25 Candles

Note: Small spoilers for 'Deceptions'.

Summary: Early morning research is causing Gabriel extreme anxiety and he is anything but cool, calm, and collected; Olivia's sudden appearance in his office does not improve matters one bit. (Small spoilers for 'Deceptions'.)

Disclaimer: Characters owned by Kelley Armstrong.

I could only blame the unfamiliar anxiety already coursing through my veins for turning what was no doubt a firm yet unobtrusive knock at my door into the sharp, sudden machine gun rattle that punctured the relative silence of my office space, jerking my awareness firmly and abruptly back into the here and now. My fingers seemed to have abandoned all acute motor function in an unprecedented act of betrayal, and rather than continuing my attempt to close the numerous tabs I had open on my internet browser, I settled for simply slamming the lid of the laptop down with more force than I had intended, wincing at the crunch that sounded beneath uncharacteristically clumsy hands. I pushed myself back from the desk abruptly and inadvertently swept a pile of documents off the side of my desk, falling to the floor in a flurry of paper. As I bent to attempt to rectify the situation, my elbow caught the side of a half-empty mug of cooled coffee, which promptly flew off the opposite side of the desk, landing with a ceramic tinkle on the carpet and pooling smooth, brown liquid across the floor. I froze. Unaccustomed to such loss of control – however seemingly miniscule and lacking in consequence – I felt heat rush to my cheeks, an embarrassment compounded even further upon seeing the face at my office door, the expression a blend of soft surprise and confused amusement.

With one hand still pressed against the half-open door, Olivia gestured towards me with a cardboard take-out holder supporting two steaming cups of coffee from our preferred café down the street from my office building.

"Coffee?" She asked slowly, her head still cocked to one side in a slightly perplexed expression, eyes briefly scouting my desk to determine the source of my unprecedented exhibition of physical awkwardness. "Or maybe you've had a little too much caffeine this morning already?"

It came out as a question, Olivia clearly expecting me to provide some reasonable explanation for my behaviour; after all, she had come to expect me to easily provide a concise and simple explanation for any act of strangeness or unexplained behaviour we encountered, both on the case and off. I raised an eyebrow and gestured for her to pass the coffee cup over, ignoring the relative chaos that surrounded me and attempting to buy enough time to produce a suitable justification for my behaviour. I was drawing a blank.

Olivia entered my office regularly, sometimes knocking, sometimes letting herself in with an air of comfortable familiarity that Lydia, my office manager, seemed to quietly enjoy from her desk. The latter certainly wasn't something that I had ever permitted from any other visitor in the past. Hell, I had no intention to consider it acceptable behaviour from any other human being in the future, either. Olivia, as always, was an exception. Thus, her sudden appearance at the door was insufficient explanation for my lapse in control.

"Do you need to – " Olivia cut her sentence off abruptly, a grin that could only be described as wicked spreading across her face. Despite the discomfort I felt at her witnessing me making a fool of myself, I felt a little twinge in my chest. She was a striking woman in many respects in general, but her expression communicated a mischievous playfulness that created images in my mind of much more … intimate encounters with her – images that were cropping up with a disconcerting regularity, as of late.

"Do I need to what, Olivia?" I enquired, attempting to maintain as cool a tone as possible that belied my inner thoughts.

Olivia pressed her lips together in an attempt to hold back laughter, then glanced coyly up to the ceiling and back in a show of feigned casualness.

"Oh, nothing. I was just going to ask if you needed to, ahem, take a moment." She bit her lip and her eyes sparkled, and the twinge in my chest slid considerably further south down my body. An unacceptable physical reaction, but one that I was growing less and less inclined to reign in.

"Well I'm certainly glad that you find yourself amusing, Olivia. Although I must admit that yours is a very … niche style of humour."

"Well it made you crack a smile, so I consider myself a roaring success." She replied with a quirk of her eyebrow, bringing the realisation that she had in fact brought a small smile to my lips. "What were you working on when I walked in, anyway? You certainly looked … engrossed."

Ah. We were back to that.

"Merely research for a case. I have been known to conduct it myself, from time to time."

"I see." She replied, not entirely satisfied with my response.

Clearly aware that I wasn't planning on enlightening her any further, Olivia had thankfully settled into the chair opposite my desk – her chair, as I had come to think of it – and was sipping her mocha with barely concealed relish. She closed her eyes for a moment as she took another sip, a small hum of pleasure escaping her lips. I felt myself tense at the sound: like the smile that had proceeded it, it too conjured up some entirely inappropriate connotations. Olivia felt no compunction about broadcasting any of her feelings clearly for anybody to see, regardless of their place on the emotional spectrum. She was naturally open and honest about how she was feeling – a trait that no doubt horrified her genteel society mother – which made the heavy sense of guilt in my stomach twist and tighten whenever I thought about how she worked hard to ensure I was rarely privy to any overt display of emotion that she presumed might embarrass or, even worse, irritate me. Pleasure derived from the consumption of caffeinated beverages, however, appeared to be firmly on the approved list of Gabriel-friendly emotions, as she drained the last drops of the warm liquid and let out another contented sign, placing the empty cup on the desk.

"Thirsty?" I asked, allowing a spot on amusement to show on my face, glancing pointedly at my still-full cup on the desk between us.

Olivia let out a small huff of laughter, accompanied by a self-deprecating grimace. "Long night. Little sleep. I woke up to the alarming sight of a sleep-deprived zombie looking back at me in the mirror this morning and quickly diagnosed myself in desperate need of a caffeine injection, stat. Figured I'd make a little push for employee of the month and grab one for Lydia and the boss, too."

Smiling, she settled back into the chair and began sorting through her emails on her phone, seemingly happy to sit in companionable silence for the moment, completely unaware of the sudden hum of activity within my brain.

Across the course of our acquaintance, my concern for Olivia's health and general wellbeing had grown exponentially, spurred on by every twist and turn our entwining journeys took to drag us further and further into a web of preternatural danger. The degree to which I worried about her welfare was beginning to threaten to overtake my concern for myself, and I made sure not to venture too far down the path of considering why that had become the case. There be dragons – possibly quite literally, if recent fae-related events were anything to judge by.

Fallen papers, spilled coffee, and temporary loss of face forgotten, I surveyed Olivia for signs of poor health or fatigue. When working together, she seemingly exudes energy both in the office and out in the field, working tirelessly into the late night and early morning with admirable work ethic, and I often find myself issuing firm reminders to complete basic tasks such as eating and sleeping, not wanting to be the reason that she falls into poor health. More often than not, she'll shoot back some witty retort along the lines of suggesting that I follow my own advice, too, and we'll end up ordering takeout or finding a place to eat, so that I can make sure she gets suitably fed, and so that she can ensure that I don't "fly back to the 55th floor batcave and brood the night away." I take comfort in the steady routine more than I know I should; the fact that I am able to order for her from the Golden Palace takeaway menu without a second thought holds a bizarre sense of satisfaction, and the consistent patter of conversation throughout any meal we share lulls me into a quietly content sense of calmness. I tell myself that if only for that reason alone it is only reasonable that I reciprocate by ensuring she doesn't push herself too hard.

I attempted to determine the source of her restless night. Had she slept poorly because of the stress of the case? The worry over her parents? The seemingly constant threats to her life? Was she perhaps ill? Would it be appropriate to enquire or would that be seen as too forward and invasive? If she were ill, should I offer to let her return home to recover, or would she interpret it as a hint that I considered her presence unnecessary? I racked my brains to consider other potential reasons for her lack of sleep. I was well aware that a restless night's sleep was often used euphemistically to refer to engagement in … - I called an abrupt halt to that avenue of thought. Whilst I knew that Olivia had a healthy enjoyment of sex – from both the hissed accusations of her ex-fiancé, James Morgan, the inappropriately matter-of-fact reminders from my aunt, and Olivia's own occasional allusions to her younger experiences – I had no desire to think too hard about the practical implications of that fact. Whilst happy to share amusing tales of high school and college anecdotes that she always regaled with a self-deprecating smirk, Olivia never disclosed intimate details about her personal life and relationships. Although I had no desire to be privy to details of any such activities, there was a masochistic voice in my head that had started to intrude whenever I caught a glimpse of a blush or a giggle when her phone buzzed with a message from Ricky: What had he said to her to elicit such a smile? What caused that flush of pink to creep across her cheeks? Did she respond in kind? Were they merely discussing their day or was this some sort of foreplay to … Urgh.

As I said. Purely and painfully masochistic.

I suddenly became aware that Olivia was looking at me expectantly, clearly having continued our conversation whilst my own thoughts led me down a spiralling descent into self-inflicted discomfort and introspection that was entirely unsuitable for the early hour.

"You are so not on top form today, Walsh." Olivia noted with a concerned frown. "What's up with you?"

"I was just considering my itinerary for the day. I apologise." I lie slipped out smoothly and I felt a pang of guilt that I would never have conceived possible a few months ago.

"Well I certainly hope that you're more attentive on Friday night, or else I'll be unleashing the full force of the spoilt rich girl pout, mark my words."

Friday?

I had extensive experience of training my face to remain neutral and impassive, but evidently Olivia was learning to detect the most miniscule tells in my expression that even I was not aware of. She frowned at me.

"Do not tell me that you've forgotten, Gabriel. You never forget anything. We've had this planned for weeks now; you were the one to suggest the restaurant in the first place!"

Ah, yes. Friday. In the chaos of the research I had been conducting when she had walked in, I'd almost forgotten the reason that it had been necessary in the first place.

"Olivia, I can assure you that your birthday is in no danger of being forgotten. My schedule is cleared, the table is booked, and you will receive my undivided attention for the evening. Happy?"

"That depends." Her eyes gleamed and she bit the inside of her cheek. "Will you be leading the waiting staff in a rousing chorus of 'Happy Birthday'?"

I chose not to dignify that with a response.

"Do you promise not to be embarrassed by my over-sized novelty birthday badge and sash? Even when I turn on the flashing LED lights?"

I delivered a pointed look.

"Will you ensure that your numerous gifts to me are individually hand-wrapped, each with a delicately tied pink bow and homemade gift tag?"

The mention of gifts, however jokingly, brought my earlier anxiety surging back through my body with a jolt. I changed the subject.

"Whilst I can assure you that I am looking forward to the evening, I must question again your choice in dining partner. Are you sure you're happy to spend such a milestone birthday with me in a restaurant? Do you not want more … extravagance? Celebration?"

Olivia smiled and shrugged. "After the last few months I've been having? Quiet and understated sounds perfect. I have no doubt that any attempt at some big birthday blowout would end in tears, media coverage, fae disaster, or all of the above. Besides, I'm hardly able to claim a particularly large and active social circle of close-knit friends right now, am I?"

"But surely Ricky wishes to celebrate with you?" The conversation had allowed for me to naturally insert the question that I had been pondering over ever since Olivia had initially proposed the arrangements.

"There's some big, long-standing club event going on that weekend that requires a lot of manpower. Don's being significantly more accepting of our relationship, but I see no reason to test the boundaries of that right now." She explained. "Besides," the wicked grin from earlier had returned, "missing my actual birthday guarantees an even bigger celebration when Ricky returns to make up for it. Whilst I'm hardly the materialistic debutante of my younger days, I can hardly object to having countless gifts lavished upon me for one day out of the year."

It was a throwaway comment, but I had no doubt in my mind that even when she was younger, 'materialistic debutante' had never been even vaguely close to an accurate description of Olivia. And whilst I had no desires for that to change, it was proving to be the crux of the frustration with my earlier … research. What to buy for the woman who has expressed very little desire for any material possessions? Admittedly, there was a weakness for designer footwear and dangerously fast cars, but any such whims could be easily satisfied with the five million dollar trust fund she was due to inherit in a matter of days. As a man who can count on one hand – and still have fingers leftover – the number of people I have even the slightest desire to buy gifts for, I had pitifully little experience in finding a gift that suitably conveyed my … appreciation for those I consider important. Especially when that nagging voice in my head reminded me that Olivia would no doubt have 'countless gifts lavished upon her' a few days later by her boyfriend. Gifts that would no doubt be thoughtfully selected with the cheerful ease of somebody who was able to show emotion and affection without effort, somebody whose relationship with Olivia was clear-cut and established, who could choose a present without the worry that it might be perceived as too intimate or forward.

The moment she sees whatever Ricky has bought her, all memory of your gift will fly out the window.

He's her boyfriend, not you. He can buy her expensive jewellery – just look at that pendant around her neck. Women don't want diamonds from their boss: that's creepy and inappropriate.

All this money and you still can't find a solution to this problem, Walsh. Not so in control now, are you?

I wished – certainly not for the first time since the start of my friendship with Olivia – that I had more experience of navigating these murky waters of maintaining a functional human relationship. I had no doubt that if I turned up to the restaurant on Friday without a gift in hand, Olivia would think no less of me and the evening would progress without a problem. She no doubt expected that of me, assumed that I was simply not the type of person to take the time to give material gifts. A part of me wanted to disprove that assumption. I was feeling increasingly compelled to utilise the traditional giving of birthday gifts as a way of providing Olivia with a real, tangible, undeniable token of my … admiration for her. To make a statement about her importance in my life. To surprise her. To make her smile. I had little doubt in my mind that one text or call to Ricky would easily produce a number of viable options for suitable birthday presents, but the thought of sharing the glory with him, whether Olivia was aware of his role in it or not, made me grit my teeth.

Slowly but surely then all of a sudden, I had found myself silently and often unconsciously vying with Ricky for the role of Olivia's confidant, companion, and protector. With his new knowledge of fae and the quirks of Cainsville, Olivia had gained an alternative person to turn to in her quest to resolve the many issues that had hijacked her life since her true identity had been revealed – an alternative that possessed considerably more interpersonal skills than I myself could claim. Who could blame her for now opting to seek Ricky's support instead of my own? Especially when my inner conflict over the exact nature of our relationship and my feelings for her often drove me to alternative between freezing her out and verbally lashing out. I simply wanted to create something, however small, that I could assure myself was between myself and Olivia alone. Thus the research.

I had spent what felt like endless hours attempting to exhaust all possible avenues for something appropriate to present to Olivia on Friday. I no doubt suspected that I had perused more online shopping websites – each one raising the slow, acidic burn of anxiety in my chest – in the past two weeks than in my entire life. I had looked at shoes. I had looked at art. I had looked at novelty wall-mounted singing fish. If I saw another website dedicated to tacky, mass-market Sherlock Holmes memorabilia, I was going to slam my fist against something hard. I had all but given up hope, until that morning when I received the notification on my phone that I had been waiting for. Admittedly, checking my phone whilst driving was not exactly the type of behaviour a man in my position should be modelling, but in this case I had been willing to make the exception. I had parked sloppily at the office and attempted to conceal my haste as I strode into the building. I had glowered and glared at my computer as it chose that exact moment to install 'essential' new updates, and I had cursed as I attempted to set up a new account on the website and produce a password that met the unnecessarily exhaustive requirements in order to be considered sufficiently secure. Finally, I placed my bid and sat back in my desk chair, telling myself that I was not intently watching the numbers on the auction timer click over slowly and rhythmically. The thudding in my heart was simply a side-effect of my brisk entry into the office.

A buzzing in my pocket jolted my thoughts back to the present and, even without checking, I knew what the message would say. Five more minutes left of the auction listing. I needed to remove Olivia from the room so that I could open my laptop back up and ensure that I would not be outbid in the final moments of the auction.

I quickly discerned that Olivia had no intention of moving from the chair in front of me anytime soon. Technically, her agreed-upon working hours had not yet started, she had simply arrived early to bring me coffee, so I could not use work as a premise for evacuating her from the room. She was sat with her leg curled up beneath her, silently perusing the papers from a case that we had discussed the previous evening.

Four minutes.

I cleared my throat. Olivia glanced up expectantly. How to phrase it so that she didn't feel as if I were dismissing her the same way I would a client that had outstayed their welcome? Was there a socially-acceptable way of concisely informing somebody that whilst at any other moment during the day their presence was very much acceptable – even desirable – but right now they needed to leave immediately and close the door firmly behind them? What excuse could I make to get her to –

"Want me to make myself scarce so that you can continue to conduct no doubt badass covert lawyer business in peace?"

Again, surprise must have somehow breached my usually impenetrably neutral facial expression, because Olivia grinned at me as she proceeded to collect her few belongings together.

Three minutes.

"Gabriel, I know you. I am more than familiar with all your little kinks and quirks, and I know that right now, at this precise time in the morning, there is little you like doing more than sitting silently in your office, plotting and pontificating and whatever else it is that you do. I get it. And I'm going." She smiled again, easing the sudden tension that sprung into my shoulders upon hearing her tell me that she was leaving. "Come grab me when you're ready to update me on new cases, okay?"

I cracked a quarter smile. "Of course. Thank you for the coffee, Olivia."

"Any time."

One hand on the door, she turned back and paused, suddenly nervous.

Two minutes.

"You know. My birthday…" Yes, I was painfully, painfully aware of it. "It's going to be the first time - … well okay, the first time that I'm going to actually be able to recall with clarity that I'll be spending it with my father. A man that I am now able to confidently say is innocent without the fear of having the rug pulled out from beneath me and discovering I've misplaced my trust … again. And I …" For a few moments as she struggled to find the correct words her gaze was firmly fixed on a spot directly above my head, but as she spoke again, her eyes met mine intensely, seemingly attempting to convey a world of emotion. "And I owe so much of that to you. In fact it wouldn't be unnecessarily ego-inflating to suggest that it's almost entirely because of you, for sticking by me, for pursuing the case, for having my back every step of the way."

One minute.

"I guess what I really want to say is thank you. For everything. And that the fact that I can finally share a birthday with my father, especially such a milestone one, is no doubt the best possible gift that I could hope to receive this year – and you made it happen. So thanks."

She ducked out of the room so quickly that I had no time to formulate a response, which was likely a blessing as I had no idea how to appropriately respond. Scattered papers and congealing coffee beside me still forgotten, I allowed myself to smile.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

"You had been outbid on item #8348139: 1892 signed first edition copy of 'The Adventure of the Silver Blaze – Arthur Conan Doyle.' Better luck next time!"

I felt none of the frustration I had anticipated over this turn of events, and the crippling anxiety that I had felt less than half an hour ago had gently dissolved into nothing: a part of me still knew that I could walk into that restaurant on Friday empty-handed and my relationship with Olivia would remain entirely intact and unchanged. For a brief moment I convinced myself that that was an entirely sufficient and acceptable course of action.

But is that what you want? For your relationship with Olivia to simply stay to same? Is that enough?

I flipped up my laptop almost as quickly as I had crashed in down earlier, entered my login details, and quickly brought the website of the listing up in front of me again, noting the username of the winning buyer and the final auction value. I sought the contact details and began my message. I was about to make an incredibly generous, and with any luck suitably persuasive, offer. I reviewed the correspondence and was amount to click send before I paused, my gaze falling on my closed office door, thinking about the person currently sitting mere metres behind it. I added an additional line.

"I will be adding an additional $1500 to the final amount offered to ensure expedited courier delivery on or before this Friday."

I pressed send and, in an act of unprecedented and uncharacteristic superstition, I crossed my fingers.