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“It could have gone worse, couldn’t it?” Fergus asked, a distinctly hopeful tone to his voice as he and Adam left the inquiry, folders full of print outs of embarrassing email exchanges tucked under their arms.
“Ah, no,” Adam replied honestly, though he was kind enough to insert a wavering moment of hesitation between the first and second syllable. “No. That was — as inquiries go, that was a complete and utter shitshow.”
“Christ,” Fergus swore, fast and sudden and violent, chucking that cursed bloody folder into the back of the car before clambering in himself. “Fucking... Christ! I’m fucked. That’s it. I’ve fucked it. They passed me a spade and I just set about digging my own sodding grave, no questions bloody well asked.”
Adam slid into the back of the car besides his irate advisee, shooting the cab driver an apologetic look. The poor bugger looked as if he might just keel over if Fergus were to keep up this swearing spell. It seemed unlikely that Fergus would cheer up any time soon. Once he got into the swing of being a grumpy git there he tended to remain, until Adam was able to placate him with a pack of Malteasers or dinner and an episode of the IT Crowd — one of Fergus’ favourites; it didn’t quite appeal to Adam, but when Fergus worked himself up into a state like this, the older man was willing to do just about anything to get Fergus to chill the fuck out again. Don’t get him wrong — when Fergus was angry at, say, Terri or Glenn, Adam was more than willing to sit back and watch (or, more accurately, join in; it was quite cathartic, actually). His friend’s anger was just a lot less fun when he was on the receiving end.
“Tough day at the office?” The cab driver asked once Adam had relayed to him Fergus’ address, attempting to fill the tense silence that just about swallowed the vehicle whole. Fergus merely let out an aggravated huff, burrowing himself into the far corner of the taxi and staring out the window with a glare so ferocious that Adam began to wonder whether the pavement had ever done anything to personally offend the Junior Minister in the past. Adam looked from Fergus to the driver, that same awkward, apologetic smile plastered on his features like a particularly grotesque wallpaper. You know: the sort an old lady might have in her living room, which she loves but the whole family hates.
“Yeah, something of the sort.” Adam replied, very much wanting to shut this conversation down. It was likely the cab driver would read about Fergus’ piss-poor performance at the inquiry in the Mirror or the Mail over his breakfast tomorrow morning and put two and two together, but right now Adam was more than willing to never have to think about this god-awful day ever again.
“Ah well,” The driver replied with a nonchalance that suggested he wouldn’t likely survive a day in politics. “Least it’s over now! You lads doing anything tonight? Nothing a pint down the local can’t fix, I always say.”
Adam hummed noncommittally, glancing once more at his increasingly despondent friend. Fergus always dealt with any sort of failure in a manner that seemed to be modelled quite strongly off of the Kübler-Ross Grief Cycle. It would seem the anger had subsided, and there was no doubt in Adam’s mind that Fergus was bargaining away inside that head of his. Meaning he was now well on his way to the depression stage. Adam had always been far better at dealing with that than with the anger.
By the time the cab pulled up outside Fergus’ house, the Junior Minister was fully engrossed in a sulk of significant magnitude. Adam was forever impressed (and slightly endeared) by Fergus’ ability to emulate a toddler throwing a tantrum. He often wondered how the electorate would react if they ever found out that they actually voted in a three-year-old in a suit.
“Come on mate.” Adam said, patting Fergus once on the shoulder whilst simultaneously passing the cabbie twenty quid. They should have taken the tube, really, since cabs in London were borderline extortion, but Adam was equally certain that Fergus couldn’t have handled braving the Underground so soon after the inquiry. It seemed likely they would’ve bumped into the press, too, which actually made the twenty pound journey seem like excellent value for money. Fergus remained still for a minute (Adam could bloody well see the cogs turning as Fergus considered whether or not to put up a fight, the childish bastard), before moving to extract himself from the backseat of the cab, his limbs co-operating with him through some sort of miracle. Adam grabbed their folders, thanking the driver before slipping out of the car himself, moving round the back of it to give Fergus a hand (and grab the front door key from him; he wasn’t certain that Fergus would be able to get them through the door without bursting into tears or having some sort of psychotic break).
Adam wrestled with the folders as he unlocked the door before moving a guiding hand to the small of Fergus’ back, shepherding him into his home. It was a gesture that neither of them ever said very much about, but had scored them their fair share of raised eyebrows at DoSAC. Adam had heard the whispers, too, and it seemed to be the general office consensus that, at the very least, he and Fergus were sleeping together. Which was not true, though not for a lack of want. Adam would very much like to be sleeping with Fergus, and was also, perhaps, not adverse to spending the rest of his life with him. Adam knew that Fergus wasn’t straight (the musical references were a bit of a dead give away), but for all of Fergus’ wit, the Junior Minister also had a great propensity for being fucking dense , and seemed wholly incapable of picking up on the great multitude of hints that Adam droped. This, in turn, made it bloody impossible for Adam to discern whether Fergus reciprocated his feelings, or whether Adam was reading far too into it all and they were actually just very good (abnormally close) friends. Mates. Pals. Whatever the fuck you wanted to call it.
Point is, it was driving Adam up the wall and back again. Every touch was electrifying, leaving Adam’s heart racing in a manner that posed a serious threat to his usually so calm-and-collected aspect. And Emma kept shooting him these annoying fucking pointed looks, her expression seeming to model perfectly that of Adam’s year eight geography teacher, which left him feeling both unnerved and pissed off, because i) he hated it when Emma was right and, ii) he fucking loathed that geography teacher.
Adam plonked the folders onto the kitchen table with a heavy before joining Fergus in the front room, where the younger man was laid out supine on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling and looking for all the world as if he were just waiting for Sigmund Freud to pop in and begin discussing horses and mothers. Adam sighed again, gentler this time, heart aching for his friend in that frustratingly caring manner that it so often tended to do whenever Fergus was upset or frustrated. Adam had always supposed it was natural for an advisor to feel an inkling of protectiveness towards their assigned politician — but he also knew that this need to make sure that Fergus was well and happy at all times of the day went far beyond that. It was of no assistance to Adam that Fergus often managed to come across as particularly (adorably) hopeless. He was sure that were it not for him, Fergus would likely have been found in a ditch somewhere, having tripped on his shoelaces or something equally pathetic. He knelt beside the sofa, regarding his friend with a sympathetic look.
“You alright, mate?” Adam asked softly — a softness reserved only for Fergus and the privacy of an empty room.
Fergus managed to drag his watery eyes away from the ceiling, fixing his gaze on his best friend’s face, looking very, very sorry for himself. Slowly he shook his head, “I’m sorry.”
“What the fuck are you sorry for?” Adam said incredulously, unable to bite back a confused laugh, which seemed to only frustrate Fergus further.
“I’m never going to be re-elected!” Fergus all but wailed, “I’ve effectively lost both our fucking jobs for us!”
Adam couldn’t help but roll his eyes. If only one thing could be certain, it was Fergus’ complete and utter lack of any semblance of self-belief. Adam got up, gesturing for Fergus to sit up for a moment so that Adam could sit down and Fergus could rest his head in his advisor’s lap. Another position they never spoke about, but so often assumed after a bad day at work. Adam’s fingers knew their cue, and began to gently thread themselves through Fergus’ messy ginger hair. The tension seemed to bleed out of the Junior Minister from the gesture alone, though the self-pitying look remained fixed in place.
“I fucking fucked that, Ads,” Fergus mumbled sorrowfully, “I was just sort of talking at them. I don’t think I even made any bloody sense. I mean — skin flakes ?”
Adam struggled to bite back a smile, “Yeah. Probably wasn’t your finest moment, Ferg.” He replied gently, teasingly, and only smiled wider when Fergus shot him a glare.
“I’m being serious, Adam. I’m fucking out of a job next election, just you watch.”
“As scandals go, there’s certainly been worse,” Adam pointed out, “Chances are, whatever bloody Tory you’ll be up against will have done something worse. And you forget the short-term fucking memory loss that much of the electorate seem to be afflicted with.”
Fergus only huffed in response, which served as confirmation that he knew that Adam was correct whilst also suggesting that he was quite enjoying being a stroppy git and wasn’t willing to give it up any time soon.
Cheering up meant he’d have to move from Adam’s lap. He wanted to remain there, at least for just a moment longer.
Adam flicked Fergus very lightly on the side of his head, eliciting an affronted yelp from the younger man, “Oh, give in, Ferg,” He said lightly, “You know I’m right, you stroppy bastard.”
“Piss off,” Fergus shot back, flicking Adam on the thigh because he could give as good as he gets. “Easy for you to speak, you didn’t bring up fucking shower plugs in the middle of a publicly broadcasted inquiry, did you?”
“No I didn’t!” Adam replied gleefully, letting out a laugh as Fergus flicked him once again, harder this time. “ One of us has to be a functioning human being, and if it isn’t you, then it has to be me. Consider my performance today an aspect of this obligation you unduly thrust upon me.”
Fergus shook his head, looking thoroughly unimpressed, though that playful twinkle had returned to his eyes, making Adam’s heart do a particularly sickening loop-the-loop. “You’re really fucking annoying, you know that?”
“I am aware.” Adam affirmed with a nod.
“I don’t actually know why I put up with you...” Fergus replied pensively, feigning a thoughtful look.
Adam snorted, still gazing down at his friend, taking in those faint freckles and rosy cheeks, “You know why.”
Fergus seemed to turn genuinely thoughtful at that, reflective even, and hummed slightly in response, gaze wandering over to the television. Adam frowned slightly, confused and very much wanting to know what exactly was on Fergus’ mind. He was just about to ask when his friend interrupted him with a hastiness of someone who was rather quite desperate to change the topic, “Are you staying for dinner?” He asked.
“Uh,” Adam croaked, trying to keep up, “can do.”
Fergus sat up (and oh , how empty Adam’s lap suddenly was) and patted his advisor on the arm, “Might as well stay,” He said, very much aiming for a laissez-faire attitude towards the whole thing as he got up from the sofa and moved over to the kitchen. “I have food that needs using.”
Adam quirked an eyebrow, knowing very well that Fergus couldn’t make a decent meal if his life depended on it. Which it actually did. Which was exactly why Adam knew his way around Fergus’ kitchen better than his own, “I assume I’ll be doing the cooking, then?”
The Junior Minister shot Adam a grin that very much said ‘I knew I’d get my way’ . Because he always did, when it came to Adam. The advisor couldn’t deny Fergus a bloody thing (Adam knew that for a fact, he’d tried it). “Of course,” Fergus said. “I’m depressed. I can’t possibly cook.”
Adam huffed fondly, getting up and following his friend through, the awkward, stilted moment of conversation completely forgotten (for now — Adam would definitely stew over it in bed). “You’re a fucking nightmare.”
Fergus grinned impossibly wider, feeling a little better about the current state of everything, for he knew tonight would follow the same routine that all of his bad days followed — dinner, a film or whatever’s on the telly, a cheeky little cry if he was still feeling particularly bad about what had happened, a beer or a cup of tea (depended on which day of the week it was), some more telly, then bed. It was domestic, and lovely, and wonderful, and Fergus couldn’t help but wonder whether it might be an idea to start having more bad days, just so he could have more evenings like these.
A life of domesticity with Adam sounded like a fucking dream, and a particularly unattainable one at that. Alas. For now, he’d enjoy tonight. He could agonise over the impossibility of his ever being with Adam at a later date.
Moving to stand beside Adam, who was peering into Fergus’ mostly empty fridge (having food in had been a lie; Fergus had planned on ordering in a curry all along), Fergus gave his friend a teasing nudge, “I’m your favourite fucking nightmare, thank you very much.”
Adam looked up, and smiled warmly, a wordless confirmation, “Shut up and tell me what you want for tea.”