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yesmaddyposts · 7 months ago

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Tell Me the Truth (Even If It's a Lie)

Fandom: Drive (2011) Word Count: 1.9K Relationships: Irene Gabriel x Standard Gabriel Tags: Autistic ! Driver, Asexual ! Driver, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Toxic Masculinity, During Canon, Ableist Language AO3 Link

Description: Standard has some questions for Driver that he isn't sure he can answer.

Things have been good with Irene. Almost too good, if you were to ask him. Driver doesn’t often get good things. He gets steady work, makes enough money to comfortably eat take out on the regular, and garners enough respect from his peers that nobody sticks their noses too far into his business. But this—the real, home cooked meals shared at a real dinner table with Irene and Benicio, the scenic drives with someone else’s laughter in his ears—this isn’t something he’s ever been given the opportunity to enjoy.

When Standard returned from prison, he’d been ready for it all to end. For the other shoe to drop. Irene had a husband and a son, and even though they never really did anything together that could constitute as more than friendly, he would understand if he was considered The Other Man. As much as it would sting for a while, he could go back to being just neighbors. But that’s not what happens. Irene still invites him over for dinners regularly. Is it partly his fault for accepting every time? Should he be more put off by the closed-lipped smiles Irene sends his way when Standard makes a comment about how “helpful” Driver was while he was inside?

He made those comments a lot. Driver isn’t sure what to make of it. He has never been the best at reading people, which is why he always appreciated how straightforward Shannon is. Even if Shannon could be a bit of a pushover sometimes, and an oversharer, he always says what he means. So many people weren’t like that. It's probably why he likes cars so much. Cars are an open book, all you had to do was be willing to take the time to read them.

When Standard spoke to him his tone was always curious and quiet but with an underlying edge. His smiles were crooked, and he would pause in random places mid-sentence. Driver could never tell when he wanted a response. Sometimes this led to Standard repeating himself at the dinner table, that or he’d ask Driver, “Hey, are you listening?”

“Mhm,” Driver would respond.

He hates when people ask if he is listening. He always was. He just didn’t always know when it was his turn to speak. This had been a common starter of arguments between him and his parents when he was a child, and it continued on into his youth in the foster system.

He’s always got his head in the clouds, is what his social worker said. He has a tough time connecting with his classmates because he is always daydreaming, his teachers explained during parent-teacher conferences. He never bothered to correct anybody. Nobody seemed to want to hear his side.

Over time, Driver picked up a few things. Habits that were deemed socially acceptable and that made people feel less uneasy around him. He learned that shaking hands with new acquaintances was expected, and he shouldn’t squeeze the other person’s palm too hard even if their grip felt like they were trying to grind his bones to dust. He also learned that people loved eye contact. He didn’t understand it really, it was hard to comprehend what others were saying when he had to focus so hard on holding their gaze. But he got it. Blink after they blink, look at them but don’t stare too hard or else you’ll scare them away. He’s still working on the last part.

Maybe that’s why he took to Irene so quickly. She never seemed to expect anything from him. She never commented on it when his gaze wandered up to the crown molding of her living room, or when he flexed his hands over and over to feel the drag of his leather gloves against his skin.

She was patient with him in the same way she was patient with Benicio. Benicio who wore Sillybandz up to his elbows and would regularly count each and every one, listing off the color and shape of them in the backseat of Driver’s car during rides. Who sometimes interrupted playtime to pace figurative tracks into the carpet of the living room while he hummed to himself the same wordless tune.

Once, Benicio got up from the dinner table halfway through their meal to go do his pacing-and-humming routine. Standard huffed and asked Irene, “Why the fuck is he doing that right now?”

That’s one of the only times Driver has ever seen Irene angry. But her anger was a different type compared to what he was used to. His own father’s anger was loud, and extended out to the nearest object. The anger of some directors on movie sets he’d worked on was colorful in language and targeted at unfortunate PA’s in the wrong place at the wrong time. But Irene’s anger was muted, tired. Like a rain cloud that had exhausted all of its moisture but was still just hanging around.

“You know why,” Irene snapped. That had been the end of it, but the rest of the meal was the kind of tense that even he could feel. For once, Driver didn’t stay after to help clean up.

He isn’t sure what compelled him tonight to stick around so late. Irene was already asleep since she had an opening shift at Denny’s in the morning, and Benicio had been put to bed a while ago. So it’s just him and Standard out in the living room, the only light coming from the small television set playing black and white Westerns. Driver sits at attention on one side of the couch, tugging relentlessly at a loose thread on the arm. Standard sits next to him nursing his third beer of the night, straddling two couch cushions and ignoring all sense of personal space. Every time he readjusts his knee knocks against Driver’s.

No one had explicitly asked him to leave, and he didn’t have any jobs lined up the next day. So he stayed, sat on the couch in this apartment that wasn’t his but that was so full of life that it practically screamed it from every corner. From the toys left on the living room rug to the small collection of houseplants arranged on a low shelf right by the door. This is somebody’s home, and he has never experienced anything quite like it.

Driver fishes a toothpick out of the breast pocket of his denim jacket. Enough time passes that he gnaws it down to the final nub and is about to get a new one when Standard speaks.

“So. Irene and Benicio really depend on you, huh?” The question at the end is Driver’s hint that Standard wants a response this time.

“I guess so.” Driver doesn’t take his eyes off the television even as a commercial break cuts into the film. This late it is an infomercial treasure trove: As-Seen-On-TV kitchen gadgets, life insurance ads, class action lawsuits.

Standard drops a heavy hand onto his thigh. His other hand lifts his beer to his lips, and he finishes the last of it in one go.

“You’re a good guy.”

A pause, no open ended question. Driver doesn’t answer. Standard’s hand doesn’t move from his thigh. He considers shaking it off himself as he tugs harsher at the loose thread on the couch’s arm. The commercial break ends, and the cowboys in the film resume their meandering journey on horseback through a sandy plane.

“Did you fuck her?” Standard keeps his voice low.

The thread on the couch arm snaps off in Driver’s hand. When he turns his head to the left, Standard is staring right at him.

“N–”

“I’d understand if you did. She’s a beautiful woman, and she’s got needs. Don’t worry.” The way his grip tightens around Driver’s thigh makes him wonder if he should, in fact, worry. “You can tell me.”

But there’s nothing to tell.

“We didn’t—”

The toothpick falls from his mouth and disappears between the couch cushions when Standard grips the back of Driver’s neck, pulling him in close and holding him there so he’s half bent at the waist. Driver could get out of it easily, he’s strong and knows how to fight. Not extremely well, but enough that he could make it hurt. He doesn’t move.

“Was she ever this close to you? Did she kiss you like she meant it?” Standard’s breath smells like beer and nicotine gum. Driver knows he’s been trying hard to quit since he got out of prison. “Are you in love with her? Huh, stunt guy, are you in love with my wife?”

Driver isn’t good with people, but he has a feeling this accusation goes a lot deeper than just Standard wanting to know if Irene has been cheating. He could tell the truth, that he has no attraction of any sort towards Irene. He really likes her and Benicio. But in an easy, familial way. It’s nice to have someone waiting for him when he gets back from work. To know that just down the hall there’s not one, but two people that would think twice if he were to disappear suddenly without a word.

With that being said Driver has never, not even once considered doing any of the things Standard is suggesting right now. Not just with Irene, but with anybody. He could tell Standard all of this, could try to put into words his relationship with the concepts of sex and romance, but he knows it won’t go over well. Standard wants a very specific answer that Driver can’t provide.

He’s entertained this for too long. Standard can’t react fast enough when Driver takes hold of his restraining arm and twists. He gasps like he expects pain, but Driver lets go as soon as he frees himself, rising to his feet and shoving Standard firmly down into the couch below him.

“I knew it,” Standard spits, glowering up at Driver. He knows nothing.

“You’re drunk.”

Driver reaches down and Standard tenses up expectantly, but he’s only reaching over to the other arm of the couch for the television remote. He clicks the off button and the cowboys shrink to blackness in the middle of a shootout with masked bandits. The living room is dark save for a hint of yellow light through the curtains from outside. It’s just enough for Driver to be able to see the outline of his own shoes as he finds the front door. He knows Standard stays lying there on the couch, can hear his hitched breathing right up until he shuts the door behind him.

It’s late. Some time past midnight but not quite close enough to four in the morning that anyone in the apartment complex has awoken for their early bird shifts. If he had to hazard a guess, he thinks Standard will probably pass out on that couch and stay there for the rest of the night. Irene might find him there as she heads into the kitchen before work, maybe she’ll even lay a blanket over his sleeping form. Driver really should try to get some rest.

But instead of walking those twenty steps to his apartment door, he continues right past it. Sticks his hands deep into his jacket pockets, rubs a thumb over the worn softness of his rabbit’s foot keychain as he shoulders open the door to the stairway. Headed down, down, all the way down to the parking garage.

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