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Style has always been an enthusiastic and vocal member of the not a jeep club, but driving Fadel’s is making him rethink his stance.
He’s momentarily keeping that thought in the ever growing tell Fadel while he’s not holding a gun pile of thoughts in his head. There are some good ones in there. You look hot holding a gun. Can we get a re-do of the I love you thing? Seems like you might have missed it.
It’s not the gun that’s stopping him, if he’s being fully honest. Or, well, it’s not just the gun. It’s the combination of the gun and the frankly worrisome shadows under Fadel’s eyes, the line between his eyebrows and the way he keeps digging his fingers in the nape of his neck.
“You really should take a nap.”
Fadel throws an annoyed glance at the road in front of them. Style is kind of jealous. “Yeah, well, you really should shut the fuck up.”
“Have you tried shutting up when you have so many important things to say? It’s borderline criminal.” Style thinks about it for a second. “Unlike the kidnapping at gunpoint thing. That’s jumping over the line with both feet kind of criminal.”
Fadel glares at him, and Style counts it as a win. He shrugs. “You’re the one with the gun.” He looks down nonchalantly, at the dark space between them where he can still catch the gleam of the gun aimed at him.
“You’re the one who likes it,” Fadel spits out, and seems to immediately regret it as he looks away with a heavy sigh.
Too late.
“Funny you should mention it,” Style provides enthusiastically, adjusting his hold on the steering wheel so he can sit up a bit more, “It’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. I was just waiting for the right moment.”
“Any moment is a right moment when you’re about to die,” Fadel responds, voice low and eyes fixed outside his window.
Style’s brow creases for a moment. “It doesn’t seem like you follow your own philosophy. Firstly. Do you remember how long it took you to finally give in and sleep with me? The right time was when you crushed your car into mine.”
Fadel’s mouth snaps open and shut so quickly that Style would have missed it if it wasn’t for the fact that he’s alternating looking at him and the road like he’s watching a ping-pong match. He smirks. “Secondly, enough with the death threats. You’re overusing them and I fear they’ll stop doing it for me sooner than I’d like.”
Fadel glares at him. There’s genuine fury there, and Style braces himself, fingers tight on the wheel. Fadel turns fully towards him, gun aimed at Style’s stomach. Which, would hurt.
“Do you think it’s wise to remind me of the fact that you pretended to like me because of fucking Kant while I have a gun in my hands and no good reason to not fucking shoot you?”
Style tries to bite down on it. He really does. “I’m the one driving. That’s a pretty good reason.”
There is a moment of glacial silence before Fadel says, “Pull over.”
Style ponders his options for a moment. Death, if Fadel does actually want him dead. If not, well. He hasn’t had a chance to explain the gun thing as thoroughly as he would have liked quite yet.
He pulls over. It’s dark outside and there’s barely anyone around.
Fadel fights against the seatbelt and his shoulder to open the car door. Yeah, Style gets his gun speech ready.
Fadel opens the door on Style’s side and grabs a clumsy fistful of Style’s shirt to drag him out of the car – which would be easier, Style would like to point out, if it wasn’t a fucking jeep.
Style half steps, half tumbles out of the car, ends up standing on his tip-toes in an attempt to not crush into Fadel’s injured shoulder.
“You’re not driving now,” Fadel growls, hand still mercilessly twisting the fabric of Style’s shirt.
Style’s breath is a bit shallow. “You left the gun in the car.”
“You think I need a gun to kill you?”
And Style has to give him that. Hitman, after all. “No. I know you don’t.” He glances at Fadel’s lips because, yeah, Fadel doesn’t need a gun to kill him.
“I swear to god,” Fadel’s voice is shaking with anger, “I swear to fucking god, Style, if you kiss me right now I will kill you and I won’t think twice about it.”
Style’s eyes slide upwards. He considers Fadel for a moment. “You’re upset about the Kant thing,” he verbalizes slowly as the realization hits him, “You don’t – ”, he exhales an exasperated sigh as he opens his arms wide. “How many times do I have to tell you that I like you?”
He barely gets the words out before Fadel’s hand slams on his mouth, so much strength behind it that it sends them both falling back into the car, Fadel ending up on top of him with a pained moan as he hits Style left shoulder first.
“Oh, great plan,” Style grumbles, something digging painfully into his back, fucking jeeps. “Is this amateur hour?”
“Shut up,” Fadel says, but there is enough pain in his voice that it comes out more breath than sound. He braces his good hand on Style’s chest and pushes himself up, sweat collecting on his forehead, eyes shut.
“No,” Style says, bending his knees awkwardly as he pulls himself back up, “No, fuck you, I won’t shut up. Sure, you’ll kill me,” he parrots before Fadel can interrupt him. “Whatever, at least I’ll have made on thing fucking clear. Sit in the fucking car.”
Fadel’s shoulders move with the depth of his breaths, quick things he’s trying to sedate the pain with. He doesn’t move.
Style negotiates. “Your shoulder hurts,” he says, calmly. “Sit in the car, I’ll keep driving.”
Fadel doesn’t move, standing stubbornly in the shadows.
Style rolls his eyes. “I won’t say that I like you, okay? Is that enough?”
Fadel tilts his chin, ever so slightly.
“Please,” Style says, and it’s his last resort and his voice goes a little bit softer. “You look like you’re in a lot of pain.”
There is a moment of hesitation, and then, “See if you can keep your word about this, at least,” Fadel spits out.
Style thinks about getting in the car and leaving him there. But he does enjoy a challenge.
He gets in the car and slams the door shut. He’s back on the road before Fadel has gotten the chance to fully close his own.
“Have you lost your fucking mind?”
Style presses down on the accelerator. “Shoot me,” he says, eyes fixed on the road that’s lit up by the car’s headlights and seems endless in front of them. “I don’t care. You will listen to what I have to say, you’ve done way too much talking for someone who’s so bad at it.”
The briefest of silences is interrupted by Fadel’s bitter laugh. “Of course you’re this selfish.”
“Fuck off,” Style replies without missing a beat. “You know I am, and you like it.”
“I don’t like anything about you.”
It’s petty and childish, but it’s tinged with enough venom that Style feels it. He pushes it to the side for the moment. Fadel and he will have to talk about conflict resolution strategies.
“I fell in love with you when you blushed while we were having sex at my place – shut up, shut up, I didn’t say anything about liking you. And you know what, for the record? That was after Kant told me what you do for a living, or as a fifteenth fucking job, I don’t know, I’ve lost count. You fucking blushed, man, and I just lost it. Me.” He leaves a moment of silence to emphasize how unbelievable that had been. “You once asked me why I started flirting with you and sure, fine, okay? I started because Kant asked me to, and that was shitty of me, but do you seriously, seriously,” he looks at Fadel for good measure, “think I would have been able to go on for so long if I hadn’t found you fucking irresistible when I saw that you actually care and that you go to the market every morning for your restaurant and that you protect your brother and that you’re scared shitless and that you like heavy metal so much you learnt how to do makeup?”
Style might have raised his voice more than he’d intended. “Oh, and since we’re laying it all out here, I do find you hot as hell, too.”
Style shrugs his shoulders, trying to shrug the tension out of his neck. “So, be angry. Be furious at me because of the way this whole mess started. Be mad because I was unknowingly, by the way, technically working for the police. Shoot me. But I’ve had enough of you telling me how I feel. I know how I feel.”
He looks at Fadel, and he clearly thinks fuck the road for a moment. Fadel’s eyes are wide, his jaw clenched shut. If Style sees him cry one more time he might actually take his gun, turn back and go solve shit himself.
He takes a couple of deep breaths. He softens his voice because this is not a weapon. “I do love you. I don’t care. You’re my one-hundred percent.”
He turns his eyes to the road. “Even if I’m not yours.”
There is silence, and Style isn’t fully comfortable with it. He probably makes it one minute. “How’s your shoulder?”
When it takes Fadel more than a handful of seconds to reply, Style chances a look at him. He’s half expecting to find himself staring down the barrel of a gun.
But Fadel is just leaning against his seat, head tilted back slightly as he looks at him. He looks like he doesn’t know what to do with himself and is trying very hard to figure it out. Almost, it seems, against what he wishes was his better judgment, he says, “Eighty-one percent.”