Work Text:
-1
Fergus’ first day at DoSAC has been an unsettling look back at his first day at school: he doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know if he’s doing it right, all around him there are people he doesn’t like who ignore him and the closest thing to an authority figure is an unpleasant man who utters meaningless words.
By evening he’s tired, angry, disgruntled and frustrated.
“You did really well today.”
So it’s not really surprising, then, when Adam says that, that he feels a strong urge to kiss him.
-2
Usually, Adam appreciates Fergus’ dedication to his career: he is one of the very few ministers he has talked with that actually enjoys his job rather than suffering through it and putting on the least convincing smile for the press.
He appreciates it a little bit less, however, when he has to attend to a nearly delirious Fergus who has decided that without him DoSAC would fall into chaos and, as such, he must be present, sore throat and high fever be damned.
Now, granted, he’s had to deal with much worse – he has met both the Fucker and MacDonald – but trying to keep Fergus sheltered from the elements and every other asshole in the department is a very special kind of irritating and the man himself isn’t being any kind of help: one moment he’s a precocious child trying to pout the sleepiness away, the next he falls into a paranoid daydream in which everybody’s trying to fire him, then he gets a panic attack and turns into a shrill banshee only to choke and cough and whine because his throat hurts and his head hurts and they found the e-mail so they’re going to fire him.
Adam doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but after a couple of hours like this he’s realised that a brief pat on the arm and a string of vaguely encouraging words is enough to calm him down for half an hour, so that’s all he does.
At least, until Fergus bursts into tears: then he runs to his side, a sorry mix of sudden panic and confusion, unable to say anything that isn’t ‘what’. Did he do something wrong? Maybe his appendix burst, maybe it’s some sort of horrible illness he didn’t know about and now he’s going to die and he has ignored him.
“Sorry. Sorry I- I can’t even breathe. It makes my throat sting and then I have to cough and it’s like swallowing knives and-”
Or maybe he has just given him a heart attack because he wanted to throw a tantrum. Of course.
Adam leans on the desk, panic and confusion slowly subsiding, giving way to a dull exhaustion that erodes away his will to do anything: Fergus is there, tears streaming down his cheeks, a frown on his flushed face while blathering on and on about how everything hurts and fucking Christ, he’s the littlest, most petulant child ever. Not even the cute kind of petulant child, no- he’s the one that screams and kicks and holds his breath ‘til he turns blue.
All of which makes the sudden desire to kiss him incredibly puzzling.
He doesn’t know why, but the more he dwells on the idea, the more he finds it good: putting aside what his body is telling him – he feels hot and slightly dizzy and his whole skin is tingling in an odd way, but whether he feels that way because of the thought or because he’s getting sick is another story – he doesn’t really see any downside that can’t be repaired with the good old ‘you’re feverish, that was just a dream’. And, on the plus side, it would make Fergus shut up for a little while. Why isn’t he doing it already?
“…and I spent the whole night throwing up yellow stuff. What the fuck is that? I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter because now I’m filled with disgusting green matter that is always either clogging up my brain or running down my throat.”
On the other hand he’s definitely feeling ill now, so maybe he shouldn’t really trust his own judgement.
-3
He should have suspected that something was wrong the moment he asked Adam if he wanted to come inside.
Now, it’s not like he’d said it with a clear goal in his mind: it was just a question in the wide, wonderful world of questions and, in his defence, Adam hadn’t seen anything wrong in it.
“No, it’s fine. I live close by.”
Fergus had nodded at that because, again, it’s not like he had meant anything by the question: his brain is in autopilot and he’s way too drunk to think, so what he’s doing now is blindly following its directives.
It’s when he sees Adam’s face drawing close that he realises that his brain has translated ‘pleasant evening spent getting drunk with a person he likes’ to ‘date’ and that he’s actually leaning in for a kiss.
It’s fine, though: he’s gotten the distance between them wrong, so what is actually happening is that he’s collapsed like an idiot into the arms of an extremely amused Adam.
-4
“Oh Fergus, my gorgeous pumpkin, I cannot hide my feelings any longer. You are as dear to me as Narcissus was to himself.”
Adam is wearing a Peter Mannion mask and talking in a ridiculous deep voice, yet it takes Fergus two full seconds to burst into incredulous laughter: for him, just finding the mask had been enough to crack-up.
“Will you be the Cassius to my Brutus? But know that we’d have to hide, light of my life, for JB has decided to reinstate buggery laws. My horse is awaiting us: will you follow me?”
Fergus stands up, a passionate look on his face that’s somewhat weakened by the occasional chuckle. “Oh, Peter, I thought you’d never ask. But what will we do with Terri? She’ll kill me and cut a lock of your luxurious hair.”
“Never fear: we’ll move after six o’clock and whenever Jeremy Kyle is on. We’ll soon lose her.”
“And what about Phil? Won’t he try to choke me with the force and then summon a dragon?”
“We’ll just have to throw a woman in his way: it will take days for the panic to subside.” Adam draws near, an exaggerated sigh being the only clue of the emotional turmoil going on behind Peter’s placid face. “Don’t mind them, my rosebud: together, side by side, we’ll finally be the Coalition that Stewart dreams.”
“But will we be the Coalition that the Quiet Batpeople deserve ?”
“I swear on the napkin that Margaret Thatcher gave me.”
“Then take me now! Show me your throne room and ravish me completely!”
The way Fergus is swooning at him, the playful giggle, the bloody mask that’s getting to his head, how can he not actually think about holding him in his arms and kissing him as triumphant music plays?
“Ah! Peter, a cleaner is coming closer! Quick- oppress the poor!”
+1
Fergus knows that everyone in the department is now throwing shit around in a desperate attempt to save themselves, and he knows that some of that shit is going to land on him. He also knows that it isn’t just Terri and Glenn’s fault if he’s fucked – though it definitely is their fault too – but it’s actually mostly Adam’s.
He realises that he’s fucked, which is why he doesn’t even try to do anything constructive about it: he’s fucked and for now he can’t change it, but he screams at Adam because really? How could he expect Glenn to know anything about e-mails?
He screams at him and Adam screams back, his voice an high pitched screech of pure hysteria, fury draining his face of every colour: he’s standing, shaking in front of him, repeating again and again that it isn’t his fault (it is) when the thought suddenly hits Fergus.
It has nothing to do with anything that is happening in the moment, it is irrelevant in the big scheme of things and it won’t change his situation in any way: still, putting that aside, why not? So many things have gone wrong today that this can’t make it any worse, so, really, why the hell shouldn’t he grab Adam by his tie, draw him close and just kiss him?
So he does that.
And when Adam clings to him, his tongue flickering tentatively past his lips, Fergus is almost grateful that today’s dose of shit has been used all on his career.