I Don't Want To Talk About It
Acepilot

AN - This isn't Road series, this was just a bit of fun I wrote last night while suffering from severe sleep deprivation (which means if it's riddled with mistakes, then you know why). It kind of made more sense in my head, but hopefully I've gotten the general idea down intact. Please review!

Disclaimer - the characters in this fic are property of KlaskyCsupo.

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"I don't want to talk about it!" Phil announces as he steps in the door from the rain, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on a hook by the door. He's drenched, slightly red-faced and looks kind of angry.

I close my mouth quickly, working my tongue around in it as if trying to cleanse it of the words that I was about to say. I finally order up some new ones. "Why?"

"I just don't want to talk about it," Phil says, kicking off his shoes and removing his very wet socks.

I raise an eyebrow. "It didn't go well?" I guess.

He glares at me darkly. "No, it didn't."

Alright, I'm officially puzzled. "You mean to say that you messed up going to the movies?"

He nods. "Yep. That's exactly what I'm telling you."

With anyone else, this would surprise me. But Phil I'm willing to make exceptions for.

I follow him up the stairs with an amused look starting to creep over my features. "How did you mess this up?"

"Didn't I open this dialogue by telling you I didn't want to talk about it?" he asks, heading into the bathroom.

I shake my head. "No, no, no. You can't just tell me that it didn't go well and expect me to take that at face value. You have to explain now. It's like...a requirement."

Phil emerges from the bathroom with a towel, rubbing his hair dry. "Sorry. You'll have to take it as it comes. And I'm telling you that I don't want to talk about it. So we're not going to." He starts downstairs again. "I'm going to make an omelet. Do you want one?"

I shrug. "Sure."

Ever since my brother discovered he had an ability for cooking, it's become a key indicator of his mood. Whenever something goes wrong - or, for that matter, right - he's off to the kitchen and whipping up a feast. It's nuts, but I don't complain. He's nice enough to make some for everybody.

I decide against following him into the kitchen and instead choose to lie down on the sofa and enjoy the rain. I pick up the book I left there before and prepare to quietly listen to the storm when -

"What did you do?"

Tommy and Dil burst through the door looking very wet indeed, considering they would have only come from next door.

I poke my head up from the couch and look over at them as they walk into the kitchen to talk to my brother. I shrug to myself and follow them.

Phil is already cracking eggs. "I don't want to talk about it," he tells them.

Dil sits down and observes our fruit bowl carefully. "You must have done something. Kimi rang our house."

"Kimi rang your house!" Phil yells. "Come on, it wasn't that bad!"

"She was very put out," Tommy tells him. "Kept going on about what a sleazebag you were and how she never wanted to see you again."

"Sounds about right," Phil mutters under his breath, and grabs a bag of M&Ms out of the cupboard, placing them next to some marshmallows.

"I thought you were making an omelet," I say, looking carefully at the laid out ingredients. My speaking seems to alert Tommy to my presence (at last) and he turns around and kisses me on the cheek. I give him an ignore-me-for-that-long-again-and-you're-dead look,

"I am," he confirms.

I choose not to say any more on the subject.

"I just don't see what you could have possibly done to get her this narked with you," Tommy tells him. "I mean, you could have only been at the movies...what, fifteen minutes?"

"Thirty," Phil corrects him. "It was...I had to leave, alright?"

Tommy shook his head slowly. "I'll never understand you, you know."

Dil shrugs from his vantage point at the kitchen table. "Did you make some sort of mistake?"

"I don't want to - "

"Talk about it," Tommy, Dil and I chorus.

Phil just glares at us. "Look, if you'd done what I'd done, you would have hauled ass out of there too."

"What did you do!" I ask, completely and utterly exasperated. "It must have been something bloody awful."

"It wasn't my fault!" he exclaims, apparently finally deciding to cave in a bit. "It was the movie theatre's fault. It's too dark in there."

Okay. I wasn't expecting that.

"Duh, it's a theatre," Dil zings.

"Well, if they will make it that dark, then mistakes will be made," Phil insists, before dumping his omelet batter - containing so much sugar that it will make even the most determined tooth rot - in the frying pan.

"Can you fry chocolate?" I ask, looking at his creation with a skeptical eye.

He shrugs. "I'll try anything once."

"Look, Phil," Tommy begins, in an evident attempt to bring this conversation back on topic. "What mistake - "

"I don't want to talk about it!" he cuts the elder Pickles off. "I'm not talking about it. Not one bit. It's bad enough as it is. Do you realise that Kimi is probably going to want to kill me?"

"Phil DeVille, I'm going to kill you!"

The bellow that comes from the vicinity of the front door manages to silence all of us. "Okay, that was creepy," Dil states.

Chuckie Finster storms into our kitchen with more fire in his eyes than I think I've ever seen, and makes a beeline straight for Phil, evidently forgetting that Phil could wipe the floor with him in a heartbeat.

Fortunately for Chuckie, Phil seems to have forgotten this as well. "Look, Chuckie, I can explain - "

"You'd better do it quick then, buster," Chuckie growls. "My sister is at home, dripping wet and crying her eyes out over you!"

Phil backs into a cupboard. "I was trying to grab the popcorn, I swear, she was holding it and I just kind of missed - wait, what do you mean, crying? She isn't angry?"

"No! She's hurt! You walked out of a date with her! Halfway through a movie!" Chuckie spins around extravagantly and showers us all in water. "She thinks you didn't even want to be there."

Phil looks stunned. I feel like I'm watching some kind of really gruesome train wreck. "You mean to say that she's upset I left?"

"Of course she is, DeVille! What do you expect?"

Phil's jaw drops, and he manages to look vaguely like he's smiling. "She wasn't angry at me for...doing something else?"

Chuckie's anger is slowly - reluctantly - giving way to puzzlement. "I don't think so. Why? Should she be?"

Phil grins and breathes loud, relieved-sounding gasps. "No, it's all good. I've got to go now."

In what seems like one movement, Phil shuts off the hotplate, kisses Chuckie on the cheek, and runs out of the front door yelling triumphantly.

"Would someone like to tell me what's going on?" Chuckie pleads, now looking well and truly lost.

Tommy picks up Phil's towel and hands it to the very wet Finster. "We'll do our best. Wait a minute first."

"Why?" Chuckie asks.

I hold up all five fingers and drop them one by one.

As my last finger falls, Phil dashes back in the front door. "Shoes and socks would be good," he tells no-one in particular, and runs upstairs.

He half-runs, half-falls back down the stairs, grabs his coat, and yells, "She doesn't hate me!" in a joyous tone as he makes his spectacular exit for a second time.

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well, that was kind of odd to write, but fun as well. Hope you all enjoyed it. Please review.