Work Text:
As per usual on a Friday afternoon, I was sitting at my desk in the CRAPP offices while Alex Twaddle stood in the doorway. Because apparently he never had anything else to do other than bother people while they were trying to do their, evidently much more important, jobs. If you could call any job striving to protect a poo bug important.
“Okay, here’s one. I sold my vacuum the other day… All it was doing was collecting dust.”
“Well I wouldn’t be surprised that you weren’t using it, that’s the cleaner’s job is it not?” responded Alex, as oblivious as always. “Although I do hope you asked for their permission before selling their equipment. Miffy and I have a wonderful woman, Olive, wouldn’t want to upset her. Or is it Ophelia? I can never seem to remember, the names are just too similar.”
“How are Olive and Ophelia similar?” I had somehow still not learned that asking Alex questions only left me with more.
“They both begin with the letter ‘O’, obviously. You don’t meet many people with names beginning with the letter ‘O’ these days.”
“Alex, both my boyfriend and my mother’s names begin with ‘O’.”
“Quite right, Luc! Very good observation!” Alex seemed genuinely impressed at my abilty to remember the names of those close to me. “I’m sorry, I’ve distracted you from your joke. Do continue.”
“No, that was it. All it was doing was collecting dust. Because a vacuum collects dust?”
He seemed to ponder this for a moment, until I could have sworn that I actually saw something click in his brain, and he started nodding enthusiastically.
“That’s a very good joke, Luc. Really takes some expert knowledge on the functions of household appliances to understand.”
I made a mental note to never, ever, talk to rich people about basic human skills again. Not that I was much of a cleaning expert myself. Oliver was much more diligent in that regard, and usually did the household chores on behalf of both of us. In fact, whenever I did attempt to help he would only become agitated and insist it was a solo activity. I understood by now that he had his own system, and I was happy to have an excuse to laze around instead. Although, considering that Oliver was the richer of the two of us, maybe I should rethink my assumption of wealthy people and their lack of cleaning knowledge.
As Alex dissapeared to water the aloe vera, fill the staplers with staples, or something, I instinctively reached into my pocket to pull out my phone and text Oliver. But then I glanced at the time and hesitated. Oliver left work early on Fridays for his therapy sessions around this time. He wouldn’t see my messages until he left, and seeing missed messages from me would only make him worry. I was staying at his that night anyway, I could wait. So instead I opened my emails and got to work like a real adult.
By the time I got home, Oliver had already laid out an early dinner at the table. It was a rice dish – vegan jambalaya, as Oliver explained – that smelled absolutely delicious. Not that I have high standards when it comes to food (being raised on Odile’s special curry does that to you), but as I ate I couldn’t help but notice that it was quite dry, and the rice was undercooked. It still tasted great though, so I made no comment and plowed through. I thought I made a damn good effort at hiding my reaction to not upset Oliver, but the way his shoulders slumped and his head dropped told me different.
“I’m sorry, it’s not very good,” he said. “I accidentally forgot to add water to the pan for the first portion of the cooking process.”
“Isn’t water literally the most basic thing of cooking rice?” I had meant it to be playful, but Oliver’s shoulders hardened and his eyes were cold when they locked with mine.
“I said I’m sorry, Lucien.”
It wasn’t like Oliver not to pick up on my playful tone by now. It also really wasn’t like Oliver to forget a step while cooking.
“Did something happen today?” I asked in a voice that I hoped sounded caring.
“No, nothing happened. It has just been a busy week and I’m feeling tired. It’s a new recipe aswell, so some small errors are to be expected.”
“Okay. Just if anything did happen, you’re… y’know… you can talk to me about it.”
Oliver made no reply; he just stared into his undercooked jambalaya. Fuck. I finished mine as an it-isn’t-as-bad-as-you-think declaration, and even offered to wash the dishes. He didn’t object, which just made me more certain that something was wrong. As we crawled into bed that night I wrapped a protective arm around him and fell asleep with my face tucked into his hair.
I went downstairs the next morning to the sight of Oliver, still in his pyjamas, eating his bircher and reading on his phone. I was used to him gone on his morning run by the time I woke up on weekends. And I don’t think I’d ever seen Oliver in his pyjamas outside of the bedroom. Except when I showed up on his doorstep in the middle of the night, obviously.
“Not running today?” I asked tentatively, still unsure how he felt about our discussion yesterday.
“I felt like a change of routine. I realised that I haven’t had a morning at home in months. Is that a problem?”
“Hey, I’m not a cop.” I hold up my hands in the surrendering pose.
“I’d like to apologise for how I spoke to you yesterday evening,” said Oliver earnestly. “Bonnie had brought up a sensitive topic during my therapy session and it was still on my mind. It was unfair of me to lose my temper with you, when you had not contributed to my discomposure.”
“No, it’s fine. I could tell you were upset. Do you… want to talk about it? Or is it a ‘what happens in therapy stays in therapy’ kind of thing? You can talk to me about anything, y’know. Or if you don’t want to talk then that’s okay as well. But you can talk- if you want.”
To my relief, Oliver cracked a small smile. “Thank you for the reassurance, Lucien. But I think I will keep this between myself and Bonnie.”
After spreading my toast with a helping of Nutella so large it would probably send Oliver into anaphylactic shock, I sat down opposite him. I glanced at his phone screen and could see that he was browsing a list of ridiculously expensive handbags.
“For Mother,” he said in response to my quizzical look. “To bring to her birthday celebration in two weeks.”
Oh yeah, Miriam’s 60th birthday party. That I’d totally remembered. Because I love Oliver and therefore remember things about his family and shit. Yeah, I needed to start writing things in my calendar.
“I’ve told you, you don’t need to come if you’re not comfortable.”
I hadn’t seen Oliver’s parents since I told them to fuck off at their ruby anniversary, and honestly they were the last people I wanted to spend a Sunday evening with. But seeing how they treated Oliver made me feel unusually protective and I wanted to be there, for him. I also hadn’t technically been invited and I doubted Miriam wanted me there, so it would at least be satisfying to piss them off by showing up.
“No, I want to go. I don’t have to get her a present do I?”
Oliver’s face was sporting one of his beautiful, gentle smiles. “Don’t worry, we can say the bag is from both of us. Also, not to challenge you gift giving abilities Lucien, but I would not enjoy seeing what you would buy for my mother.”
So two weeks later we were standing in the marquee in the Blackwoods’ garden, while Miriam opened the flawlessly wrapped handbag (wrapping devoid of any sprigs or flowers, just fyi). The bag was fancy, but not too fancy that it would look like she was showing off, but fancy enough that you’d know it was expensive. And Oliver had spent hours picking it out.
“Oliver, it’s lovely,” Miriam was saying. “It’s just like the one your father got me for my 50th. But what am I meant to do with two similar bags? I could lend this one to a friend, I suppose.”
Oliver’s shoulders drooped so subtly that I was the only one to notice. All I could do was watch while my beautiful, caring, loving boyfriend smiled and apologised for his oversight. I’d set a goal to last at least thirty minutes before cursing any of them out. I did, however, slide my arm around his waist and gave him a light squeeze. I let go as David Blackwood joined us, Uncle Jim in tow.
“Oliver!” Uncle Jim bellowed. “Almost didn’t recognise you. I thought you were one of the balloons in that shirt. Your girlfriend here making sure you’re fed, eh?”
I experienced a moment of confusion trying to figure out who Oliver’s girlfriend was, until I realised he was talking about me. God, I really hated the Blackwoods. Oliver gave no response, so I jumped in.
“Actually, I’m the last person you’d want to feed you. I managed to set spaghetti on fire trying to make dinner last week.”
“Son, are you sure you trust this man in your home?” asked David. “He seems to be a bit of a danger. I’m just looking out for you is all.”
It was Oliver’s turn to squeeze my waist.
“Father, Lucien is far from a danger, and I trust him. And I would appreciate it if you refrained from insulting him, especially when he is stood in front of you.”
“How dare you accuse me of insulting someone,” David’s face was quickly turning scarlet. “I am making sure you are safe. You should be grateful that people care so much about you.”
Surely it’s been thirty minutes by now. I was in the middle of formulating an angry, and slightly vulgar, retort, when Oliver tugged at my waist. I looked down and he was giving me his please can we get out of here eyes. I suddenly noticed how full the marquee had gotten, bodies on the verge of rubbing off each other, and Oliver was looking around nervously. I guided us away from the Blackwood judgement committee and out onto the grass. Oliver inhaled a deep breath, and I noticed his forehead had started going all shiny with sweat.
“You want to go back to the car?” I asked.
“We might have one more battle yet.” I followed his gaze across the lawn and saw Christopher and Mia approaching.
“Ollie, long time no see.” Christopher planted himself in front of us and I shared a small smile with Mia.
“Yes well, I suppose we’ve both been very busy with work,” said Oliver. “I hear you’ve been in Yemen recently?”
“Yes, busy saving lives, as one does. Saved many lives in the courts since we last talked?”
“Christopher, you know that my work keeping people out of jail allows them to live a satisfactory life.” Oliver’s face was serious, the way it always was when he talked about his career.
“I was joking, you don’t need to get defensive,” Christopher chuckled.
“I’m sorry. It can be hard to identify jokes with our family.”
“Jesus Ollie, I knew they should have put you in special ed.”
Christopher was laughing, but I was acutely aware of Oliver tensing beside me. His eyes were dark, his lips a thin line. A second later he was borderline running across the grass towards the gate. I shared a concerned glance with Mia before chasing after my boyfriend.
He’d already gotten into the car by the time I caught up.
“Hey, you’re supposed to be the one chasing me as I escape from your family,” I said, hopping into the passenger seat. “What’s wrong?”
“Lucien, I don’t want to talk about it now. I think we should go home.”
“Um, okay. Are you sure you’re okay to drive? Because the last time we were here and you decided to drive I was honestly shitting myself a little bit.”
“I know how to drive, Lucien! I can perform basic activities, I’m not stupid!” Oliver turned on me, his face a fusion of frustration and desperation. His eyes were glassy with tears. Then he sat back and rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. I forgot you couldn’t- that wasn’t aimed at you.”
Not knowing how to approach the situation, I resorted once again to rubbing Oliver’s arm. “You sure you don’t want to talk about it now? Was it… what Christopher said? Or just the evening in general?”
“You remember when I said that Bonnie and I had discussed something particularly sensitive in therapy?” Oliver asked after taking a deep breath. “She thinks I should be evaluated for autism.”
“Oh.” I wasn’t exactly sure how he wanted me to respond. “And… do you? Think you should be evaluated?”
“I- I don’t know. I admit many of the signs seem very… familiar. You know I have a routine that I strictly adhere to. And I often have to clarify when you’re being sarcastic, and I take things very literally.”
I thought of all the habits that I’d brushed off as ‘Oliver quirks’. Booking appointments months in advance, his unambiguous texting style, his specific and solo cleaning system, the way he could be so focused on a case that he forgot to eat. Fuck, I was an idiot.
“Fuck, I’m an idiot. I think your therapist might be right Oliver.”
“Really?” his eyes were welling with tears again. “I suppose I just didn’t want to believe it. This isn’t the first time it’s been brought up. A colleague once asked me if I was diagnosed when she was working with an autistic client. She mentioned that it’s also common for autistic people to have a strong sense of justice, which aligns with my passion for criminal defense. I understand that it’s wrong of me to be ashamed, but I don’t want to imagine that it’s had such an impact on my career. And who I am as a person.”
Again, I wasn’t exactly sure what Oliver needed to hear. Instead, I wrapped my arms around him and said “I love you no matter why you’re the way that you are. You’re caring, and diligent, and sensible, and smart, and that’s all that matters.”
“I’m not sure my family would say the same,” Oliver sniffled into my chest. “You heard what Christopher said. They have a vastly different view of… this kind of person.”
“Look, I know you love your family – God knows why – but fuck them, Oliver. Christopher’s a doctor, he should know better, and that’s more a reflection of him than of you. And you could always just… not tell them. Getting a diagnosis might help you understand yourself better. And we could keep it between us, until you’re ready to tell other people.”
Oliver seemed to ponder this for a moment. Well, a bit more than a moment. After a few minutes of silence, he nodded decisively and lifted his face to look at me. He looked so open and vulnerable, and I pressed a tender kiss to his forehead. Then his hands were grabbing the back of my head, and the familiar taste of his mouth was in mine, slightly salty from his tears. I angled myself over the handbrake, trying to experience everything about this man that I loved more and more every day. The man I loved because he was caring, and diligent, and sensible, and smart. And beautiful. And Oliver.