Work Text:
You pushed the door to the garage open, carrying two brown paper bags in your hand. You had just finished a few of your chores for the day, which largely included dusting every inch of the house. No matter how much you cleaned, however, the dust seemed to be caked in every crack and crevice of the place, left uncleaned for so long before you. But you didn’t mind cleaning, in fact you found a bit of satisfaction in it; the house had been in disrepair for decades, but with your deft hands you transformed it back into a home. Dr. Sinclair’s office remained untouched, though you did sometimes sit in the office, looking through the notes and diagrams of wicked research the violent man did. It always sent shivers down your spine. So, to rid yourself of any unpleasant feelings, you made yourself and Bo sandwiches for lunch. Bo had been a bit temperamental lately, more than usual, so you hoped that giving him some company and maybe even assisting him would cheer him up.
However, when a wrench suddenly flew and hit the wall a few feet away from you, you knew you were wrong. Bo hadn’t noticed you were there just yet, kicking around his tools and banging his fists against the table, expletives coming and going from his mouth in a brutal stream of consciousness. His back was turned whilst he tried to calm himself down a bit, his shoulders tight and his hands splayed against the metal table next to the truck he was fixing up. This would be a bit tricky, you knew. Calming down an angry Bo Sinclair was akin to approaching a wounded animal at times. Usually, you just ducked out of the way and waited until the storm was over, lest you get caught in the crossfire. No, he was never too horrible, not to you, but getting berated was not your cup of tea. Though your experience was easy in comparison to Lester or Vincent’s. So, you took it slow.
“Bo?” You asked, and he immediately straightened up at the sound of your voice. He turned around, his eyes glancing towards the wrench, guilt flashing across his face, though it disappeared as fast as it appeared. Instead, he let a general scowl rest of his admittedly gorgeous features. It was such a shame, you thought, for him to frown so much, when his smile was brighter than the sun.
“Hey baby, whatcha got there?” he gestured towards the paper bags, attempting to at least keep a civil tone, though the sharpness pricked your skin all the same.
“I’ve got lunch for both of us, I was hoping I could eat with you,” you told him, catching the way he tried to hide the nervousness that tightened his grip on the table behind him. Was he… concerned about how he would act around you? The thought made your heart ache for him, and you waited for him to give a curt, wordless nod before you approached.
“I know you’ve been a bit stressed,” you began carefully, placing the bags on the table and taking out the sandwiches and the fruit you also prepared, “so I made your favorite.”
Bo, with the slightest ghost of a smile on his face, wordlessly took the sandwich you held out for him and bit into it hungrily. His hum of approval prompted you to relax just a little, his mood evidently being elevated, even a little, with your thoughtfulness.
“You’re too good to me baby, thank you,” he said through mouthfuls of his lunch. Bo thanking anyone was a rare feat, so you couldn’t help but beam at him at the words, though you internally cringed at the oil from his hands touching the white bread. Small wins, small wins. Bo chuckled a bit at your sunny disposition at even the slightest hint of praise.
“You deserve it,” you chirped, jumping up onto the metal table to sit as you munched on the strawberries you washed and cut up.
You could’ve sworn you’d seen a bit of color dust his cheeks.
“Well, I’m not sure about all that, but you make a damn good sandwich,” he complimented, before pausing slightly, as if he was contemplating his next words. You, of course, waited patiently, as you always did with Bo.
“Could I stay?” you asked, just before he did, “I could be like your… assistant,” you offered.
Bo simultaneously looked relieved and mischievous at your question. “My assistant, ay? I think I could live with that,” he crooned, lifting a hand to slide up the outside of your thigh. Blood rushed to your cheeks, even a touch from him tended to cause that reaction from you.
You opened your legs for him to fit himself between them, his other hand putting his lunch down, completely forgotten, along with some of his frustration from the day. But his shoulders were still so tense, his jaw still clenched, and his hands still shaking. So you took your hands and smoothed them along his shoulder, watching as he released some of the tension slowly. You knew he would never fully relax, whether he was asleep, awake, drunk, or holding the life of another in his hands. The frown lines would never leave his face, and the slight shake in his hands would stay. But you loved him and those shaking hands all the same, and you showed him that by placing gentle kisses along his jaw, leading up to his lips. By the time you got there, he had wrapped his arms around you, pressing your body against his. Your touch was akin to heaven for Bo, a place he would never see. So, he lost himself in his heaven on Earth, on your tongue, and in your touch. For now, you had placed a band-aid on his wound, and he was ever so grateful.