Ficlet: Loose Lips (1/1)
Title: Loose Lips
Fandom: Top Gear UK
Rating: PG-13 for a couple swear words.
Pairing: ??/?? Purposely vague to be any 2 of the 3.
Word Count: 300ish
Summary: Accidentally revealed Unrequited!Angst.
Warnings: None. Italics = Thoughts.
He stops himself mid-sentence, mid-word, with an odd strangled bark of laughter. His stomach clenches with shock at what he’s just heard himself say. His friend (one of your best mates, you idiot!) stares at him, eyes widening.
Loose lips sink ships and I’m going down with this one.
He drops shakily onto the sofa and looks at the floor. Clearing his throat, he somehow finds the voice to ask, “I don’t suppose... we can just... rewind the last 10 seconds and pretend I never said that?”
Footsteps approach him, then a hesitant hand touches his shoulder. He doesn’t glance up, even when he gets his answer.
“No.” A pause. “I’m a rubbish actor.”
He laughs like he’s been stabbed. The fingers tighten their grip on him and he does his best to ignore them. “That’s true, you are.”
“You know I don’t--”
“I know, mate. I never meant to even-- I’m not trying to make a scene here. I’m not asking for anything, I never would.” He grits his teeth (don’t pity me, don’t pity me, please don’t fucking pity me) and forces himself to look up again. “Just leave it and we’ll move on, yeah?”
He finds only concern and helplessness in the eyes meeting his, and he’s even more grateful for that than he is for the nod of agreement.
The hand stays on his shoulder for a moment longer, though. “If I ever... If I did, it would be you. You know that, too, don’t you?”
It takes every scrap of restraint in him not to glare and push, pull and punch, grab and kiss. Instead he carefully moves away from the touch, rises and walks - just a few feet but enough to regain some control.
“Yeah.” That’s kind of the whole bloody point. “I do.”
Fandom: Top Gear UK
Rating: PG-13 for a couple swear words.
Pairing: ??/?? Purposely vague to be any 2 of the 3.
Word Count: 300ish
Summary: Accidentally revealed Unrequited!Angst.
Warnings: None. Italics = Thoughts.
He stops himself mid-sentence, mid-word, with an odd strangled bark of laughter. His stomach clenches with shock at what he’s just heard himself say. His friend (one of your best mates, you idiot!) stares at him, eyes widening.
Loose lips sink ships and I’m going down with this one.
He drops shakily onto the sofa and looks at the floor. Clearing his throat, he somehow finds the voice to ask, “I don’t suppose... we can just... rewind the last 10 seconds and pretend I never said that?”
Footsteps approach him, then a hesitant hand touches his shoulder. He doesn’t glance up, even when he gets his answer.
“No.” A pause. “I’m a rubbish actor.”
He laughs like he’s been stabbed. The fingers tighten their grip on him and he does his best to ignore them. “That’s true, you are.”
“You know I don’t--”
“I know, mate. I never meant to even-- I’m not trying to make a scene here. I’m not asking for anything, I never would.” He grits his teeth (don’t pity me, don’t pity me, please don’t fucking pity me) and forces himself to look up again. “Just leave it and we’ll move on, yeah?”
He finds only concern and helplessness in the eyes meeting his, and he’s even more grateful for that than he is for the nod of agreement.
The hand stays on his shoulder for a moment longer, though. “If I ever... If I did, it would be you. You know that, too, don’t you?”
It takes every scrap of restraint in him not to glare and push, pull and punch, grab and kiss. Instead he carefully moves away from the touch, rises and walks - just a few feet but enough to regain some control.
“Yeah.” That’s kind of the whole bloody point. “I do.”