Work Text:
“Whatever makes you happy, whatever you want”
I was shamelessly belting out to Radiohead as I hustled about in the kitchen, trying to get dinner ready. By that, I mean, I had popped by Bronwyn’s to get takeaway. My cooking skills had vastly improved, under the tutelage of one Oliver Blackwood, who turned out to be quite the teacher especially since his rewards for a job well done went way beyond a gold star. I did feel rather golden afterwards, which was much better than a measly gold star.
But yes, Oliver had been teaching me cooking and while I had picked up some nifty tricks, my skill level was currently hovering at ‘Will Not Starve If Left Unattended For One Week’, nothing to write home about really. Or maybe it was, considering my mum’s hideous curry. In any case, my cooking skills were not up to preparing a celebratory dinner. Not if I didn’t want to accidentally poison Oliver.
We were meant to be celebrating tonight and if I played my cards right, it would be quite the celebration indeed. It usually consisted of a come hither look in Oliver’s direction, at which he would groan, and say my name, “Lucien,”, in that slightly gravely voice of his, along with a distinctly unimpressed glare.
Not that I needed to impress him much, he’s my boyfriend, it’s too late for him to escape the Luc Train after he has ridden it. (“Lucien, that is not a thing. And no, I am not riding any Luc Train. Take that however you wish, and please cease the eyebrow waggling.”) When the come hither look failed, I’d switch to a pout, or trail my foot up his calf teasingly. The latter move proved highly effective in summer, when he switched to wearing shorts.
In any case, I was determined to have a proper celebration tonight.
Oliver had been busy with The Case. With the capital C. Because it was that important. He couldn’t talk about it, as usual, but he’d been bringing work home from the office for the past weeks in the leadup to the trial. We would still have dinner together, a tradition that we had established since we moved into our flat, but once dinner was done, he would shoot me an apologetic grimace, apologising for having to skip out on movie night, or drinks with friends.
It wasn’t the first time he had been busy, it had cropped up a few times, and it was easier to deal with it now that I knew he wasn’t purposely ignoring me, or whatever else that annoyingly insecure voice in my head liked to come up with.
And so I’d push him in the direction of the home office, telling him that it was okay, I understood. He did still come to bed at a reasonable time, and I got my bedtime cuddles, so I wasn’t complaining. But today, he’d finally be done with The Case, and I couldn’t wait for that. Couldn’t wait to have Oliver all to myself again.
He’d left for work in the morning with a smile on his face, quietly confident about his prospects of winning; it was adorable how he would never outrightly declare that he was going to win in court. “While the case might appear to be tilted in my favour, Luc,” he’d say, “the decision lies in the hands of the judge, and we can’t be certain until the judge has made their ruling.”
Well, I was confident enough for the both of us then.
And being the extremely supportive and loving boyfriend that I was, I’d headed to Bronwyn’s on my way home to pick up dinner. I’d sprung for the burgers he loved, and managed to wheedle some of the cocaine nuts (they weren’t actually made from cocaine. I’d asked Bronwyn about it the third time I visited) from the server, even if they were meant for customers who dined in and weren't actually on the menu. An Oliver-approved Pinot Noir was chilling in the fridge, while I worked on transferring the food from the containers onto the plates.
I had all the ingredients necessary for a good night.
There was the jingling of keys before I heard our door unlock. I waited for Oliver’s teasing greeting; he had an odd sense of humour and appeared to find calling out “Honey, I’m home!” upon opening the door to be the funniest thing ever.
But none came.
Instead, all I could hear were two quick thunks, which sounded like Oliver’s oxfords being chucked carelessly in the entryway, loud enough to be heard over the voice of Thom Yorke pondering about his status as a creep. For the record, he definitely was, although not as creepy as The Police with Every Breath You Take.
The oxfords were what clued me in; Oliver was fastidious enough to treat each of his belongings with care, and would never throw them about. Putting the remainder of the salad which didn’t fit on our plates back into the takeaway container, I ventured out into the hallway, slightly worried about what I would find.
Never would I have expected the sight of Oliver standing by our dining room table, his briefcase dropped by his feet, as he stared at the dinnerware I had set out on the table. The placemats, the napkins, the wine glasses, I had gone all out, ready to wow him.
And he was looking at them, face pulled into a solemn expression, as if the cutlery had somehow offended him.
“Oliver?” I called out.
He jerked up, a wild expression on his face, slightly startled perhaps, before his eyes landed on the kitchen entrance, where I’d been standing.
And when he saw me, his face visibly crumpled, mouth pulling down into an awkward grimace, the one which seemed to say ‘Oh, fuck, I’m sorry, you shouldn’t be seeing me in this state’, his silver eyes bereft of its spark was now dull, reflecting hopelessness, and helplessness. Despair was clinging tightly to him, as his hands clenched and unclenched, as if undecided on what he wanted to do. He looked lost, vulnerable, and I wanted nothing more than to wrap him up in my arms, ensconcing him in my hug, protecting him from whatever had caused him grief today.
There was pain and defeat written all over his face.
“Ols?” The nickname slipped out, I hadn’t even realised. Not until Oliver whimpered softly. “What, what happened?”
“I, I lost.” His voice was bleak, hollow, devoid of the passion and enthusiasm whenever he spoke about his profession.
“Oh Oliver,” I breathed out as I rushed forward to tug him into my arms. He came willingly, nearly staggering as he hunched over slightly, to fit his tall frame into mine. His face was tucked into the crook of my shoulder, nuzzling at it, searching for the smell of the cheap soap that clung to my skin which he had once confided that he found it comforting.
I slid my arms under his jacket, stroking my hand up and down his back, feeling the tension bleed out of his body slightly, the soothing motion calming him slightly. His hands that had fisted tight in the back of my t-shirt, were now resting against the small of my back, crumpling the fabric in his fingers as he kneaded at it.
We stood in the middle of our dining room for a while. It was silent, save for the even breathing as Oliver calmed down, and the voice of Thom Yorke who had now moved on to singing about the moon and the stars and running away.
I didn’t bother offering platitudes, because I knew Oliver. Losing a case was never okay for him, he had a tendency to take things to heart, and sometimes when he lost a case, he’d berate himself for it, his mind running through what he had done wrongly, what he could have done better. And he didn’t need to know it would all be okay, because he would work to make them okay, he would push himself to get better.
Sometimes, it hurt to stand and watch him push himself like that, but he was getting better at it. He was trying to be less… Oliver-y. It was a work in progress, we were both a work in progress. And now, if all I could offer him was my hug, and my presence, then I was going to give him the best fucking hug ever.
“I’m sorry,” Oliver whispered quietly.
“What? What do you have to be sorry for?” I murmured, one hand gravitating towards his hair, combing my fingers through the ungelled strands at the back of his head.
“I, I saw the wine glasses. I know you wanted to celebrate -” His voice was slightly muffled as he pressed his face into my T-shirt, but I could hear him clearly enough.
“Oh Ollie, there’s nothing to be sorry about. It’s just dinner.”
“But you wanted to celebrate,” he insisted, “and I messed your plans up by losing -”
“Oliver Blackwood,” I interrupted, “don’t you dare complete that sentence. I swear, I will punch you. Or something.”
“You’ll punch me?” There was a note of amusement in his voice, I was pleased to hear that. It was much better than the defeated tone he had earlier.
“I will punch, and kick you,” I replied.
“Consider me suitably chastised then.”
I was content to hug Oliver forever; having his arms wrapped tightly around me made me feel comforted, and loved, even if I was meant to be the one comforting him. But when he started to list into me slightly, probably tuckered out from his day at court, I pushed him back.
“Bedroom,” I explained when he gave me an offended look. I reached down to interlace our fingers and dragged him down the hallway to our bedroom. Pushing the door open, I deposited him at the foot of our bed. “Now, sit.”
He gave me a decidedly amused look but sat down obediently, on the duvet. Because god forbid he got under the covers in his outside clothes.
I could feel his curious gaze on my back as I dug around in his side of the wardrobe for his comfort pyjama pants. It was old enough that the blue had now faded to a slightly dark grey, and a hole had formed at the bottom of it. But somehow the worn fabric brought comfort to him and I was determined to find it.
When I turned back, pyjama pants in hand, Oliver’s inquisitive expression melted away into one of fondness, and what I liked to dub his soft expression. I would sometimes wake up to find him looking at me, like that. And I’d tease him for being a sap. Even if it thrilled me every single time he had that look on his face, the one where his love for me was etched on his face, in the upward tug of his lips, the crinkles by his eyes. Sometimes, he’d pair that look with a softly whispered, “how did I get so lucky?”.
I quickly divested him of his suit, working efficiently whilst taking care to hang the jacket and belt up, and tossing the trousers and shirt into the laundry basket at the corner of the room, all while Oliver sat quietly, looking on forlornly, body slumped forward.
It was ironic; I had set out to get Oliver out of his suit tonight and in some twisted manner, I’d achieved that goal. Albeit in a different way than I’d intended. Putting that thought out of my mind, I tossed the pyjama pants at Oliver, watching him pull it on, before sinking back into the bed.
“Come on, cuddles,” I ordered as I settled back against the mound of pillows and tugged him back. He curled up in my arms, his hand sliding under my T-shirt to rest against the bare skin of my abs. Or rather, lack of abs. I gently pat his hair, sifting my fingers through the somewhat tousled strands.
It was somewhat disconcerting that my strong Oliver had folded in on himself, making himself appear as small as possible. He had been my rock, my source of comfort through the turmoil that was one Jon Fleming, and it was easy to forget that he was just a man, a man like I was, a man who had ups and downs, and needed comfort too.
“I’m still sorry about ruining dinner,” he muttered.
“Oliver, I will quite literally kick you,” I retorted as I tugged on his hair, a playful gesture.
In lieu of a response, he turned to nuzzle into my T-shirt, burying himself closer, as I resumed patting his hair.
Later, Oliver would insist on dragging me out of bed to eat our takeaway, because “the food might go bad if we leave them outside for this long, Lucien,”, and I would make a compelling case for eating in bed as we watched Love Island.
(“Lucien, you can’t be serious, I am not watching Love Island!”
“Hey, the trashier the TV show, the better it is when you are upset!”
“I am still NOT watching Love Island! Surely there are better programmes out there?”)
I would very kindly avoid looking too smug when he got worked up over how Amber had chosen terribly.
But for now, I was happy to cuddle with Oliver in bed, offering him the comfort he sought. He would still feel the taste of defeat in his mouth, but if I could make it slightly less bitter, then I was most definitely going to do that.