Work Text:
The door to the apartment known affectionately to the members of Charles' Office as a “safehouse” flung open inwardly with such force that the doorknob struck against the small rubber stopper that kept the knob from cracking against the interior wall. As with anything under the payroll of the office these days, it was much finer than a lot of Backstreets fare. The apartment itself was spacious, and the furnishings of good quality.
Though that hardly mattered to the two men who staggered into the place, bloodied and so tired that they let the door gradually inch shut behind them and lock itself rather than taking care of that personally.
“Ugh, that was brutal,” Roland muttered behind his mask. “How's your shoulder holding up, Olivier?”
“Throbbing like crazy, though with the first aid I'm not about to bleed out anytime soon.”
“Good. Even so, let's get you to the bathroom so we can patch you up for real.”
The bathroom was the reason in particular that this apartment building was chosen as a safehouse location, aside from its general level of quality. It was plenty spacious, and had a nice full bath. Perfect for those odd missions when someone came back and needed treatment, so that they didn't dirty up the rest of the place.
Olivier sat himself on the closed toilet lid with grunt, and started slowly pulling off his blood-stained jacket while Roland started rifling through the medicine cabinet. How many times had they been in the reverse of this situation, when Reckless Roland charged out ahead with all his usual ferocity, and Olivier would end up being the one to drag him back over his shoulder so that he could stitch his wounds and put him to bed to heal up? All it took was one silly mistake to get him seated in the treatment chair, while Roland was pulling out the medical supplies to get him patched up.
“Something funny?” Olivier looked up and saw Roland's mask turned down to face him, medical kit in hand.
“Just thinking about how weird it is to be on the other side of this for once,” Olivier replied. “I'm half afraid to ask if you'll know what you're doing with all those supplies.”
“Ha ha.” Roland's dry false laugh dripped from behind his mask, and he sat down on a stool nearby on the floor to get on a better level with the wound. He held Olivier's arm in his hands, looking it over with his thumbs lingering near the injury. “Well, on the plus side, looks like it's not too deep. Probably just need to clean it, wrap it up, and have you take an HP tablet and you should be good in a few hours. Should be able to take a bath before the end of the night, too.”
“Sounds great. I could use one after today. Astolfo really screwed up those mission specs this time, need to tell him to be more aware of his intel sources.”
“We got it done at least. Hold still.”
Roland pressed a thick pad of gauze under the lower edge of the wound, and Olivier gritted his teeth just before the sting of alcohol washed over and flowed into his injury. His muscles tensed up, and he soundlessly endured the prickles of pain from the flesh beneath his skin protesting against the intrusion of the cleaning agent. Roland was quick to take care of it, gently dabbing away the excess liquid before it could flow off of his shoulder and bicep and splatter onto the floor.
Olivier blandly watched the top of Roland's head while he did his work on him. As usual, he couldn't pick out any distinctive features, thanks to that Perception Blocking Mask. He had an inkling of what Roland was wearing, that classy black suit that he walked around in on his jobs and probably saved his reckless hide more than once. But beyond that, he still had no features by which he could discern anything about the man who he could probably call one of his closest friends. He had black hair, he knew that much from the few times he'd seen him without the mask fully in place and concealing his identity, but that wasn't much of anything in the City with how many other people also had black hair.
“Something on your mind?” Roland's voice pulled Olivier from his inner thoughts, and he found Roland's mask aimed up at him. While he was lost in thought, it seemed his friend had already suitably cleaned his wound, and had a pack of gauze and roll of bandages with which he could wrap it up to finish the job.
“Wondering what your face looks like,” he said honestly. Roland's hands hesitated, pressing the gauze to his arm, then the moment passed and he went on to completing his task.
“Yeah, I know you all have that betting pool,” Roland said, no longer directing his mask at him. “... It's average. Nothing special to look at. Don't know why you're all always so curious about it.”
“People are always curious to know about something someone's trying to keep hidden from them.” Olivier watched Roland's hands at work, pulling the bandaging taut but not constrictingly so. Featureless and unidentifiable at a glance, yet the movements seemed so familiar in a way that he could only really describe as so quintessentially 'Roland'. “And, you know. Figure I'd maybe have gotten the right to know the face of the guy I spend most of my time at work with. I'd think it's pretty normal to hope I'd get to know what my best friend actually looks like.”
“...”
Roland cut the bandages with a sharp snip of scissors, then stood again with the medical kit in hand.
Olivier sighed, but wasn't exactly disappointed. This was the kind of thing he'd grown to expect from this man he called his friend, after all. Roland probably had his reasons for not wanting to show his face. You'd find people with a million reasons and then some to hide who they were in a place like The City.
The tap gushed briefly, and Olivier found an HP tablet and a glass of water being held in front of his face.
“You want anything to eat?”
Olivier let a smile cross his face, then took the offered objects from Roland's hands.
“Do you need to ask? Doing a mission with you always makes me work up an appetite. Plus, when have I ever turned down some of your cooking?” Olivier popped the tablet into his mouth, then washed it down with several gulps that drained all the water from the cup. In that brief moment he took to take the medicine, Roland had already exited the bathroom, presumably headed for the kitchen.
Roland's bloody jacket hung on a rack on the wall, right next to Olivier's jacket and shirt. And the wad of damp, bloody toilet paper in the small bin next to the sink told Olivier that that was how Roland had cleaned the blood off his mask.
At the very least it seemed he hadn't gotten any other stains on his body, so there was no worry about cleaning the furniture. And if there was a bloodstain or two he'd missed... Well, Charles hired some pretty meticulous cleaners. They'd probably be taken care of before anyone came to this safehouse again.
When Olivier followed suit and left the bathroom, Roland was already hidden from view behind the open door of the fridge, grumbling to himself.
“Ugh. Never have any fresh produce in here. Nothing but half a carton of eggs and some beer,” he heard Roland muttering.
“If there's beer in there, I'll gladly take one,” Olivier called out, sitting himself down on the couch.
Without a word, Roland snagged a can from the fridge, then sent it arcing across the room and straight into Olivier's outstretched hand.
“That's the only one you'll get until food's ready,” Roland scolded. Olivier couldn't help but smile. For all of his recklessness, he always was so particular about food. And no one in the Office had a reason to complain about it after they'd gotten the privilege of tasting his cooking. “Looks like there's frozen vegetables and meats, at least. Some rice in the cabinet... Fried rice sound okay?”
“Sounds good to me.” Olivier cracked open the beer with a crisp 'hiss' of freed carbonation, then reached over for a digital pad that was left out on the table. “Want me to fill out the mission report and send our status off to Charles?”
“Please. I always hate doing that fiddly paperwork,” Roland complained.
And with that, the two of them fell into their usual routine after a mission. Olivier taking care of the paperwork, and Roland making them a hearty meal with which to recover their spirits. The safe house was slowly being filled with the quiet sounds of diligent work on both their ends, accompanied by the comforting, warm smell of food being prepared.
Maybe it was just the exhaustion finally catching up to him now that he was relaxed, but Olivier found his vision starting to blur a little. He took another sip of his drink, then leaned his head back and rubbed his tired eyes before letting his hand come to rest. Just a couple minutes to close his eyes, just to give them a quick rest so he could finish his work. That was all he needed. Just a minute or two and then he'd be right back to
“Hey, Olivier.” Olivier startled when Roland's voice was suddenly so close to him, and he felt a hand nudging at his uninjured shoulder.
“I'm awake,” he said quickly, not wanting him to think he'd dozed off.
“Yeah, you are now.” Olivier was confused for a moment, until he realized with some embarrassment that the light in the room from the half-shaded windows suddenly looked different than they were before he'd just 'closed his eyes'. Damn it all. Hadn't even finished the report yet either. “Come on, food's ready.” Olivier cocked his head and raised an eyebrow at Roland. What, no jokes? No playfully calling him 'Sleeping Beauty' or anything like that? Maybe Roland was just as tired as he'd been. Made him feel a little bad if Roland had been hard at work cooking this whole time while he dozed off if that were the case. “Come on, before it gets cold.”
“Yeah, I'm coming.” Olivier hauled himself off the couch, then followed Roland to the table with his half-finished drink in hand, where a hearty serving of fried rice was already spooned out for him at the table, right across from what he assumed had to be Roland's portion. “Thanks for the food.” He sat down at the table and immediately began digging in. Roland always took his plate into another room to eat it there, on account of his mask. So there wasn't much point in waiting for him.
“Olivier... I was thinking, about what you said earlier.”
“Mmh?” Olivier made a curious noise through his mouthful of food without looking up. This really was very good, not that it was surprising since Roland was the one at the stove. Way better than anything Astolfo or the rest could throw together, anyway.
Roland was silent for a short period, without further clarifying at all his intent behind that statement. What from earlier had he said that Roland was so curious about?
Olivier was in the process bringing another spoonful of rice to his mouth, when a chair on the other side of the table from him moved. And, just out of the upper edge of his eye, he saw something being set down on the table. Rounded edges, all shiny and black and-
The spoon froze halfway to its intended destination, when his brain finally processed what his eyes were looking at. Slowly, ever so slowly, he raised his head to take a look at what waited for him on the other side of the table.
There was no odd curve of reality bent into the shape of a person seated on the other end of the table. No human silhouette whose mannerisms and voice he had learned to associate with a close friend.
What met his eyes was a very solid, very normal man. Black tousled hair, white shirt with a black tie still around his neck. The expression on this new face was uneasy, eyes shifted off to the side, but flickered back to Olivier once before darting away again. The silent question radiating strongly from him, but not quite brave enough to bite the bullet and ask.
“... I think you sold yourself short,” Olivier said at last. “I'd say that face is above average at least.” And then he went right back to eating. Savoring the food just as he had been before. He smiled as he watched Roland's expression shift across the rainbow of from nervous, to confused, to uncertain. It felt so novel to see him wear so many faces when before there hadn't been one at all. “This is really good. Hard to believe you made this with whatever scraps they stock the place with. But, you know what they say.” He smiled across the table. “Food always tastes better with good company.”
Roland's expression hesitated, now somewhere between uncertainty and anxiety. At last, though, he ended up moving past those, and settled on a self-conscious smile.
Well, it was a start. For the both of them.
Roland picked up a spoonful from his own bowl, chewed slowly, and then smiled again.
“Yeah... It really does.”