably didn’t get searing pain in their entire right side of their face. The technician kept asking Wilford to do something he could not do, and getting more and more frustrated every time he said that it wasn’t happening. It took twice as long as it should have to get the pictures, but at least these things were all digital now so there was no waiting around forever to get them developed only to find out they had to go back and do it all over again. Wilford was glad to go wait in a cold, impersonal room when it was over. At least there was a TV with a remote, so he was able to find something worth watching while he waited for the dentist to come give him a scolding.
He finally showed up after at least a half hour, flipping through a few pages on his clipboard. “Heard you gave the tech a hard time,” he said.
“She wouldn’t listen,” Wilford said unapologetically.
Behind him, where Wilford couldn’t see, the dentist started clicking around on his computer. “We’re here for a check and a cleaning, right?” he asked.
“Yep,” Wilford said. He wanted to go home already. Here it came. The dentist made a weird, vaguely concerned noise before sliding over and putting on his gloves. Wilford knew he should have bullied Nichola harder into being his ride home so he could smoke a joint first and just sleep through this ordeal. Apparently some stupid meeting came before him.
“Let’s take a quick look at see what we’re dealing with,” the dentist said, leaning Wilford’s chair back and turning on the light. Wilford obediently opened his mouth, and immediately had his jaw pulled awkwardly when the dentist stuck his fingers into his mouth.
“Ow!” he said, jerking away quickly.
“That hurt?” the dentist asked.
“Yes.” Obviously. Christ, Wilford hated dentists. Every single one of them was an absolute sadist.
“Bite down for me,” the dentist asked.
Wilford did, just to get this over with more quickly. The dentist pulled his cheeks away, which didn’t hurt, but was still awful. “What’s the story with that?” he asked as he slid back to his computer.
It took every ounce of restraint for Wilford to not get up and leave. This was the fucking worst in every possible way.
“Broke my jaw as a kid,” he said, trying to find a comfortable spot in a chair that was designed for torture.
“How’d you do that?” Wilford could hear him typing.
“Pissed off someone bigger than me. I was about fifteen.”
The dentist hummed. “Whoever put you back together sure did a real hack job of it. You ever consider getting it fixed?”
Wilford would have laughed, if it weren’t true. “Probably not much they can do about it,” he said.
“I know a guy. I’ll get you his number. I bet you can even get the network to foot the bill,” the dentist said as he typed away. “He mostly works on prettying up young up-and-comers trying to break into the business, but he does a good job.”
Wilford didn’t say anything as he listened to the dentist do his thing behind him. It had never occurred to him that it could be fixed. It had been that way for more than half his life. If they could have fixed it, they would have done that the first time. Eventually, the dentist left to go do something else, returning about ten minutes later with the X-ray tech Wilford had shouted at, and a tray of tools. There were also two little paper cups, which he handed to Wilford. One had a couple of little orange-coated pills, and the other was full of water. Anti-inflammatories, the dentist explained. It probably wouldn’t do much, but it couldn’t hurt. Shrugging, Wilford took the pills and got ready for the hour of torture ahead of him as everything was poked and prodded and picked at, and then scrubbed raw.
The pills didn’t help. He still left the clinic with a raging migraine and a throbbing pain that shot all the way down to his shoulder. Once in his car, he swallowed a few more pills from the glovebox and closed his eyes, waiting for a long while for everything to calm down enough for him to be able to drive. He wanted to go home, but the studio was closer. He could sulk there just as easily. After about a half hour of sulking in his car, he started it up and got onto the road. He wasn’t sure if traffic was worse than usual, or if his mood just made it seem worse, but he managed to get to the studio in one piece. Once in his dressing room, he found his weed stash in his desk and rolled the sloppiest joint ever. He spared just enough time to pull up a playlist on his phone and put it in its charging dock before he lit up, with the intent to sleep through the rest of the day.
He was woken abruptly to the sound of his door slamming open and someone giggling loudly. A couple of people he’d never seen before seemed just as surprised to see him as he was of them. When the didn’t leave, he took off one of his shoes and threw it at them.
“Sorry!” one of them shouted, ducking and running away, with his friend close behind him.
Wilford got up to close his door, but left his shoe out in the hall. He kicked off the other one and sat back in his chair, still feeling sore and stretched out from his morning’s torture session. He’d suddenly remembered the business card he’d been given, and pulled it out of his pocket to look at it. There was nothing special about it, which gave it credibility. No flashy logos or bright colours. It was a very simple, plain card with the man’s practise and information on it. The kind of clean, professional card from someone who didn’t need flashy graphics to sell their service.
He thought about it, and even picked up his phone a few times. He didn’t need the network to pay for anything, and odds are he’d piss someone off by needing to take the time off. As awful as it was, a horrible speech impediment had become part of his brand. And wasn’t that disgusting? He had a brand. Gross.
But he could always say no. He could get a consultation, get some info, and decide it wasn’t worth it. That was definitely an option.
Two days later, he was in the man’s office. Not the cold, impersonal office at the dental clinic, but a proper office, with a desk and pictures of smiling kids and football trophies. Fresh X-rays had been taken, which went several orders of magnitude smoother than they had last time. Wilford had never actually seen his own X-rays before. He’d never been that interested in looking at his own teeth. But these ones weren’t about his teeth. And he was pretty sure bones weren’t supposed to look like that.
Wilford listened to Dr Clarke explain what the problem was and how he’d go about fixing it. It was… involved. Surgery, bone breaking, wires and plates, and then a hand-off to an orthodontist for pins and springs and posts to replace teeth that would probably get lost in the process. Side effects from the surgery that could be permanent.
It sounded like a nightmare. He was even less sure it would be worth it than he was before he’d come in.
“How long would I be off the air?” he asked. That was the single most important question. If it took him off the air for half a year, then there was no point at all.
“It depends on the pain,” Dr Clarke said. “And how comfortable you feel going back to work. Since we wouldn’t be wiring anything together, it’s on your schedule. Some people can power through and regain a normal schedule in a month. Others take two or three. I did this in the middle of a shoot once, and the patient went back to filming two days later, but that’s actors for you. The entire healing process can take about a year, with up to another year once we hand you off for the second phase.”
Wilford didn’t know what to say after that. He could miss a month. Hand off to Mandy like he’d done when he updated his vaccines. People liked Mandy. He got good ratings. But the last time he took a month off work, it almost drove him mad. He’d have to find something to keep himself busy in that time.
“Go home. Think about it. Call me in about a week,” Dr Clarke said.
Wilford nodded. “Yeah. I’ll think about it.”
Worse, it was the first time he’d seen this particular dentist, so he was in for a whole new line of scolding and getting his face wrenched around in ways that it didn’t want to move. First visits also meant X-rays and weird scolding about grinding his teeth. As if he could help it.
X-rays weren’t supposed to hurt. Be uncomfortable and weirdly invasive, sure. But most people probably didn’t get searing pain in their entire right side of their face. The technician kept asking Wilford to do something he could not do, and getting more and more frustrated every time he said that it wasn’t happening. It took twice as long as it should have to get the pictures, but at least these things were all digital now so there was no waiting around forever to get them developed only to find out they had to go back and do it all over again. Wilford was glad to go wait in a cold, impersonal room when it was over. At least there was a TV with a remote, so he was able to find something worth watching while he waited for the dentist to come give him a scolding.
He finally showed up after at least a half hour, flipping through a few pages on his clipboard. “Heard you gave the tech a hard time,” he said.
“She wouldn’t listen,” Wilford said unapologetically.
Behind him, where Wilford couldn’t see, the dentist started clicking around on his computer. “We’re here for a check and a cleaning, right?” he asked.
“Yep,” Wilford said. He wanted to go home already. Here it came. The dentist made a weird, vaguely concerned noise before sliding over and putting on his gloves. Wilford knew he should have bullied Nichola harder into being his ride home so he could smoke a joint first and just sleep through this ordeal. Apparently some stupid meeting came before him.
“Let’s take a quick look at see what we’re dealing with,” the dentist said, leaning Wilford’s chair back and turning on the light. Wilford obediently opened his mouth, and immediately had his jaw pulled awkwardly when the dentist stuck his fingers into his mouth.
“Ow!” he said, jerking away quickly.
“That hurt?” the dentist asked.
“Yes.” Obviously. Christ, Wilford hated dentists. Every single one of them was an absolute sadist.
“Bite down for me,” the dentist asked.
Wilford did, just to get this over with more quickly. The dentist pulled his cheeks away, which didn’t hurt, but was still awful. “What’s the story with that?” he asked as he slid back to his computer.
It took every ounce of restraint for Wilford to not get up and leave. This was the fucking worst in every possible way.
“Broke my jaw as a kid,” he said, trying to find a comfortable spot in a chair that was designed for torture.
“How’d you do that?” Wilford could hear him typing.
“Pissed off someone bigger than me. I was about fifteen.”
The dentist hummed. “Whoever put you back together sure did a real hack job of it. You ever consider getting it fixed?”
Wilford would have laughed, if it weren’t true. “Probably not much they can do about it,” he said.
“I know a guy. I’ll get you his number. I bet you can even get the network to foot the bill,” the dentist said as he typed away. “He mostly works on prettying up young up-and-comers trying to break into the business, but he does a good job.”
Wilford didn’t say anything as he listened to the dentist do his thing behind him. It had never occurred to him that it could be fixed. It had been that way for more than half his life. If they could have fixed it, they would have done that the first time. Eventually, the dentist left to go do something else, returning about ten minutes later with the X-ray tech Wilford had shouted at, and a tray of tools. There were also two little paper cups, which he handed to Wilford. One had a couple of little orange-coated pills, and the other was full of water. Anti-inflammatories, the dentist explained. It probably wouldn’t do much, but it couldn’t hurt. Shrugging, Wilford took the pills and got ready for the hour of torture ahead of him as everything was poked and prodded and picked at, and then scrubbed raw.
The pills didn’t help. He still left the clinic with a raging migraine and a throbbing pain that shot all the way down to his shoulder. Once in his car, he swallowed a few more pills from the glovebox and closed his eyes, waiting for a long while for everything to calm down enough for him to be able to drive. He wanted to go home, but the studio was closer. He could sulk there just as easily. After about a half hour of sulking in his car, he started it up and got onto the road. He wasn’t sure if traffic was worse than usual, or if his mood just made it seem worse, but he managed to get to the studio in one piece. Once in his dressing room, he found his weed stash in his desk and rolled the sloppiest joint ever. He spared just enough time to pull up a playlist on his phone and put it in its charging dock before he lit up, with the intent to sleep through the rest of the day.
He was woken abruptly to the sound of his door slamming open and someone giggling loudly. A couple of people he’d never seen before seemed just as surprised to see him as he was of them. When the didn’t leave, he took off one of his shoes and threw it at them.
“Sorry!” one of them shouted, ducking and running away, with his friend close behind him.
Wilford got up to close his door, but left his shoe out in the hall. He kicked off the other one and sat back in his chair, still feeling sore and stretched out from his morning’s torture session. He’d suddenly remembered the business card he’d been given, and pulled it out of his pocket to look at it. There was nothing special about it, which gave it credibility. No flashy logos or bright colours. It was a very simple, plain card with the man’s practise and information on it. The kind of clean, professional card from someone who didn’t need flashy graphics to sell their service.
He thought about it, and even picked up his phone a few times. He didn’t need the network to pay for anything, and odds are he’d piss someone off by needing to take the time off. As awful as it was, a horrible speech impediment had become part of his brand. And wasn’t that disgusting? He had a brand. Gross.
But he could always say no. He could get a consultation, get some info, and decide it wasn’t worth it. That was definitely an option.
Two days later, he was in the man’s office. Not the cold, impersonal office at the dental clinic, but a proper office, with a desk and pictures of smiling kids and football trophies. Fresh X-rays had been taken, which went several orders of magnitude smoother than they had last time. Wilford had never actually seen his own X-rays before. He’d never been that interested in looking at his own teeth. But these ones weren’t about his teeth. And he was pretty sure bones weren’t supposed to look like that.
Wilford listened to Dr Clarke explain what the problem was and how he’d go about fixing it. It was… involved. Surgery, bone breaking, wires and plates, and then a hand-off to an orthodontist for pins and springs and posts to replace teeth that would probably get lost in the process. Side effects from the surgery that could be permanent.
It sounded like a nightmare. He was even less sure it would be worth it than he was before he’d come in.
“How long would I be off the air?” he asked. That was the single most important question. If it took him off the air for half a year, then there was no point at all.
“It depends on the pain,” Dr Clarke said. “And how comfortable you feel going back to work. Since we wouldn’t be wiring anything together, it’s on your schedule. Some people can power through and regain a normal schedule in a month. Others take two or three. I did this in the middle of a shoot once, and the patient went back to filming two days later, but that’s actors for you. The entire healing process can take about a year, with up to another year once we hand you off for the second phase.”
Wilford didn’t know what to say after that. He could miss a month. Hand off to Mandy like he’d done when he updated his vaccines. People liked Mandy. He got good ratings. But the last time he took a month off work, it almost drove him mad. He’d have to find something to keep himself busy in that time.
“Go home. Think about it. Call me in about a week,” Dr Clarke said.
Wilford nodded. “Yeah. I’ll think about it.”