Chapter Text
“hands, please.” taggie’s british accent, though it’s not quite as strong as it was before she moved to america, cuts through the chaos of the priory kitchen. the irony of the name of the chicago fine dining restaurant that she’s landed in is not lost on her at all. she may have ran away from home, but home finds its way back to her, it seems.
it’s the final dish that she’ll serve tonight, but god, is it beautiful. paillard de veau , a beautiful cut of meat with the most delicious, aromatic herb butter you’ll ever smell in your life. it’s perfect. “actually, chef, the guest asked if the chef would deliver it personally to the table.”
looking up with a moment of heightened fright, taggie swallows, pushing some of her hair back. “oh. yes, sure.” she gets to work at quickly washing her hands, getting a peek of herself in the reflection of a stainless steel counter top, before she takes the dish and begins her long walk to table sixteen.
she’s always hated this part of the job– she’s not good at charming eager foodies who are in such a famous restaurant, desperate to know who made their food. with the likes of her peers, it gave her anxiety more than anything else. she was just taggie. awkward, bumbling taggie. twenty six years old and still feeling as adrift as ever… but, hey, there’s something to be said about being adrift on your own. not being tethered to a family that expected so much while offering so little.
she shakes her head. not the time.
when she approaches the table, it takes everything within herself not to drop the exquisite plate right to the ground.
“hi, angel.”
mouth opening and closing as she takes in the sight of rupert campbell-black for the first time in nearly five years, she feels her mind whirling. trying to make sense of this– trying to make sense of why he is here , looking at her, sitting by himself at a table in the restaurant she works at. a piece of her past. the only piece of her past that she misses, maybe.
“rupert.” remembering who she is, where she is, she sets the plate in front of him and folds her hands behind her back, just as she would if he were any other happy guest, thrilled to get a so-coveted reservation at a so-coveted restaurant, days before christmas, no less. “your paillard de veau.”
“thank you.” rupert doesn’t make any movement to touch his food. his eyes look her up and down– she’s more woman than girl, now, she knows it. not that you’d be able to tell beneath the chef whites that she wears. her hair, shorter and now blonde, though her auburn roots are just beginning to show, is tied into a knot at the nape of her neck. her face is bare of even a stitch of makeup. but he looks at her the way he did years ago, and she really, truly, earnestly wishes that he wouldn’t. “i’m glad to see you.”
“yeah, i…” she furrows her brow. “i’m sorry– how did you know i would be here?”
“i actually ran into patrick not too long ago. in london.” he gives his ever-charming grin. “quite the lad now, isn’t he? tenured professor. very impressive.”
shame burns within her, even if it’s not warranted. patrick has always been so impressive, hasn’t he? “yeah, everyone is very proud of him, i presume.”
the implication hangs heavily in the air. “he told me, ah… he told me you don’t speak to declan and maud much. that you were living in chicago now. told me that you're the sous chef at some swanky establishment. and i really missed your cooking.” the stab at lightening the mood doesn't go over well, it seems. rupert wets his lips. “i thought… well, i don’t know what i thought. i guess i thought–”
“you should eat your veal.” taggie interjects. “it’s going to grow cold, and i have a job to do.” with nothing more, she spins on her heel, making a beeline towards the kitchen. when she crashes through the doors, she presses a hand to her forehead and blows a breath from her lips.
classic agatha o’hara. running away, just as she has for the past six years.
rupert watches taggie snake through the restaurant until she goes through the double doors, nothing but a flurry of blonde hair. his heart stutters in his chest, and for a moment, he worries all of the cigarettes and red meat have caught up with him and that he’s having a heart attack.
when she’s gone, he looks down at the plate in front of him. it is immaculate– he doesn’t even have to taste or smell it to know that what taggie has prepared is delicious. but when he lifts his fork and tastes the cooking of taggie o’hara for the first time in years, it’s more than just good food. it’s like religion; something incredibly sacred.
he’d had so many ideas of how this was going to go. ever since he got the ridiculous idea once he spoke to patrick, it hadn’t let him rest. every moment of every day since the end of november he’s thought about this. he’s only just gotten the nerve to pull the strings to make it work– and pulling strings is a loose term. he still has influence, sure, but so much of that has faded. interestingly enough, americans seem to care very little about a washed up, ex-politician, former olympian. who knew?
the past six years had treated rupert well– really, truly, well. after the franchise failed and the interpersonal relationships all seemed to blow up with it, it allowed a wide open space to just… be. reckon with everything that had happened and try to right the wrongs of his life. he got to know his daughter. he spent more time with his other children. spent many hours on his relationship with his ex-wife. spent time doing charity work. still kept well and tight with lizzie and her now-husband, freddie– the one good thing he comes out of the whole ordeal, rupert thinks. he proudly pats himself on the back for this one.
he didn’t spend much time whoring about anymore, a big shock to most. he wasn’t all over every tabloid, wasn’t shagging women on planes. hell, he wasn’t even dating .
as he chews, his eyes linger back on the doors. and he’s glad he did, too, because here comes taggie– pushing her chefs coat into her bag, wrapping a big scarf around her neck.
“shit,” rupert scrambles, fishing out more than plenty of money for the meal and throwing it on the table. he hasn’t even finished his food– he curses under his breath, and in perhaps a wildly un-wise move, takes the plate with him as he chases after taggie.
looking to his left and then his right as he bursts onto the street, he sees the bobbing head of hair. “tag!” he calls, increasing his speed to catch up with her. she glances over her shoulder and the surprise takes over her face.
“first you stalk me, now you steal a plate?”
taggie looks at the plate incredulously, then back up to rupert. she didn’t quite allow herself a good look at him in the restaurant– but he’s as handsome as ever, if not more so. if her math is right, he’s 43 now… and the grey in his hair tells that story, in a way that makes her stomach stir. little flicks of silver through the darkest tresses she’s ever seen. “i didn’t want to leave the food, and… trust me, i left plenty to cover the plate and the fork.” he presses his lips together. “look, if you don’t want to talk to me, that’s fine. but…” she tucks her chin in closer to herself, her scarf covering her mouth. snow begins to fall, the chicago temperatures dropping as night approaches. “i wanted to see you.”
eyes flicking to the plate and back to him, she clears her throat. “return the plate and then we can talk.” she crosses her arms over her chest. “i’ll wait.”
he falls in line and begins walking back to the restaurant before she can blink. upon his return, there’s a nervousness that radiates off him. she remembers this part of him, this energy that lizzie once said only taggie could pull from the depths of rupert’s cold heart. though, taggie never thought rupert’s heart was cold. she just always observed how he seemed so much more interested in preserving his own bravado. his own suit of armor.
they walk one block in silence. neither one says where they’re going. it’s rupert who speaks first. “i shouldn’t have sprung this on you.” when she doesn’t reply he just… keeps talking. “you just worked god knows how many hours. and here i am, monopolizing your time. classic old bastard, aren’t i?”
taggie stops them on the middle of the sidewalk. she stopped letting people walk all over her, stopped thwarting her own emotions, stopped placating for others years ago. rupert isn’t spared from that— even if he was the one who instilled the confidence to do it in the first place. “rupert… why are you here?”
things between them were never going to work, was the conclusion they had come to, all those many years, months, days ago after that kiss in the kitchen at the priory. they both had their own excuses that they felt comfortable with telling themselves, and taggie thinks they both knew they were complete liars. then the franchise fell apart, and rupert’s relationship with her father fell apart in turn, and then her own decision to walk away from a family that never appreciated her…
she thought of rupert more than she liked to admit. he was a story told to her friends at wine bars, an elbow in her side whenever he occasionally was brought up in the media in her presence. he was the ghost that laid beside her at night, the phantom feeling of his hand cradling the back of her head, skating up her body. when she took men to bed, it never satisfied that insatiable desire that rupert had put inside of her. she never even had him, and she missed him.
taggie’s question hangs in the air for a moment. passersby curse at them for not moving out of the way— holidays be damned.
rupert deflates some. that aforementioned bravado that he uses as a suit of armor crumbles some at her feet, leaving the man beneath. the same way they were years ago– just a man and a woman, seeing each other over and over again for who they truly are. “i just…” he shakes his head and he looks at her. those dark eyes that seemed to burn when he would look at her. “tag, i missed– i miss you.” he blinks. “present tense. and when i talked to patrick, i just… i got worried.”
“ worried ?” out of all of the confessions wrapped up in rupert’s statement, that’s the thing she picks out. she laughs, the sound dark, almost angry. “i’m not the same girl i was, rupert. you don’t have to worry about me. i’m a big girl now.” her hackles rise, all of the strong defense mechanisms that she’s built in her independence rearing their ugly head.
if he believes her, he’s doing a terrible job at showing it. he stuffs his hands into his coat pockets to shield from the bitter cold. “regardless,” he sighs. “i miss you. that’s all.”
wrapping her arms around herself, she looks at him with trepidation. like if she accepts this, if she accepts him… it might take her backwards. to the girl she was before. the girl that rupert knew– as well meaning as she was, as much as that girl adored rupert, needed him… she doesn’t know if she can go back to that place.
she can’t turn him away, either.
“it’s freezing out here,” taggie says. “and my apartment is a block away. we can…” she finally meets that intense, searing gaze. “we can talk there.”
–
apartment is a rather generous word for what taggie’s home is.
it’s a 500 square foot box. on the walk, to fill the quiet, taggie says she got it on a steal. someone who knew someone who knew someone hooked her up with a great deal– hooked her up . the way she says it is just so american and it makes rupert laugh. it makes him proud. she’s her own person– has her own life away from declan and maud and their nonsense.
“here,” taggie approaches him from behind after they’ve shucked their wet shoes off by the door. “your coat, i– i’ll hang it.”
but there she is. that girl who takes care of others, who serves them, with little in return for her efforts.
spinning, he shakes his head, already taking it off. “tell me where to put it.”
with her big, expressive eyes, she says everything. she gestures to a tiny coat rack and he hangs it promptly, and then… they stand there. in their socks and sweaters and with the twinkling of taggie’s tiny christmas tree reflecting back at both of them. “um…” taggie gestures to a worn and faded couch. “sit. what do you want to drink? i have…” she opens her fridge. “well, i only have a miller high life.”
“that’ll do, tag.” he sits down and watches her flutter about, before she eventually settles beside him. at some point upon getting home, she pulled her hair out of its knot. rupert, despite himself, despite his better judgment, reaches out and touches a strand of the blonde hair. “i like this,” he says. “it suits you.”
when she blushes, he’s bombed with a flood of memories. she tucks her chin down to her chest and smiles. “i wanted a change.”
“it sounds like you wanted several changes,” rupert counters. he leans back and cracks open the beer, taking a greedy drink. “go on. tell me what you’ve done with yourself the past six years.”
the question hits taggie in a way that she didn’t expect. she straightens slightly and looks at the beer she procured for him, the last item in her refrigerator. “i’m going to need some of that if this is the conversation we’re having.”
he snickers and passes it to her. their fingers touch and her heart jumps in her chest, does a back flip at the skin-to-skin contact with rupert that has been such a noticeable lack inside of her. their eyes stay locked on each other as she takes a long drink, some slipping down her chin. his hand is all too eager to reach out and wipe at her chin, his eyes maintaining that intoxicating effect that they had then, too. “where to begin,” she says, voice breathy, putting the can back into his hand.
“i’ve got nowhere to be.”
“well…” taggie laughs and pulls her legs up to her chest. “after you left for london, and daddy went to finally profess his undying love for mummy, and patrick and caitlin were gone… i don’t know. i just couldn’t– i couldn’t stay. i had been saving money from all of the different jobs, and i decided that america didn’t sound so bad, did it? it was a world away. no relatives to ask things of me. no responsibilities. it felt like it could be a fresh start. and it was.” she shrugs one shoulder. “i started off in new york. started as a waitress ended up going to culinary school. certainly you’ve heard this part– i mean, declan was beside himself.”
“yeah, i’ve heard it in parts. but not from you.”
with a scoffed laugh, taggie says, “it really isn’t that exciting. i left. i work and live here. i have friends. and i don’t talk to my parents, and i’ve not been to england in almost four years. that’s the beginning and end of it.”
“and you’re happy here?”
that’s the question, isn’t it? she is happy– she really, truly, is. but when rupert is on her couch posing that question, it makes her question it all, for some reason. a swell of longing has entered her heart reminding her of everything that could’ve been. the franchise. rupert. her family. it all could’ve been so different.
when she nods her head, rupert reaches out, tentatively placing a hand onto her knee. “i’m proud of you, taggie.”
and with those simple words, whatever facade she’s held onto for this long seems to all crumble, right at the feet of rupert campbell-black.
rupert has made many girls cry in his hey-day. he has certainly not, under any circumstances, hoped to make taggie cry.
so when he sees her begin to dissolve into tears, he springs up. “hey, hey. i wasn’t–”
“i didn’t realize how badly i needed to hear that,” she admits with a tearful laugh. “i’m sorry– i’m being such a baby.”
“what?” rupert lays a hand on her shoulder and tugs her into him. he’s reclined against the arm of her couch, and she’s practically laying on his chest, his hand going to rest on the back of her head. “no. no, you can cry, taggie.”
and she takes him up on that. she cries and she cries into him, and rupert holds her, and he doesn’t know how long he does. he knows that he’ll hold her as long as she’ll allow. he knows that he’s dreamed of holding her since the very last time, and that it’s never nearly enough. it could never be enough.
rupert campbell-black. certified rake, distinguished bad-person, constantly chasing reform because of the woman in his arms. the woman he couldn’t forget, even if he wanted to. the woman who he would curse the world for, if asked. the woman who none other could hold a flame to.
“you’re so strong, tag. so strong. so good. we’d all be better if we were more like you.” rupert says into her ear. his hand slips up the back of her jumper, and she sighs into his neck, her tears lessening. she pulls back so that he’s looking at her tear stained, pretty face. he catches one stray tear with his finger.
it doesn’t how long they’re apart, does it?
her lip wobbles as she says, “i miss you, too.” she seems embarrassed at that fact, rolling her eyes after she says it. “you– you really make me feel…” she trails off, her eyes darting around her apartment. “safe.”
“yeah.” he squeezes her arm. “you make me feel safe, too.”
there had been a part of him that wondered if whatever electricity that had existed between them would be something of a past. nothing but a memory that he would get to look back fondly upon, and a friendship or acquaintanceship that he would get to take into the future, happily. but it’s not that at all. there’s still that crackle.
when she looks down at him, he thinks that she thinks so, too.
there were so many constrictions then. so many reasons to say no. but the franchise is finished. cameron is off married to some handsome investment banker. declan has been left to reckon with the choices he made that pushed his daughter away, which had nothing to do with rupert or the relationship that declan suspected he had with his daughter. there’s nothing in between them, now, but themselves.
“i’m in town through the new year,” rupert says carefully. “do you have plans? for the holiday?”
there’s a meekness that pains him, that he wishes he could take away, in the way that she shakes her head. “my friends are all from out of town. they’re all going home for the holidays, so… i planned on it just being me and miso.”
“miso?”
like clockwork, the brown tabby cat tentatively enters from what rupert has to assume is taggie’s bedroom. he raises his eyebrows. “a cat?” he huffs. “traitor.”
“i don’t find it ethical to have a dog in one of these apartments,” she says. they both laugh and neither one seems all too perturbed by their close proximity. “but… no. i’ll just be here. i usually order in on christmas.”
“when’s the last time you went home for the holidays?”
“i came back the first year. mummy and daddy had already moved back to london. but it went…” she pauses, and her eyes tell a story all on their own. “poorly. so i haven't returned. that was– um, that was the last time i saw them. caitlin and patrick have each come to visit a handful of times.”
rupert’s heart breaks. “well,” he bites down on his lip. “i’ve never had a christmas in chicago.”
the look on her face is beautiful. hopeful. wanting. she appears to surprise even herself when she says, “i don’t know what your arrangements are, but you’re welcome to stay here.” she halts, adding in a stammering fashion, “if you want to! i know it’s not that much, and that you probably already paid for a hotel, i just…”
rupert shakes his head. “i’d like that.”
miso jumps up onto the couch, in between them. rupert chuckles and scratches the cat beneath the chin. "he's certainly not going to let me leave, is he?"
"no," taggie says, petting her cat on the head. "i don't think he is."