The Devil Paints a Double Life (all we know is, he's called The Stig)
Title: The Devil Paints a Double Life (all we know is, he’s called The Stig)
Pairings: Villa/Silva, one sided Xabi/Stevie
Rated: PG-13
WC: 3147
Disclaimer: Not true
Summary: A crackish Top Gear AU where Xavi, Xabi, and Cesc are Jeremy, James, and Richard, Jose Mourinho runs 'Special One Matchmaking', and David Villa is The Stig
A/N: Part of my Top Gear AU verse (first piece can be found here). Once again you don’t have to have watched Top Gear for this to make sense though for this bit it might help as it’s about the Stig. As always, comments are appreciated
Thank you albion_lass and tempered_rose for beta help. I truly appreciate it.
This is for bumblebee13 who put this idea into my head
There is something ironic about being famous and having no one know your name. David loves his job. He works with cars all day long and brings home a large paycheck for doing so. People all around the world know who he is, yet at the same time no one knows who he is. His job brings him the same amount of stress as it does happiness. The only people who know his identity are his coworkers, but as everyone knows who they are, they don’t share his unique problem. The only person he wants to tell, he can’t- he’s bound by contracts, angry lawyers, and the potential fury of a media empire. David doesn’t like secrets but that’s all his life seems to be.
The lights in the large warehouse dim and he takes his place in the back of the room, away from the crowd, the man behind the curtain. The familiar song of the opening credits fills the room and Xavi’s voice booms over the speakers:
“Tonight on Top Gear, Xabi and Cesc go on a romantic gondola ride in Venice, and I do the automotive Mambo Italiano.”
The rest of the opening song plays, and from the TV in the cordoned off area of the warehouse set, David watches as the camera zooms in on Xavi. The short presenter is smiling sardonically into the camera. Sometimes David thinks Xavi was born a grumpy old man.
“Despite my disdain for his profession, footballer David Silva is here as our star in a reasonably priced car.”
“Did he have to sit on your little box so he could see over the dash?” Cesc asks and Xavi glares at him. “Anyway, this is a Bugatti Grand Sport…”
Cesc lists off the impressive specs for Bugatti’s newest super car as David zones out. It’s a brilliant car- handles well, the engine’s the most powerful he’s handled in a long time, and it’s not hard on the eyes. He’s particularly impressed with the rear spoiler which automatically adjusts its angle depending on speed and whether or not the roof is down. Normally David would watch with more interest but he’s too nervous to be able to truly appreciate anything automotive related right now.
“Oh, hello again.”
David turns to see the hesitant smile of David Silva. He’s never been more grateful for his helmet than right now. He doesn’t have to say a word. The Stig never says a word.
* * *
Andres is the one who convinces David to go to a matchmaker. David didn’t even know there were still matchmakers, much less matchmakers that specialized in gay men. David’s convinced himself that he’s destined to spend life alone at this point- he’s thirty-two, gay, and lives a double life as a tamed racecar driver. The dating pool is already slim and there aren’t many men who will put up with the silence around David’s job. Most of his previous boyfriends assumed David is working for the mob or cheating on them. He needs someone who understands discretion and so far, it’s been nothing but nightmares.
David feels naked as he sits in front of the matchmaker who is scribbling down everything David says in a little black book. He had pictured an old woman, a grandmother or yenta-type woman, but sitting across from him is a short little Portuguese man named Mourinho who has a somewhat sinister feel around him. Mourinho doesn’t look like a matchmaker, but Andres had insisted that he was the best and was who everyone went to.
“And what do you do for a living, Mr. Villa?” Mourinho’s sharp voice cuts across the room.
“I work for the BBC,” David tells him. “I’m a contractor.”
“What type?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
Mourinho doesn’t look up as he continues to write, occasionally grabbing another black book to flip through and reference. There’s a poster of Chelsea FC behind Mourinho’s desk and David feels like the players are judging him. Drogba is smiling but David’s convinced that he’s secretly calling David a ‘fucking disgrace’ for having to use a matchmaker. At least, he would be if posters could talk.
“Now Mr. Villa, I’m not exactly sure what you do, but I’m sure you understand the importance of discretion,” Mourinho slides a paper with a lot of fine print in front of David. “Many of my clients, perhaps you included, have careers that would be harmed or ruined if it came to public light that they were using my services. This is a contract I ask everyone to sign, guaranteeing your silence.”
“Or?”
Mourinho just smiles. It’s the same smile a wolf would give its prey before killing it. David doesn’t bother to read the paper before he signs it. His life is already nothing but masks and silence.
* * *
The crowd watches as on the TV Cesc and Xabi race across a crowded square in Venice. The point of view switches back and forth between the duo, who are now in a gondola, to Xavi, who is screaming at pedestrians to get out of his way as he drives through the Italian city. The orchestral music swells to a crescendo before the scene cuts away and the lights in the warehouse come up.
“More on that later,” Xavi is standing on their small, elevated stage. “Our guest tonight has been described as silky, small, a pony, and magical. Put all that together and you’ve got something that Cesc Fabregas dreams about at night. Ladies and gentlemen- David Silva!”
Silva has a bashful smile on his face as he waves to the applauding crowd and makes his way to the stage. David watches as Xavi questions him on his automotive history, making fun of him for not learning how to drive until in his early 20s. Silva answers every question with a shy grin. It’s endearing that even after more than a decade playing in front of thousands of people, he’s still this nervous speaking in front of crowds.
“So, someone told us that The Stig is an idol of yours,” Xavi says and Silva laughs. “What was he like?”
“Quiet, really tense,” Silva tells him, humor in his voice. “I think he thought I would crash the car and kill us both. I think he cringed every time we went around Gambon.”
“He’s not very chatty, is he?”
“No.”
“You know he’s a City supporter?” Xavi looks into the camera. “Ladies and Gentlemen, would you like to see a picture of The Stig’s office?” The crowd cheers. “Here we are then.”
David is scowling inside his helmet as the TV’s show a picture of his office. The walls are plastered with pictures and posters of cars, places David has traveled, but the sky blue posters of Manchester City stand out amongst them. Silva is on all of the posters and David isn’t sure if he’s blushing or bitchfacing harder. He’s going to kill Xavi.
* * *
When Mourinho contacts David with the date and time of his first meeting, David almost calls the whole thing off. Andres corners him and tells him patiently that this is David’s best shot at finding someone and Andres just wants him to be happy. It’s hard to say no to Andres when he has his pleading face on. It’s even harder to say no to Andres when the head mechanic, Victor, is standing behind him, looking like he’ll break the arm of anyone who makes Andres upset.
“I just don’t know how good a man who calls his company ‘Special One Matchmaking’ can possibly be,” David grumbles. “Seriously- ‘Special One Matchmaking, helping you find the special one for your life’? That’s so tacky.”
Andres just stares at him. David wonders if Andres uses this look to keep Xavi in line or if Victor shows up when the often petulant presenter doesn’t listen to Andres. David wonders what Andres did in his past life to be stuck being Xavi’s personal assistant in this one. However the stare works and David finds himself sitting in a private room in some posh restaurant he would have never set foot in otherwise and feeling horribly out of place. His date is running late and David wonders if whoever it is has gotten cold feet and decided not to come. After ten minutes, he’s considering bailing out when the door opens.
“I’m so sorry that I’m late,” David knows that he’s staring but he can’t help it. “I’m not normally late, but I over slept and I didn’t hear my alarm go off and there was bad traffic and I’m babbling. I do that when I’m nervous. Hi,” a brilliant smile, “I’m David.” David is still staring at the other David, who just laughs. “I guess you already knew that.”
That jolts David out of his silence. It’s a hazard of his current occupation, being spoken to and not responding, but he’s not at his job and he’s being rude.
“Sorry,” his laugh is sheepish, self conscious. “I’m David too.”
“Then call me Silva, everyone does anyway.”
David is very aware of the fact that one of the best footballers in the country is sitting in front of him, making conversation and actually getting to know him. David finds himself disarmed by Silva’s smile and drawn to his personality, a personality not at all like he would have imagined. Silva is quiet in the public light but here in a locked away room, he is far from shy. The way his eyes light up when he speaks, the childlike sincerity in his words and smile, even the way he gestures while speaking; Silva is effortlessly charming and David knows he’s in over his head before their main course even arrives.
“So what do you do for a living?” Silva asks him while twirling his fork in a bowl of pasta; David’s thinking what Silva’s hand would like making that motion around something not so innocent.
“Oh, uh,” David coughs. “I’m a contractor. Right now I’m working with the BBC.”
“That’s interesting… what type of contract work do you do?”
“I… I provide a certain set of skills for an undisclosed part of the BBC,” David feels like a parrot spouting off the only job description he’s allowed to give.
“Oh,” Silva looks up at him, “so is that a fancy way of saying you’re a prostitute or something?”
David laughs so hard the water in his glass he’s holding sloshes over the edge and down his hand. “If that’s how you want to interpret that.”
Silva grins. “How much to contract your services for tonight then?”
No, he’s not shy at all.
“The first consultation is always free.”
* * *
“Is there anyone on the board that you’d like to beat?”
Silva looks at the long list of names that comprise the ‘Star in a Reasonably Priced Car’ wall. The audience has just watched his lap and everyone is waiting to see what his final time is. David’s biting his lip under his helmet; Silva’s been talking about this for weeks. He’s been so excited that David knows ranking on the bottom half of the board will break Silva’s heart.
“Mmmm…. I’d like to beat Fernando Torres,” Silva tells Xavi. “When I told him I was coming on the show, he said he didn’t think I’d beat his time.”
“I didn’t know footballers and chefs ran in the same circles. But anyway, you did it in one… thirty…” the crowd lets out a surprised sound as Silva looks at Xavi half excited, half nervous, “eight point three.” Xavi takes the white magnetic strip with Silva’s name and time and puts it on the wall as the audience claps. “That puts you well past your pastry-pushing friend.”
“He’s going to be in a right mood when he finds out.”
“Just buy him a piece of cheesecake,” Xavi tells him and Silva wrinkles his nose as he laughs. “David Silva everyone!”
The audience is loud as Silva shakes Xavi’s hand. The camera switched over to Xabi, who is standing next to a map of Venice. Silva is ushered off the stage back into the cordoned off area. David can’t help himself- he gives Silva a nod and a thumbs up. The radiant smile he receives in return is worth the break in character.
* * *
There are more people who know David is The Stig than there are people who know about his relationship with Silva. Most people at the Top Gear office know him as David the script writer- not that he’s ever written anything, but they don’t know that. The presenters, their assistants, the producers and a few others here and there are the only ones who know he is The Stig. The presenters and their assistants are the only ones who know about Silva. David knows Silva has told a few of him teammates and his family. David’s family think that he is an accountant who is straight and single. What’s one more lie?
“Aren’t you afraid of Liverpool’s defense?”
City is playing Liverpool today and he’s brought Xabi with him. Poking fun at the presenter for his more than obvious crush on Steven Gerrard will make being invisible a little more bearable. David never sits in the box with the family and friends of the players- there’s too much risk. Instead, Silva always pulls a few strings to get him tickets behind the bench. David doesn’t go to many games. He understands that secrecy is vital to Silva’s career, hell it’s the pillar of David’s career, but he is still frustrated.
“He’s tougher than he looks,” David tells him, “he can take a beating.”
Xabi lifts a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at him and David elbows him in the side. As the teams take the field and the familiar words of Blue Moon echo across the stadium, David stares at his boyfriend, dwarfed in between Kompany and Hart. Silva is small, but David knows he can hold his own. Next to him, Xabi is staring at Steven, a frown on his face.
“What’s worse- being with someone you love but being unable to tell the world, or having the world know you’re in love with someone but not being able to tell that person?”
David doesn’t have an answer.
* * *
David hates the spring. There are times when he goes weeks without seeing Silva. They’ve been together for two years now and David spends most of his time in Manchester with Silva. However, every spring, he returns to his dull apartment in London during the week as Top Gear returns to filming. If City is playing away on the weekend, there is a good chance Silva won’t be back before David has to return to London. The fact that David can’t tell Silva what he’s doing in London adds unnecessary strain to their relationship. He knows Silva understands that he’s not allowed to talk about it, but it doesn’t mean Silva fully accepts it.
Silva plays every weekend. He’s too tired or too anxious that their relationship will be discovered for the two of them to leave their house. David’s too worn out from working all week to be bothered that sex and fooling around all but disappears from their life. He doesn’t care- he’s too busy worrying that Silva will grow tired of him and his evasiveness. They’re both tired, something needs to change, but neither of them is able to be the catalyst to that change.
“Will you tell me if I guess correctly?” Silva asks him one night.
They’re sitting on the couch, sharing a blanket and body heat as they watch a Dr. Who marathon. David has his hand tangled in Silva’s hair at the base of his neck, slow heartbeat playing a pattern against his fingertips. Silva’s barely awake- City had crushed Wigan earlier in the day and Silva played the whole 90. David likes Silva when he’s tired like this; all of the younger man’s worry and anxiety is gone, replace by disconnected thoughts of their future. David likes that Silva thinks of their future together.
“Sure.” David knows Silva will never guess correctly.
“I always secretly hope that you’re a secret agent like James Bond,” Silva’s eyes are closing and he grows heavier as he collapses against David.
“I don’t think I’d be a good spy.”
“Mmmmm I just like…. You in a suit… and bad ass car chases.”
Silva trails off and David knows he’s asleep. David wishes he could cry because he thinks lying might be that much easier.
* * *
On the screen, Cesc has a gelato cone upside down on his head and Xabi has a satisfied look on his face. The cold, pink liquid is inching down Cesc’s face while Xavi hoots with laughter. As the screen cuts back to the Top Gear logo, the audience bursts out into applause.
“So there you have it! The best way to make it from Rome to Venice is in the new Lamborghini Aventador. That is, if you have the two hundred thousand pounds to spare for it. I guess Signore Berlusconi should work on making the trains run on time. And on that bombshell, goodnight!”
David is hot and uncomfortable in his racing suit and helmet. By this time he would have normally gone to see Sergio in wardrobe, but being out of costume tonight is too much of a risk. Silva is still backstage and David can’t chance Silva seeing him.
“Mr. Stig?”
Silva appears before him, uncertainty on his face. David feels like a concrete statue, unable to move a single muscle. He hates this collision of his two hidden worlds.
“I just wanted to say thank you.” Silva tells him, fidgeting with his hands, not really looking at him. David understands- it’s intimidated to look at a helmet and not be able to see the person staring back at you. “I know I’m not the easiest person to teach, so thank you for being so patient. I had a really good time.” He bites his lip. “And uh… if you really are a City supporter, I can get you tickets for a game, as a thank you… if you want.”
David doesn’t move. Statues don’t move. Silva just nods and turns to walk away. David wants to reach out to him, to run his fingers through Silva’s hair, to take off his helmet and kiss his boyfriend in front of everyone, destroying the shadows of his hidden world. He doesn’t though, choosing instead to watch Silva walk away. David’s never been more grateful for his helmet. He doesn’t want anyone to see the misery on his face.
Some say that instead of a heart he has a four stroke piston engine, all we know is he’s called The Stig
Pairings: Villa/Silva, one sided Xabi/Stevie
Rated: PG-13
WC: 3147
Disclaimer: Not true
Summary: A crackish Top Gear AU where Xavi, Xabi, and Cesc are Jeremy, James, and Richard, Jose Mourinho runs 'Special One Matchmaking', and David Villa is The Stig
A/N: Part of my Top Gear AU verse (first piece can be found here). Once again you don’t have to have watched Top Gear for this to make sense though for this bit it might help as it’s about the Stig. As always, comments are appreciated
Thank you albion_lass and tempered_rose for beta help. I truly appreciate it.
This is for bumblebee13 who put this idea into my head
There is something ironic about being famous and having no one know your name. David loves his job. He works with cars all day long and brings home a large paycheck for doing so. People all around the world know who he is, yet at the same time no one knows who he is. His job brings him the same amount of stress as it does happiness. The only people who know his identity are his coworkers, but as everyone knows who they are, they don’t share his unique problem. The only person he wants to tell, he can’t- he’s bound by contracts, angry lawyers, and the potential fury of a media empire. David doesn’t like secrets but that’s all his life seems to be.
The lights in the large warehouse dim and he takes his place in the back of the room, away from the crowd, the man behind the curtain. The familiar song of the opening credits fills the room and Xavi’s voice booms over the speakers:
“Tonight on Top Gear, Xabi and Cesc go on a romantic gondola ride in Venice, and I do the automotive Mambo Italiano.”
The rest of the opening song plays, and from the TV in the cordoned off area of the warehouse set, David watches as the camera zooms in on Xavi. The short presenter is smiling sardonically into the camera. Sometimes David thinks Xavi was born a grumpy old man.
“Despite my disdain for his profession, footballer David Silva is here as our star in a reasonably priced car.”
“Did he have to sit on your little box so he could see over the dash?” Cesc asks and Xavi glares at him. “Anyway, this is a Bugatti Grand Sport…”
Cesc lists off the impressive specs for Bugatti’s newest super car as David zones out. It’s a brilliant car- handles well, the engine’s the most powerful he’s handled in a long time, and it’s not hard on the eyes. He’s particularly impressed with the rear spoiler which automatically adjusts its angle depending on speed and whether or not the roof is down. Normally David would watch with more interest but he’s too nervous to be able to truly appreciate anything automotive related right now.
“Oh, hello again.”
David turns to see the hesitant smile of David Silva. He’s never been more grateful for his helmet than right now. He doesn’t have to say a word. The Stig never says a word.
* * *
Andres is the one who convinces David to go to a matchmaker. David didn’t even know there were still matchmakers, much less matchmakers that specialized in gay men. David’s convinced himself that he’s destined to spend life alone at this point- he’s thirty-two, gay, and lives a double life as a tamed racecar driver. The dating pool is already slim and there aren’t many men who will put up with the silence around David’s job. Most of his previous boyfriends assumed David is working for the mob or cheating on them. He needs someone who understands discretion and so far, it’s been nothing but nightmares.
David feels naked as he sits in front of the matchmaker who is scribbling down everything David says in a little black book. He had pictured an old woman, a grandmother or yenta-type woman, but sitting across from him is a short little Portuguese man named Mourinho who has a somewhat sinister feel around him. Mourinho doesn’t look like a matchmaker, but Andres had insisted that he was the best and was who everyone went to.
“And what do you do for a living, Mr. Villa?” Mourinho’s sharp voice cuts across the room.
“I work for the BBC,” David tells him. “I’m a contractor.”
“What type?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
Mourinho doesn’t look up as he continues to write, occasionally grabbing another black book to flip through and reference. There’s a poster of Chelsea FC behind Mourinho’s desk and David feels like the players are judging him. Drogba is smiling but David’s convinced that he’s secretly calling David a ‘fucking disgrace’ for having to use a matchmaker. At least, he would be if posters could talk.
“Now Mr. Villa, I’m not exactly sure what you do, but I’m sure you understand the importance of discretion,” Mourinho slides a paper with a lot of fine print in front of David. “Many of my clients, perhaps you included, have careers that would be harmed or ruined if it came to public light that they were using my services. This is a contract I ask everyone to sign, guaranteeing your silence.”
“Or?”
Mourinho just smiles. It’s the same smile a wolf would give its prey before killing it. David doesn’t bother to read the paper before he signs it. His life is already nothing but masks and silence.
* * *
The crowd watches as on the TV Cesc and Xabi race across a crowded square in Venice. The point of view switches back and forth between the duo, who are now in a gondola, to Xavi, who is screaming at pedestrians to get out of his way as he drives through the Italian city. The orchestral music swells to a crescendo before the scene cuts away and the lights in the warehouse come up.
“More on that later,” Xavi is standing on their small, elevated stage. “Our guest tonight has been described as silky, small, a pony, and magical. Put all that together and you’ve got something that Cesc Fabregas dreams about at night. Ladies and gentlemen- David Silva!”
Silva has a bashful smile on his face as he waves to the applauding crowd and makes his way to the stage. David watches as Xavi questions him on his automotive history, making fun of him for not learning how to drive until in his early 20s. Silva answers every question with a shy grin. It’s endearing that even after more than a decade playing in front of thousands of people, he’s still this nervous speaking in front of crowds.
“So, someone told us that The Stig is an idol of yours,” Xavi says and Silva laughs. “What was he like?”
“Quiet, really tense,” Silva tells him, humor in his voice. “I think he thought I would crash the car and kill us both. I think he cringed every time we went around Gambon.”
“He’s not very chatty, is he?”
“No.”
“You know he’s a City supporter?” Xavi looks into the camera. “Ladies and Gentlemen, would you like to see a picture of The Stig’s office?” The crowd cheers. “Here we are then.”
David is scowling inside his helmet as the TV’s show a picture of his office. The walls are plastered with pictures and posters of cars, places David has traveled, but the sky blue posters of Manchester City stand out amongst them. Silva is on all of the posters and David isn’t sure if he’s blushing or bitchfacing harder. He’s going to kill Xavi.
* * *
When Mourinho contacts David with the date and time of his first meeting, David almost calls the whole thing off. Andres corners him and tells him patiently that this is David’s best shot at finding someone and Andres just wants him to be happy. It’s hard to say no to Andres when he has his pleading face on. It’s even harder to say no to Andres when the head mechanic, Victor, is standing behind him, looking like he’ll break the arm of anyone who makes Andres upset.
“I just don’t know how good a man who calls his company ‘Special One Matchmaking’ can possibly be,” David grumbles. “Seriously- ‘Special One Matchmaking, helping you find the special one for your life’? That’s so tacky.”
Andres just stares at him. David wonders if Andres uses this look to keep Xavi in line or if Victor shows up when the often petulant presenter doesn’t listen to Andres. David wonders what Andres did in his past life to be stuck being Xavi’s personal assistant in this one. However the stare works and David finds himself sitting in a private room in some posh restaurant he would have never set foot in otherwise and feeling horribly out of place. His date is running late and David wonders if whoever it is has gotten cold feet and decided not to come. After ten minutes, he’s considering bailing out when the door opens.
“I’m so sorry that I’m late,” David knows that he’s staring but he can’t help it. “I’m not normally late, but I over slept and I didn’t hear my alarm go off and there was bad traffic and I’m babbling. I do that when I’m nervous. Hi,” a brilliant smile, “I’m David.” David is still staring at the other David, who just laughs. “I guess you already knew that.”
That jolts David out of his silence. It’s a hazard of his current occupation, being spoken to and not responding, but he’s not at his job and he’s being rude.
“Sorry,” his laugh is sheepish, self conscious. “I’m David too.”
“Then call me Silva, everyone does anyway.”
David is very aware of the fact that one of the best footballers in the country is sitting in front of him, making conversation and actually getting to know him. David finds himself disarmed by Silva’s smile and drawn to his personality, a personality not at all like he would have imagined. Silva is quiet in the public light but here in a locked away room, he is far from shy. The way his eyes light up when he speaks, the childlike sincerity in his words and smile, even the way he gestures while speaking; Silva is effortlessly charming and David knows he’s in over his head before their main course even arrives.
“So what do you do for a living?” Silva asks him while twirling his fork in a bowl of pasta; David’s thinking what Silva’s hand would like making that motion around something not so innocent.
“Oh, uh,” David coughs. “I’m a contractor. Right now I’m working with the BBC.”
“That’s interesting… what type of contract work do you do?”
“I… I provide a certain set of skills for an undisclosed part of the BBC,” David feels like a parrot spouting off the only job description he’s allowed to give.
“Oh,” Silva looks up at him, “so is that a fancy way of saying you’re a prostitute or something?”
David laughs so hard the water in his glass he’s holding sloshes over the edge and down his hand. “If that’s how you want to interpret that.”
Silva grins. “How much to contract your services for tonight then?”
No, he’s not shy at all.
“The first consultation is always free.”
* * *
“Is there anyone on the board that you’d like to beat?”
Silva looks at the long list of names that comprise the ‘Star in a Reasonably Priced Car’ wall. The audience has just watched his lap and everyone is waiting to see what his final time is. David’s biting his lip under his helmet; Silva’s been talking about this for weeks. He’s been so excited that David knows ranking on the bottom half of the board will break Silva’s heart.
“Mmmm…. I’d like to beat Fernando Torres,” Silva tells Xavi. “When I told him I was coming on the show, he said he didn’t think I’d beat his time.”
“I didn’t know footballers and chefs ran in the same circles. But anyway, you did it in one… thirty…” the crowd lets out a surprised sound as Silva looks at Xavi half excited, half nervous, “eight point three.” Xavi takes the white magnetic strip with Silva’s name and time and puts it on the wall as the audience claps. “That puts you well past your pastry-pushing friend.”
“He’s going to be in a right mood when he finds out.”
“Just buy him a piece of cheesecake,” Xavi tells him and Silva wrinkles his nose as he laughs. “David Silva everyone!”
The audience is loud as Silva shakes Xavi’s hand. The camera switched over to Xabi, who is standing next to a map of Venice. Silva is ushered off the stage back into the cordoned off area. David can’t help himself- he gives Silva a nod and a thumbs up. The radiant smile he receives in return is worth the break in character.
* * *
There are more people who know David is The Stig than there are people who know about his relationship with Silva. Most people at the Top Gear office know him as David the script writer- not that he’s ever written anything, but they don’t know that. The presenters, their assistants, the producers and a few others here and there are the only ones who know he is The Stig. The presenters and their assistants are the only ones who know about Silva. David knows Silva has told a few of him teammates and his family. David’s family think that he is an accountant who is straight and single. What’s one more lie?
“Aren’t you afraid of Liverpool’s defense?”
City is playing Liverpool today and he’s brought Xabi with him. Poking fun at the presenter for his more than obvious crush on Steven Gerrard will make being invisible a little more bearable. David never sits in the box with the family and friends of the players- there’s too much risk. Instead, Silva always pulls a few strings to get him tickets behind the bench. David doesn’t go to many games. He understands that secrecy is vital to Silva’s career, hell it’s the pillar of David’s career, but he is still frustrated.
“He’s tougher than he looks,” David tells him, “he can take a beating.”
Xabi lifts a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at him and David elbows him in the side. As the teams take the field and the familiar words of Blue Moon echo across the stadium, David stares at his boyfriend, dwarfed in between Kompany and Hart. Silva is small, but David knows he can hold his own. Next to him, Xabi is staring at Steven, a frown on his face.
“What’s worse- being with someone you love but being unable to tell the world, or having the world know you’re in love with someone but not being able to tell that person?”
David doesn’t have an answer.
* * *
David hates the spring. There are times when he goes weeks without seeing Silva. They’ve been together for two years now and David spends most of his time in Manchester with Silva. However, every spring, he returns to his dull apartment in London during the week as Top Gear returns to filming. If City is playing away on the weekend, there is a good chance Silva won’t be back before David has to return to London. The fact that David can’t tell Silva what he’s doing in London adds unnecessary strain to their relationship. He knows Silva understands that he’s not allowed to talk about it, but it doesn’t mean Silva fully accepts it.
Silva plays every weekend. He’s too tired or too anxious that their relationship will be discovered for the two of them to leave their house. David’s too worn out from working all week to be bothered that sex and fooling around all but disappears from their life. He doesn’t care- he’s too busy worrying that Silva will grow tired of him and his evasiveness. They’re both tired, something needs to change, but neither of them is able to be the catalyst to that change.
“Will you tell me if I guess correctly?” Silva asks him one night.
They’re sitting on the couch, sharing a blanket and body heat as they watch a Dr. Who marathon. David has his hand tangled in Silva’s hair at the base of his neck, slow heartbeat playing a pattern against his fingertips. Silva’s barely awake- City had crushed Wigan earlier in the day and Silva played the whole 90. David likes Silva when he’s tired like this; all of the younger man’s worry and anxiety is gone, replace by disconnected thoughts of their future. David likes that Silva thinks of their future together.
“Sure.” David knows Silva will never guess correctly.
“I always secretly hope that you’re a secret agent like James Bond,” Silva’s eyes are closing and he grows heavier as he collapses against David.
“I don’t think I’d be a good spy.”
“Mmmmm I just like…. You in a suit… and bad ass car chases.”
Silva trails off and David knows he’s asleep. David wishes he could cry because he thinks lying might be that much easier.
* * *
On the screen, Cesc has a gelato cone upside down on his head and Xabi has a satisfied look on his face. The cold, pink liquid is inching down Cesc’s face while Xavi hoots with laughter. As the screen cuts back to the Top Gear logo, the audience bursts out into applause.
“So there you have it! The best way to make it from Rome to Venice is in the new Lamborghini Aventador. That is, if you have the two hundred thousand pounds to spare for it. I guess Signore Berlusconi should work on making the trains run on time. And on that bombshell, goodnight!”
David is hot and uncomfortable in his racing suit and helmet. By this time he would have normally gone to see Sergio in wardrobe, but being out of costume tonight is too much of a risk. Silva is still backstage and David can’t chance Silva seeing him.
“Mr. Stig?”
Silva appears before him, uncertainty on his face. David feels like a concrete statue, unable to move a single muscle. He hates this collision of his two hidden worlds.
“I just wanted to say thank you.” Silva tells him, fidgeting with his hands, not really looking at him. David understands- it’s intimidated to look at a helmet and not be able to see the person staring back at you. “I know I’m not the easiest person to teach, so thank you for being so patient. I had a really good time.” He bites his lip. “And uh… if you really are a City supporter, I can get you tickets for a game, as a thank you… if you want.”
David doesn’t move. Statues don’t move. Silva just nods and turns to walk away. David wants to reach out to him, to run his fingers through Silva’s hair, to take off his helmet and kiss his boyfriend in front of everyone, destroying the shadows of his hidden world. He doesn’t though, choosing instead to watch Silva walk away. David’s never been more grateful for his helmet. He doesn’t want anyone to see the misery on his face.
Some say that instead of a heart he has a four stroke piston engine, all we know is he’s called The Stig