This is the moment you say, "I love you"

by liu_wr

Summary:

Nathalie takes care of Gabriel when he's too himself to do so.

Chapter 1

It’s dark. It’s so dark that anything that’s more than three meters away from the tablet fades into the abyss.

He sits against the wall, sketching —sketching, sketching, sketching— roughly with this new, fancy pencil that came with his recently-bought tablet. It’s easily bigger than his head, and probably etched forever into his retina after six days straight in that same position, sketching, sketching, sketching. 

It could be dawn or dusk, sunny or snowing, and for him, it’d be the same. He hears a noise. Maybe he’s going crazy.

The dress he’s sketching —sketching, sketching, sketching— doesn’t look very well to him. The bags under his eyes crinkle as he squints, trying to figure out what’s wrong. 

It suddenly looks perfect. 

What was ever wrong? Is anything even wrong?, apart from the fact that he hasn’t seen sunlight or eaten or drank or slept or seen a human for the past six days? 

Then, oh!, light. It hurts.

“Gabriel?” a familiar voice calls.

He gasps, then realizes it’s Nathalie. He looks up from the screen, and sees she’s worried, her eyebrows pinched high together. She approaches.

“Gabriel, are you okay?” she asks. He rubs his eyes. 

“Yes, why?” he responds, and his voice comes out hoarse and raspy. To her, he’s either just had an entire bottle of vodka, or yelled his throat into oblivion.

She takes him in. He does not, under any concept, look okay, at all. His hair’s dishevelled, some strands still gelled, others not so much; his clothes are rumpy, top buttons undone, scarf and shoes missing, a spot of coffee on his pants. The tablet lights up his face and she sees what can only be described as… Gollum, apparently; though his eyes look tiny without his glasses. He yawns and erases a little something in his tablet.

Without warning, Nathalie opens the blinds. He retreats and hisses like an aggravated feline while late-morning sunlight spills into the floor and the walls and makes everything too white for a second, as if the room itself has spent so many days in the dark it doesn’t remember how to handle light.

“Ow,” he complains, holding his aching head. Everything is aching. “They’re closed for a reason.”

She shoots him a weird glance.

“What for?” she asks, her voice as clear as the day is but no less gentle as she picks up some discarded papers. “Are you auditioning to say ‘My precious…’?”

He grumbles, though his anger is quickly dissipated as she takes his hand and helps him to his feet. The sheer quantity of bones cracking had Nathalie question herself if he’d just broken a bone. Or two.

Buttoning his vest back up, she looks into his features; the way his wrinkles seem to have gotten deeper and darker on his pale skin, stretched along his forehead, the side of his eyes, a small triangle between his brows. His gaze is unsteady and, as he looks at her, she notices his pupils aren’t the same in size. Is he having a stroke?

Left in a daze, he tastes his own saliva, reminiscent of cigarettes, coffee, plaque, and something so gross he can’t let himself breathe near her face because it wouldn’t be much more different than spitting rotten food at her.

Nathalie roughly picks up the little things scattered accross the floor —pencils, fabric swatches, fancy pens, cheap pens, printed-out emails, a measuring tape, ruler, small whatevers—, takes the tablet and the stylus and neatly saves everything in a drawer.

She spares him a worried look, and —God damn her mind— she can’t help but think of Homer Simpson that time he’d ate sixty-four slices of cheddar cheese throughout the night and in the morning said, “I think I’m blind,” because that is exactly how Gabriel looks. To an extent, of course. Unlike Homer, he has most of his clothes on and he hasn’t eaten that ungodly amount of cheese. Actually, she’s almost certain he hasn’t eaten at all. Her lower lip curls into the slightest pout.

“You look… concerning. It’d do well to take a shower. And a nap, and an aspirin,” she murmurs softly, looking at him from top to bottom. He nods, still rubbing his eyes. “I’ll take care of everything.”

Gabriel looks at her, ever so softly, and his dry, chapped lips’ corners crinkle up, just a little. “Thank you,” he murmurs, and stumbles his way to his room. 

 

.

 

The water burns his bare skin, more than he’s used to, and he scrubs everywhere: his hair, his face, his shoulders, his torso, his legs, what’s in between, etcetera. White foam cascades down his legs and the drain as he scrubs, the skin in his arms turns red, but he keeps scrubbing.

He turns off the water and wraps himself into a soft towel robe, pulling from the thick strands and making a knot just before he can’t breathe.

 

.

 

Evening arrives with a mouth-watering scent Gabriel can only describe as garlic, or at least it to be one of the ingredients.

The kitchen door creaks lowly as he strolls into the room, now with a fresher look on his face. He wears a white, fluffy sweater; a shirt’s black collar peeking from its neck, black slacks and fuzzy slippers. 

Still stirring a pot —that he identifies to be the cause of the heavenly smell—, Nathalie slightly turns her head, discovering that his hair, lazily combed back, lacking the usual copious amounts of gel, spray, and shaping, is quite wavy, darker (or duller) than she remembers; some shorter strands frame his forehead. She gives him a top-to-bottom. The style is certainly not his usual, much comfier than so, and it makes her want to hug him. The inspection makes him self-conscious, and he wonders if she can see how bony and angular and hollow he looks. He approaches.

A pan sizzles when Nathalie gives it a firm shake. 

“What smells so good in here?” he asks, feigning nonchalance before leaning in and peeking from behind her shoulder. It looks nothing short of scrumptious and he subconsciously licks his lips. She looks up and smirks as he doesn’t even notice her, his gaze fixed to the contents of the pot and pan.

“Pasta,” she responds, lowering her voice. His chest grazes her back. The closeness makes her tone drop slightly, “thought you’d be hungry.”

He holds his breath, frowning slightly and tugging at the hem of his sweater. The food-in-process suddenly turns uninteresting.

He exhales. “You didn’t have to trouble yourself,” he murmurs. His voice lowers, too. It rumbles not only in his chest, but hers too. She tries not to distract herself too much, and turns off one of the stoves.

She looks him in the eye, this time turning to him.

“But I wanted to.”

It’s her tone that does it for him. Or the closeness. He isn’t very sure, but a little bit of redness creeps up towards his cheeks as his eyes dart around nervously. His embarrassment now holds two (maybe three) reasons, and horribly, he’s expressing both at the same time. It’s her. She always makes him express more than he wants to.

She always will.

When he snaps back to reality, she has turned to the pot again. He leans in and bends down, just a little, just enough for his breath to catch in her ear. He smiles. 

“Thank you, then, dear.”

As if her knees weren’t weak enough yet. 

She looks at him, again.

“I hope you like it.”

He’s completely doubtless he will, but too proud to ever admit so. Watching her turn off the last of the stoves, he helps plate the food and lay the table, not without countless small, “accidental” touches throughout the process.

 

.

 

A bead of sauce clings to the corner of his lips, and he wipes it away with his tongue.

He can’t help but feel shame slowly creeping up his chest to his cheeks as he sees how she’s barely gotten to the first half of her plate while he’s already finishing. 

Oblivious to the thoughts running through his head, she smiles. It’s not everyday she sees him crouching to stuff his mouth every couple of seconds. It’s not everyday he even eats. She can’t even remember the last time she’s seen him eat—and no, a bite of dry cracker doesn’t count as eating.

“Is it good?” she asks, glad he’s finally having something. He looks up for the first time since the food has been served. Her lips are reddish from the sauce, probably because it’s too spicy to her. Gabriel twists his fork around one of the last bites, trying to think of an answer that doesn’t leave him looking like he’s never seen food, but before he can answer, he mindlessly stuffs the little morsel behind his lips. 

She chuckles, and he briefly raises his eyebrows.

In the time it’s taken him to chew through the bite he’s taken, he raises his hand slightly in apology.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, and inevitably chuckles himself, grazing the fork against his plate. He feigns the most nonchalant tone he can manage and says, “It was very good.”

She smiles, with her teeth, and looks to the side. “I’m glad.”

He smiles back, losing himself in the sheer beauty of her happiness, only to look down and notice the empty plate before him. 

Nathalie squints her eyes just enough to make their corners crinkle. 

“Want some more?” she murmurs in a lovely smile. He guiltily grimaces at her, a rush of heat throbbing through his entire body. She’s noticed; she’s noticed his gaze tinged with hunger. He wants to say yes, desperately so, yet his dignity is rolling on the floor at this point, dirty and grimey, and accepting might just make it seep down to the layers of Hell. 

She places a fingertip in one of his knuckles. He’s taking too long to answer what seems like a very simple question.

“No…, thanks,” he says, grasping her hand in hopes to distract her from his little lie. “I’m full.”

It doesn’t; they’re both painfully aware, but she knows much better than to push past the limits of his fragile, fragile pride, already cracking, especially around these topics. She smiles and basks in the feeling of his warm, loving hand around hers, his thumb caressing the back of her hand; after all, he’s already eaten enough.

She nods and barely gets to stand before he does, and looks her in the eye.

“I’ll take care of it, don’t worry.”

If he says so.

She smirks.

His fingers linger on her wrist. 

“You can go to bed. I want you to rest,” she murmurs. He smiles ever so softly, but shakes his head. Her heart skips a beat.

“You rest,” she says in exchange.

“No, you.”

“No, you,” they say, over and over again, pettishly looking at each other.

Then the plates are already in his hands and he’s making his way towards the sink. She giggles. She picks up the rest.

 

.

 

They clean up together, though she sits back and observes him finish the dishes. He’s clearly fatigued, yet in her eyes, he looks utterly handsome and she basks in looking at the soft moonlight glow doing its wonders.

Eventually, the water flow stops and he wipes his hands, looking at her with a smile.

“Done,” he says and tilts his head, signaling “up” to the bedroom.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, getting up and approaching him. He’s blushing and they both know that, and worse it gets as she takes his hand in both of hers and vaguely tries to kiss his cheek. She leans into him, tired, exhausted, just like he is, and instinctively, his hand comes to a rest on her lower back. He looks down and lets his nose sink into her hair. 

She groans slightly. His hand traces small circles, and he catches it just before drifting lower.

“I could stay with you for the night,” he offered, his voice dropping again. She loves, loves the sound of that, and smiles against his chest, enjoying the deep rumble of his voice and the plushness of his sweater.

“I’d like that, Gabriel.”

Oh, there. His name, coming out of her mouth, her lips shaping the syllables as if they were the loveliest in existence. He doesn’t know why it has such an effect on him, but it does. Maybe it’s also the closeness and the way his hand almost circles her back. He can’t help but leave a soft kiss in the top of her head… and another one, and a few more other ones until his lips reach her ear. Her knees go weak, again.

“Let’s go, then,” he whispers, low, very low, and she makes a content noise.

.

The bed is warm and his body is even more so, her head now finding the crook of his neck. His arm circles her entire torso and his hand rests in the dip of her waist, quite smaller than he expected. Her hand has found his chest, and she scratches it softly. 

“Was dinner good?” she murmurs against his jaw.

“Very. Didn’t know you could cook so well.”

“Mm. Are you praising me on purpose?”

He grumbles something incoherent and turns to her. Their faces are close, very close, enough for the tip of his nose to rest against the bridge of hers.

“Maybe.”

“Mm.”

“Mm.” he agrees. She giggles.

“I’m right, aren’t I.”

Gabriel laughs a bit more than he should have. Logically, it’s not that funny, but he can’t help the stupid grin creeping up his lips. “What are you even right about?”

Their laughs mingle together.

Her hand comes up to caress his cheek, and he melts. 

“Everything, actually,” she murmurs. “But don’t worry, I’ll make you a very good breakfast in the morning.”

“If you insist,” he murmurs, smiling, pulling her closer again. This time, her forehead meets his chin and he starts kissing the top of her head. She curls into his embrace and basks in the moment, trying to etch every single second of it into her memory.

The kisses reach where they did before, and she smirks. She chooses not to do anything. 

His arm is draped over her waist below the sheets, and he kisses the space just before her ear and above her jaw. 

“Mm.”

“What…?” she murmurs, smiling lazily, most of her brain being completely discarded.

“You smell very…”

His voice wanders off, and it occurs to him that his brain is also being discarded. Not in the right way, though.

“Uh…”

He scowls.

“Y’know what I mean.”

She laughs. 

“My, my…”

They hug, brushing their noses against each other’s neck or chest or whatever body part close. Their legs tangle, their breathing syncs slowly, their fingers interlock.

Before eleven, they’re asleep.

 

Chapter 2

Summary:

Gabriel has weird eating habits. Nathalie helps him get on track...just a little.

“Can you hand me the salt?” Nathalie says, signaling to the cabinet with her head, eyes wide and lips slightly pouty. She mashes together potatoes, sweet potatoes, and pumpkin. 

Gabriel blinks in a nod and raises his arm —much less than what she should to reach the cabinet— and hands her a small, closed package, blue and white.

She smiles and cuts open the bag, refills the little tub, and deposits some into the purée. Her eyes wander for a second, lost.

“Check the oven, please, too,” she says with the same curious tone, and he does. He moves slowly, his eyelids droopy, and uninterestedly peeks through the small gap. She notices and sighs. “You don’t seem very hungry,” she murmured. Are you annoyed by this?, she has the urge to ask, but doesn’t.

He shakes his head.

“Just tired.” He rests a hand on her shoulder, forcing her to look at him, and their gazes meet. He smiles, “I like when you cook.”

She sighs again, relieved. She enjoys the warmth of his hand; it seeps through her clothing and creeps up her cheeks.

Her chuckle has very little emotion to it.

“You know, for someone so tall, you don’t really fit the standard,” she murmurs. He arches an eyebrow.

“What do you mean?” he smiles.

“Well, that usually they say tall people eat lots. You never eat much.”

Gabriel snickers, leaning in slightly, as if telling a secret. He fidgets with the buttons in the middle of his jacket.

“I don’t really like eating in front of people,” he murmurs. He’s looking down. “It’s pretty weird.”

The corner of her lips turns slightly upwards. 

“So, you prefer gorging yourself in private?” she jokes. Gabriel grimaces at the idea.

“If you put it that way…”

“Yes?”

He chuckles, “No?”

They laugh. 

“I don’t really have time alone anyway. And the time I work doesn’t count, because… Well, you know,” he says.

She nods, pressing her lips into a knowing line. “You forget to even breathe when you’re working.”

That earns a small smile from him.

He looks at her. She doesn’t. He admires her for a while, a long while.

“The few times I eat alone I just eat… whatever’s close. I don’t really know how to cook, so I rarely eat anything that nutritionally means something. When you do, though, it’s delicious.”

She plates the purée.

“That explains the few muffins.”

Gabriel breathes another laugh. “Mhm.” He thinks for a second. It might’ve been around three months since then. “Few.”

“Maybe half a dozen went missing,” she sighs. “I made a bit more than two dozens, though.”

“I liked those,” he comments.

“I could notice.”

They chuckle. 

“It’s the only time I’ve eaten something you made, though.” Nathalie looks at him, her eyebrow raised. “For someone else, I mean,” he clarifies. “I don’t do that often.”

She nods. “Mhm.”

“It’s true!”

“Never said it wasn’t. You’re right,” she smiles. “Though it’d do well for you to eat more often—” He makes a small, discontented noise “—more than two times a week,” she says.

He grumbles. It might be true.

“I can bake some for you, if you’d like,” she offers. He shakes his head.

“I don’t want to burden you.”

Her eyebrows pinch together. “You wouldn’t. I like baking.”

He smiles. “If that’s the case...”

Their gazes meet for just a second, and his pinky sneakily finds hers. It doesn’t last very long, but it happened. It’s enough.

He takes a few steps back and Nathalie takes the meat out of the oven very carefully, setting it down on the counter. It’s buttery and medium-rare, covered in spices, and he can’t help but stare.

She looks out at him from the corner of her eye.

“Does it look good?”

He snorts.

“Of course not,” he says jokingly. She scowls falsely.

“Mm.

No food for you, then,” she retorts.

Gabriel’s quick to apologize, though he knows it’s a little lie. “I was joking, clearly.”

She spends a few seconds feigning to debate between giving him steak or not. Then, the knife glides down the meat. He smiles and pats her shoulder with a mischievous, small smile. “That’s it.”

She laughs and bites her lower lip. 

“Idiot.”

“Totally.”

She kisses his cheek.

It’s enough for now.

 

Notes:

don't ask me why am i so invested in gabriel's eating habits (i have an ed)

Notes:

YES i am a fan of rewriting the same scene over and over and over and over and