Chapter Text
Oliver liked cooking, which was convenient, because right now, they certainly couldn't eat anything someone else had prepared for them. The cookies Maxie had made them were still in their fridge for that reason. Maybe they could pass them off to someone else. It's not like they were getting out of this OCD flare-up any time soon.
Despite how much he enjoyed cooking, he rarely got the chance to make something nice, mostly due to being too tired after work and money constraints. Plus, it's not like he needed food anyway. So, he took whatever reason he could to cook something, instead of the usual handful of crisps for dinner.
Which is probably the only reason he's cooking for Mike.
They felt like it was weird to do this, but they asked Mike and he seemed elated at the prospect of not having to make a meal for himself. Oliver just couldn't get over the anxiety that they were overstepping some invisible boundary. Like maybe making dinner was okay, but what if delivering it wasn't? But Mike shouldn't be trying to navigate to their flat. They had forgotten the address given by Simon and expected Mike to be too paranoid to give his address out via text, but despite recent events, Mike didn't seem to mind at all. Which worried Oliver a little.
(To be fair, everything worried Oliver at least a little. Usually more).
Preparing dinner took longer than it should have. Oliver washed their hands after every little thing, making sure no dirt was somehow leftover from digging Mike up weeks ago. There wouldn't be. It was impossible. But every time they tried to talk themself out of it, images of the Institute after the Prentiss attack flashed in their head. They thought of the bulbous egg sacs lining the walls of the tunnels and the worms wriggling through every crevice they could find and the scars left on Jon and his assistant and they gave up and washed their hands again.
The recipe itself wasn't too complex; chicken stew was mostly chopping vegetables, anyway. Was chicken stew okay? Mike said it was, but he could have been lying to make Oliver feel better. They were going back and forth on eating with Mike; that had been their original plan, but maybe they should leave so Mike could easily toss it out and Oliver would never know. Maybe he just wanted Oliver to feel useful so they'd get out of his hair, and that was the only reason he agreed to this. Had Oliver been bothering him too much? He had only initiated text conversations with Mike four times: Once so that he had their number, once by accident ("Maxie" and "Mike" look similar when you don't have your glasses on and are what doctors like to call "almost legally blind"), once to check in, and once today to offer dinner. Every time, Mike had been nice, but it felt… stifled? Maybe Mike was just bad at conversations over text. Maybe he didn't like Oliver. This was a stupid idea, and they should just text Mike and lie that something came up and they can't cook, but it was already almost done and Oliver couldn't eat all of this by himself. Maybe Maxie would like it? But Oliver didn't want to lie to Mike and then–
"Can you just shut up?" Oliver said to themself.
As they stirred the contents of the pot, they talked aloud to get out of their head.
"Just give him the stupid stew and see if he talks to you ever again, I guess. See how it is when you get there," they turned the burner off and moved the pot to a cool one so it could cool off, "It’s his problem if he doesn't tell me he doesn't want chicken stew, anyway."
That last part didn't really feel true– maybe Oliver had done something to make Mike think they were unsafe to tell that sort of thing to– maybe they were, and just didn't know it– but they forced themself to pretend they believed it.
After letting the stew cool, Oliver put all of it in a container. They decided they would give it all to Mike, and if they got invited in, then that was that. If not, they could make something else for dinner.
(Right before leaving, feeling more than a little guilty, Oliver grabbed the cookies from the fridge).
Oliver had re-read the address and floor dozens of times on their way to Mike's flat, but they re-read it again after actually laying eyes on the building. It was very, very nice in a way that made Oliver anxious. Pimlico itself was one of the more affordable parts of Central London (which really wasn't saying much, because it's Central fucking London), so Oliver didn't put a lot of thought into Mike's living space. It's not like he was living in Mayfair or Knightsbridge. Hell, Oliver lived in Chelsea, although definitely in one of the pockets with a higher poverty rate. So Oliver didn't really expect to be walking into one of the nicest buildings they'd ever seen. The lobby was bright and posh, and Oliver felt like they might be the grubbiest thing in there. They hurried over to the elevator, stepped in and pressed the button for the floor Mike said he lived on. The top floor. Oliver realized Mike had never given them a room number, meaning he probably had the entire top fucking floor, and they would probably need a key card to get in. As soon as they realized that, the elevator doors shut and it started going up.
Okay. Well. Maybe Oliver was wrong, and Mike just forgot to give them a room number. Or maybe Oliver missed it. They took out their phone from their pocket and began to text Mike and ask, but the elevator came to a stop and opened up to…
Oh, Jesus fucking Christ. Oliver hoped that Mike had enough of a brain injury to have forgotten what their flat looked like.
It was huge. Oliver's entire flat could fit in the living room. The space was relatively clean, the only clutter being a few throw blankets hanging off pieces of furniture and three stacks of books on the coffee table. It was bright. The walls were landlord white, of course, and the floors a bland grey faux hardwood, but Mike had somehow made it so every single piece of furniture was bright and colorful and still matched, in a way. The rug in the sitting area was probably two months' worth of Oliver's wages. Two couches sat on it, one red and the other a sort of baby blue, along with a green armchair and a wooden TV stand that held up a large TV. The coffee table with the books on it sat in the middle. Built-in bookshelves lined the wall behind the TV, and it was full of books. Where there weren't books, there were trinkets, figures, antiques… there was barely any space left. To their right was what appeared to be a reading nook, with several shelves surrounding a window nook that acted as a seat. Light filtered in through the thin red curtain across the window. It seemed to be the only curtained window in the house.
Oliver was about to call out to Mike when a woman he had never seen before rounded the corner. She was nearing middle age, with wrinkles and worry lines just barely beginning to set into her apricot face and strands of grey hair mixed in with brown. Her pin-straight hair just barely went past her shoulders and frizzed, although it seemed she had tried to straight iron it one too many times. Her clothes suggested she had just gotten back from the office, although she was wearing tennis shoes instead of heels, which looked slightly odd with tights and a pencil skirt. She had bright blue eyes, like Mike and Simon, but that was about where the similarities ended.
"Who are you?" she demanded.
"Oh! Um, I think I have the wrong floor– u-unless a Mike lives here, too?"
"Wha– who the hell are you?"
"Oliver Banks. And you?"
For a moment, the woman didn't respond. She just studied him with narrowed eyes. When she broke the silence, she didn't answer Oliver's question.
"What are you doing here?"
Oliver held up the containers they were holding. "I brought food?"
She opened her mouth to respond, but was interrupted by a loud series of thuds from the hallway, followed by a string of curses from Mike.
"Are you alright?" Oliver called, starting towards the hallway.
A gun cocked behind him.
"Don't move," the lady warned.
Oliver froze.
"Shit! No, Harriet, it's fine!" Mike stumbled out of the hall, holding onto the wall for support. "It’s fine, I know him!"
Harriet put away the gun, but her voice was still terse. "You didn't tell me we were having company."
"I forgot," Mike hissed. "You know, like you keep saying?"
Harriet huffed and turned to Oliver. "Sorry about that. We've just been having… unexpected guests lately–"
"He knows, he knows," Mike said, walking (albeit a little unsteadily) towards the coffee table and grabbing a cup off of it. "Oliver's the one who– hey, what's up with these books? Did I do that or one of you?"
"It was me," Harriet said impatiently. "Oliver's the one that did what?"
"Why, though? Are you sorting them? These are mine, right?" Mike said, setting down the cup and looking through the leftmost stack.
Oliver glanced at Harriet nervously, expecting her to bark some sort of irritation at Mike for getting sidetracked, but she didn't. Instead, she sucked in a deep breath, relaxed her face and body, and spoke in a much softer manner than before.
"They're yours, yes. Do you remember how I was talking about mental exercises once your brain is finished resting?" She spoke more clearly and slightly slower than she had before.
"Yeah, what, is this one of 'em?"
"No, it's not an exercise or anything. I was sorting books you had on the bookshelf by whether or not they'd be fine introductory material for relearning how to read blocks of text. The left–"
"I can do that!" Mike said indignantly.
"Well-"
"I-It's fine, we'll talk about it later," Mike said, setting the books down and picking his cup back up. "Let's eat."
"Yes, thank you, Oliver!" Harriet said. "I was just starting to figure out what to make for dinner when you arrived. Again, terribly sorry–"
"Oh, i-it's fine, I understand! I've also been worried, so–" Oliver bit their tongue to stop from saying anything else embarrassing.
Luckily, Harriet didn't seem to notice (or, if she did, she didn't find it odd). "--I know, I just should have at least gotten a proper introduction in before pulling a gun on you," she said, holding her hand out to Oliver. "I'm Harriet Fairchild."
Ah. Fairchild. That explained it.
Oliver sucked in a breath and extended their hand, hoping she wouldn't ask about the gloves, when Mike spoke up.
"Don't do that, Oliver doesn't like touching people," Mike said, walking behind Harriet and into the kitchen.
"Oh, sorry," Harriet said, retracting her hand. "Anyway, yes, come into the kitchen and we'll get bowls down."
She walked into the kitchen and beckoned for Oliver to follow her. After a little bit of trepidation, Oliver followed. A lot had just happened in the past, what, two minutes? But both Mike and Harriet seemed unfazed. Mike stood in front of a cabinet, getting down plates.
"Mike, we'll need bowls," Harriet said.
Mike cast a confused glance at what he had in his hands, then to the container of stew Oliver was carrying, then back to the plates. He blinked a few times, then gasped, "Oh!" and put the plates back and got bowls.
"Just three, right?" Mike asked.
Harriet turned to Oliver. "Did you bring enough for three?"
"Er… no, but I can eat at home. Or eat something else. I don't really even need food, anyway, so, it's fine."
"Oh, lucky bastard," Mike said. "What did you make, anyway?"
"Chicken stew."
"Oh, I'm vegetarian. I'll get myself something else," Harriet said.
"Oh, sorry, I had no idea, otherwise–"
"You didn't even know I existed!" Harriet laughed.
Oliver's face grew hot. "Well, if I had--"
"But you didn't, so don't worry about it," Harriet said, opening a drawer and handing Oliver a spoon from it. "Now go eat."
She spoke with such an air of authority that Oliver would have simply died from anxiety if they didn't do what she said, so he sat at the table and opened the container of stew while Mike struggled to do math.
"I got three, but you're not eating, so… two bowls? Yeah, that's right, right?" Mike said, somewhat to Harriet but mostly to himself.
"Yes, just two bowls. Thank you, Mike. Don't forget your spoon before you sit down."
"I'm not," Mike griped, and Oliver understood that, even if they weren't related by blood and didn't grow up together, Mike was Harriet's baby brother forever, no matter how old he got. It was a feeling Oliver knew well.
Mike set a plate in front of Oliver, then sat in the chair next to him with a bowl and a–
"You got a fork," Oliver noted, their voice low from anxiety.
Mike gave him a questioning look.
"I-I mean, you can eat stew with a fork, since it has all the big chunks of food, but, um, it's typically eaten with a spoon. Because of the broth. And I made the broth a little thinner than normal, so a spoon might be better?"
"Oh," Mike said, staring at their fork, dumbfounded. "This is a fork?"
"Yeah…?"
Mike got up and went back to the silverware drawer, digging through it for… something.
Harriet looked up. "Mike, a spoon will be–"
"I know what a spoon is!" Mike said, raising his voice.
Oliver fiddled with their gloves and looked at their lap. Better than watching, probably.
"Okay," Harriet said, "But it's okay if you don't. I won't make fun of you. Neither will Oliver."
Oliver understood that last sentence as more of a threat for them than a reassurance for Mike, but they didn't want Mike to feel stupid or like he would be laughed at. They hoped Harriet knew they weren't just chiming in because they were scared of her.
"No, of course not. I mean– You were shot, and buried, presumably without air? This– if anyone gives you shit for this, they're directly ignoring the fact that you almost died."
"I know it's frustrating to no longer know things you used to, especially when it's considered common knowledge. But, yeah, you were shot and underground without air for a month. Even if you're technically not fully human, that'll fuck you up," Harriet reached into the silverware drawer and held a spoon out to Mike. "Give yourself some grace."
Oliver could feel anger radiating off of Mike, but Mike just clenched his jaw, took the spoon, and sat down.
"Uh, is there a ladle? It's fine if not, but it's a little less messy than pouring the stew into our bowls."
Mike put his head in his hands.
"Just give me a second," he said, his voice a little too strained with emotion to be a growl, but too much of a growl to be anything else.
"Oh! Right, sorry," Oliver said.
"I can get it, you just sit, Mike–"
"I don't want to–" Mike said, whipping around to face Harriet.
"I know. But some food will probably make you feel a little better, and it'll help you think, so I am simply speeding up the process of you getting food," Harriet said, bringing the ladle over and setting it on the table. "I am not doing this to humiliate you, or because I think you're stupid. I'm doing this because I want to help."
Mike deflated. "This is a lot of help."
"Well, then, you get to help me do the dishes after dinner," Harriet said, patting Mike on the back, then heading into the kitchen.
"What, you're not afraid I'll drop a plate and break it?" Mike said sarcastically.
"We'll just buy more."
This way of thinking was baffling to Oliver, but they said nothing. Then again, maybe it wouldn't be so baffling if he had the excess income to buy replacements for several broken dishes on any given day.
"Besides, you want to get back into doing normal things, yeah? Dishes are a good place to start. Hm, wait, maybe we should start with making tea.
"I remember how to make tea," Mike said flatly.
"Yes, but your motor planning skills have been– ah, what's the non-technical term for it? The way your brain decides and plans how to move has been impacted, so even if you know the steps, your body might have trouble actually doing it."
"How do you know all this, anyway?" Mike asked.
Harriet's cheeks became faintly pink, and she turned her attention to the beans she was cooking. "I studied this sort of stuff before now. Taken care of a lot of people in my days. It's similar problems in a different context now."
Mike rolled his eyes and began serving himself dinner. "You're always so dodgy about your past."
"I'm dodgy? In what universe does hunting Leitners count as 'studying abroad?'"
"Sometimes lying is fine," Mike replied, his eyes peered and brow furrowed in concentration as he tried out a few movements to get the ladle to come towards him.
Oliver watched, a little curious to see how this was going to work out, but more than a little anxious Mike would notice him staring and become self conscious. But Mike got it quickly, albeit by sticking his elbow out at a strange angle. Then came turning the damned thing.
"Well, yes, but that was just a conversation we were having."
"I didn't know if you knew about Leitners."
"I worked for Simon at the time!"
"Alright, alright, whatever," Mike grumbled.
Mike finally succeeded by grabbing the bottom of the ladle and flipping it upside down in order to get the contents into the bowl. He smiled triumphantly at Oliver, who smiled back, and then realized he would have to dip that ladle into the container to get his serving. Damn it.
Mike seemed to realize this at the same time. "Oh, sorry."
"It’s okay," Oliver said, carefully getting their portion with their spoon.
"I'm pretty sure I washed my hands after dinner, if that helps."
Oliver assumed he meant "before dinner."
"It doesn't really matter much," they shrugged. "Still germs. Would still have to be washed before using it again either way. The only real difference is how long it has to be washed."
"Do you have specific times? Like, for how long you wash something, if it's dirty in a certain way."
"For some things. Usually just my stuff. With other people's stuff, there's no telling how well they wash it, or how regularly, so it's harder to have any sort of regiment," they paused. "Although, my regiment is quite ridiculous nonetheless."
Mike hummed thoughtfully, then asked, "Is it helpful to refer to compulsions as ridiculous?"
Oliver gets asked a lot of questions about their OCD, but they hadn't expected that one.
"Well… depends? The tone matters. And who's saying it. Like, there's a difference between someone laughing at me and someone pointing out that my actions aren't exactly rooted in reality, you know?"
Mike nodded. "Can just anyone point it out?"
"Not really, mostly because not everyone is… trustworthy, I guess? Sorry, that's not a great way to put it."
"Oh, don't apologize. It's not like I'm dying to pick– oh, what is it?" Mike screwed his eyes shut for a minute before opening them wide in revelation. "Nitpick! Yeah, that."
"Oh, don't worry, it's no big deal," Oliver said. And he meant it, too. As nerve-wracking as it was for other people to know he had OCD, and as annoying as it could be to deal with people's ignorance, it was nice to not have to hide it. To admit it existed to someone other than himself.
Harriet sat down at the table with an impressive salad, although it did seem to mostly be a mish-mash of items. Oliver wasn't entirely sure kidney beans went into salads, but it's not like they had any expertise on the subject, anyway.
"So, Oliver, I heard you met Simon the other day," Harriet said.
Mike snorted.
"Er, yeah, I did," Oliver said, shifting in their seat a little.
"Was he nice to you?" Harriet asked.
Oliver blinked. "Erm… not really? He wasn't, you know, hurting me, or anything, but I wouldn't say he was nice."
"For Simon, that is nice," Harriet sighed. "Didn't do anything to you?"
"Made me feel a little dizzy, but stopped when I asked him to. He was… threatening, I suppose, but he was trying to find Mike at the time, and was prepared to get information out of me by any means possible, so…"
Harriet hummed in a tone that suggested disappointment. "Well, I suppose that is a somewhat appropriate situation to be threatening in."
"Simon isn't normally threatening, I don't think, and I think that's why he's so scary," Mike said. "Nobody expects the geriatric man with a cane, you know?"
"Mm, I suppose you're right," Harriet said in between bites, "But I don't know if that's how normal people see it. I'm trying to get him to stop stirring up trouble so obviously, since his entire legal identity falls apart the moment you squint at it."
Mike chuckled. "Yeah, well good luck with that."
"I'll fucking need it," Harriet sighed.
Cleaning up dinner went better than Oliver expected, mostly because Harriet forced them to go into the living room and continue sorting books while she and Mike did the dishes.
Forced was a strong word. But Harriet had a way of speaking that rid the possibility of saying "no" from one's mind. They still strained their ears to hear what they were saying, to make sure they were washing the dishes "correctly," even though they knew it was more trouble than it was worth. After five or so minutes of staring blankly at the same book cover and fighting the urge to take over the dishes, they decided it was time to go.
They stood and leaned on the kitchen bar, Mike and Harriet's backs to them. Before they could do something to get their attention, Harriet turned around, eyebrows raised. Man, she was quick.
"Er, I've got to go on home. Thanks for having me over."
"Thanks for dinner," Mike said. "Harriet can't cook for shit."
"It's not my fault you have the palette of a ten year old," Harriet said. "But yes, feel free to come over again."
"With or without food," Mike added.
Oliver smiled and called the elevator, feeling perhaps a little too happy. What was that joke? Good grade in social interaction, and all that.
"Now you're going to have actually be vegetarian until they're tired of us," Mike said.
"Mike, they're still here."
"Oh."
Oliver snickered as they stepped into the lift and pressed the button for the lobby.