the question that comes forward [original]
title: The Question that Comes Forward
rating: PG-13
fandom/pairing: No fandom, original fic (gasp!); unnamed male character / unnamed female character.
spoilers/warnings: No spoilers (le durr); slight language because um.
summary: He wants to laugh.
words: 521
disclaimer: I technically own this I guess, but I do not own the lyrics from Cute Is What We Aim For's "Curse of Curves".
a/n: For the writerverseweekly drabble challenge prompt "hypocrisy". This is kind of part of a verse I've been playing with for a while, but maybe it doesn't stand too odiously on its own?
“Don’t lie to me,” she says, glaring, and he wants to laugh because he doesn’t think she’s ever told him a single sincere thing in all the years that he’s known her.
He looks away, ignores the tapping of her foot on echoing tiles, and mutters something that doesn’t mean anything. It’s something to the effect of, “I never said anything like that,” and she groans, annoyed, by means of a reply.
“Don’t avoid the question like that - it’s a shitty thing to do,” she states, and he wants to laugh because she’s never once in their acquaintanceship been straight with him, so who is she to talk?
His fingers twist in the hem of his t-shirt, and he mumbles an apology that he thinks she might roll her eyes at.
“Hey -” sharply, and it’s followed by nothing.
Cautiously, he glances at her, not because he’s curious (because he’s never been like her, never nosy, never curious to a fault) or because she’s beautiful enough to draw gazes no matter what she’s doing (because he thinks she is, supposes she must be, but he can’t tell it for himself), but because sometimes he just likes to look at her. She won’t meet his eyes, and that’s typical, but her distinctive slouching is inexplicably absent from her posture.
She sits erect, discomforted and unlike herself.
“Hey,” she repeats, in a way that he thinks she must mean to be gentle. It looks as though it’s killing her, and she swallows hard before looking back at him.
Something about seeing her trying makes him uncomfortable, like it’s for his sake that she’s putting herself through her own kind of hell. In the morning, he might feel better about it, he might smile at the knowledge that she put herself (with her lack of social graces) through that, just for him, but in the moment, it just unnerves him in a way different from how she usually does.
“Yes,” he admits, and he can’t look at her anymore because it makes him feel ashamed.
She sighs, like it’s exactly the answer she didn’t want to hear, and he knew that anyway, but feels less guilty for it.
“Okay,” she says, breathing slowly and shutting her eyes. “Okay,” she says again, fingers running through the dark hair bunched into a low ponytail under her left ear. “Okay,” and it sounds like something she’s doing only because if she doesn’t, she might lose it.
He’s not sure what it is, but knows that it’s something she needs to keep.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly, and stands to leave.
His fingers are curled around the handle of the door, when she calls waveringly after him, “Don’t lie to me.”
He wants to laugh, because of course she thinks that it’s a lie, and of course she doesn’t understand that sometimes it just hurts and he really is sorry, and of course of course of course.
The door swings shut behind him with an almost inaudible click. He pretends he can hear her adding something to him, but she stays silent and he’s not nearly imaginative enough.
rating: PG-13
fandom/pairing: No fandom, original fic (gasp!); unnamed male character / unnamed female character.
spoilers/warnings: No spoilers (le durr); slight language because um.
summary: He wants to laugh.
words: 521
disclaimer: I technically own this I guess, but I do not own the lyrics from Cute Is What We Aim For's "Curse of Curves".
a/n: For the writerverseweekly drabble challenge prompt "hypocrisy". This is kind of part of a verse I've been playing with for a while, but maybe it doesn't stand too odiously on its own?
“Don’t lie to me,” she says, glaring, and he wants to laugh because he doesn’t think she’s ever told him a single sincere thing in all the years that he’s known her.
He looks away, ignores the tapping of her foot on echoing tiles, and mutters something that doesn’t mean anything. It’s something to the effect of, “I never said anything like that,” and she groans, annoyed, by means of a reply.
“Don’t avoid the question like that - it’s a shitty thing to do,” she states, and he wants to laugh because she’s never once in their acquaintanceship been straight with him, so who is she to talk?
His fingers twist in the hem of his t-shirt, and he mumbles an apology that he thinks she might roll her eyes at.
“Hey -” sharply, and it’s followed by nothing.
Cautiously, he glances at her, not because he’s curious (because he’s never been like her, never nosy, never curious to a fault) or because she’s beautiful enough to draw gazes no matter what she’s doing (because he thinks she is, supposes she must be, but he can’t tell it for himself), but because sometimes he just likes to look at her. She won’t meet his eyes, and that’s typical, but her distinctive slouching is inexplicably absent from her posture.
She sits erect, discomforted and unlike herself.
“Hey,” she repeats, in a way that he thinks she must mean to be gentle. It looks as though it’s killing her, and she swallows hard before looking back at him.
Something about seeing her trying makes him uncomfortable, like it’s for his sake that she’s putting herself through her own kind of hell. In the morning, he might feel better about it, he might smile at the knowledge that she put herself (with her lack of social graces) through that, just for him, but in the moment, it just unnerves him in a way different from how she usually does.
“Yes,” he admits, and he can’t look at her anymore because it makes him feel ashamed.
She sighs, like it’s exactly the answer she didn’t want to hear, and he knew that anyway, but feels less guilty for it.
“Okay,” she says, breathing slowly and shutting her eyes. “Okay,” she says again, fingers running through the dark hair bunched into a low ponytail under her left ear. “Okay,” and it sounds like something she’s doing only because if she doesn’t, she might lose it.
He’s not sure what it is, but knows that it’s something she needs to keep.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly, and stands to leave.
His fingers are curled around the handle of the door, when she calls waveringly after him, “Don’t lie to me.”
He wants to laugh, because of course she thinks that it’s a lie, and of course she doesn’t understand that sometimes it just hurts and he really is sorry, and of course of course of course.
The door swings shut behind him with an almost inaudible click. He pretends he can hear her adding something to him, but she stays silent and he’s not nearly imaginative enough.