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It’s late with the three of them hunkered down in Declan’s office. Freddie had begged off an hour or two ago, with just Declan, Rupert, and Taggie remaining from the night’s strategy session.
They’re getting closer to securing the franchise for good, navigating a few technical requests from Lady Gosling and the other higher ups before the final arguments are made next week.
Declan is at his desk, pouring over legal paperwork and nursing a glass of scotch, while Rupert studies the budget from the couch, looking for where they can negotiate leeway for one more program proposal.
Taggie, eager to be of any sort of help, is sitting cross legged on the floor, using the coffee table to fold proposal pamphlets meant for the panel and viewers at next week’s throw down. Rupert can feel the heat of her side about 3 inches from his leg. Every once in a while, out of the corner of his eye, he catches her as she folds a pamphlet backwards. Each time, he studies the curve of her shoulders as she releases a silent breath of frustration, before patiently unfolding and then refolding the paper with care.
The way his heart clenches in his chest at the sight is very telling. He’s so incredibly in love with her, this remarkable woman.
“Christ, where’d I put it…” Declan mutters, sifting through the papers on his desk. “Tag, have you seen my briefcase? I’m missing the breakdown for the local news syndicates.”
“I’m… not sure,” Taggie says, focus concentrated on smoothing the fold on a pamphlet with her baby pink thumbnail. “Could you have left it in the car?”
“Must have…” Declan mumbles, standing and draining the final drops of his glass into his mouth before walking through the cluttered space with an offhanded “I’ll be back.”
And then, it’s quiet, the clock in the corner ticking. Rupert really does try to keep his attention on the numbers in front of him. But they’re beginning to blur. He’s tired, and his greatest weakness is sitting just a little bit too close. When he sees her fold a fourth pamphlet incorrectly, his willpower is pushed over the edge.
As her neck strains and her shoulders hitch just a fraction, Rupert eases a warm palm slowly onto her shoulder. He can hear her sharp intake of breath, but she offers no protest. Testing the waters, he moves his hand to her neck, grateful for the way her hair is messily piled atop her head. With his thumb on one side and his fingers stretching round to the other side, he begins to press against the tough muscles at the nape of her neck.
For a moment she’s frozen, but with another press, she visibly relaxes under his touch, her head falling forward.
“That feels… really good,” she sighs quietly, almost inaudible, and his only regret is that he can’t see the sentiment reflected on her face. He’s able to conjure the sight though, imagines her lashes fluttering closed, lips slightly parted in relief.
It should be sexual. Hell, if he were to shift his focus by about two brain cells, it would be. But he’s equally pleased to make her feel good in a strictly comforting sense. Rupert is beginning to understand that if he could scoop up Taggie O’Hara and tuck her into a room where she would be guaranteed safety, warmth, and nourishment for life, he would. Even if it was never appropriate for him to join her.
“Good.” he states flatly. And it is. He only wants for her to feel good. He makes no innuendo, doesn’t tease her. Just lets the connection hum between them silently.
For a minute, they live like that. Him holding financial reports in one hand, and gently squeezing the warm, pliant flesh of her neck in the other. And then, Taggie shifts, leaning to rest her cheek against his knee.
“Tired?” he asks, fondness in his tone and something a bit huskier in his throat.
She nods, the side of her face nuzzling the fabric of his slacks. “Just a little. It will all get better once the bid is done. Too many things to worry about.”
“Mmm.” He hums thoughtfully, “Let me worry about it, Angel. It will all turn out alright, I promise.”
He expects pushback, but she must be truly knackered, because she only leans a little heavier against him, offering no argument. The next thirty seconds are so peaceful, and for a bit, he can imagine them in a very different house together, just across the valley. A home. Sitting together in a lamp lit room before bed. And then, the intrusive thought storms in: Does he want to marry her? Is that the sort of domestic fantasy he has of her? He supposes it is. He wants more than sex or even a relationship. He yearns for her to be fully integrated into his life, permanently. To never leave him. To occupy his bed, his kitchen, his garden, his every thought. He can’t even bring himself to be hesitant of the truth, none of his usual nature kicking in. There’s no fear in the thought, only delight. Somehow, Taggie has unabashedly become his exclusive daydream, his highest level of heaven. Of course, the realities aren’t so clean. But the thoughts, those are lovely.
He’s hyperaware of the weight of her form against him, the feel of her soft skin along the callous on his thumb, the short hairs at the nape of her neck that are tickling the back of his hand. It all feels… so good. So right.
And then, as always, the illusion is shattered as Declan’s footsteps begin to echo from just down the hall. Rupert gives one more press, and flutters his thumb affectionately along her pulse point, which to his satisfaction causes the red head to give a slight shiver. She rolls her head back, only his hand supporting her. He could die at the sight, blue eyes cast up from beneath her lashes, looking at him with gratitude he doesn't deserve. Then with a sigh, she’s sitting up, Rupert withdrawing his hand not three seconds before Declan enters the room.
The aforementioned man returns, none the wiser, with his briefcase raised in triumph. Rupert observes as Taggie resumes her work, the room carrying on as if nothing has happened. But Rupert can’t imagine his focus will be able to make its way back to budget analysis this evening. Instead, he sits there wondering if he’s doomed to this – caring for this woman so immensely while she sits within his reach, but outside of his reality.
Not much later, Rupert announces he’ll be off for the evening, hoping that it’ll offer an opening for Taggie to head to bed. He gives her shoulder a discrete squeeze as he stands, and she shoots a small smile up at him from the floor. Declan offers to walk him out, and as they chat at the door, Rupert is relieved to see Taggie slipping to the stairs, Gertrude at her heels.
Rupert spends the entire drive home thinking about a day when Taggie could come with him, taking place in his passenger seat without pause. Or better yet, a day with her waiting for him, snuggled on a couch at Penscombe as if it belonged to her (because it would), a fire roaring and all of the dogs strewn about.
He really is growing quite a sappy imagination over her. Bas would have a roast over it. But he can’t bring himself to be bothered one bit. For God sakes, he’s going to fall asleep thinking about the feeling of her skin under his fingers and the flush of her cheeks when she had cast that look up at him. Like she cared for him. Like she wanted him near.
It’s perhaps the most innocent, least sexual thought he’s ever conjured of a woman from his bed. Still, he can’t bring himself to feel strange about this shift in behavior. It feels as natural as breathing, these thoughts that stem from a deep affection for her, a fierce sense of protectiveness. He finds he's not shy of his love at this point, knows it’s different than anything else he’s ever felt. And even if his fantasies of her never come true, he refuses to apologize for having them in first place. He’ll keep them for himself, untarnished, as long as he’s able.