Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Oliver Warbucks frowned at the sheet of figures in front of him. Mathematics had some basic laws that couldn’t be broken, and yet he felt sure that there must be a way to make these numbers work. To make this project viable. It wasn’t as though he was short on resources, after all! It would just be a matter of shuffling those resources around, and perhaps calling in a few favors. He felt they had actually been quite close to a breakthrough the night before, when they had turned in at one in the morning. It was nine A.M. now.

He put the sheet down again, and rubbed his eyes. It was as he was reaching for his coffee cup that his eyes caught on Miss Farrell. Sitting across the desk from him, she was copying out a letter he’d dictated. And if he felt tired, she looked exhausted. Not disheveled – Miss Farrell never looked anything but neat and nicely put-together – but simply worn out. There were shadows under her eyes, and her usual air of competence and composure seemed to be flagging. While Oliver watched her, she accidentally blotted her copywork, and gave a frustrated little huff.
“Oh…drat!” Miss Farrell murmured, under her breath. Mild though it was – and actually quite charming, if he was honest with himself – Oliver reflected that he’d never heard her use anything even close to an expletive before. That helped him make up his mind.

Discreetly, he pressed the button on his desk that would ring a bell downstairs for Saunders. Barely a minute later, his manservant appeared.
“A fresh pot of coffee, Saunders,” he instructed.
When the man came back carrying a silver coffee pot and fresh cups, he made to pour a cup for his employer as usual. But Oliver put a hand out to prevent this, and sent Saunders on his way.

He poured the coffee himself, the rich warm smell of it filling the office. He then leaned across his desk and held the cup and saucer out to his secretary.
“Miss Farrell?”
“Yes sir, I’m nearly…done…”
She looked up from her letter, in expectation of a new task. What she had clearly not expected was to see her employer extending her a cup of coffee and a thoughtful look. Miss Farrell blinked at the cup in amazement.
“Oh…thank you, sir. But…isn’t that for you?”
“I am quite sufficiently caffeinated for the moment, Miss Farrell. I think you need this more than I do.”
“Thank you…” she repeated, rather dazedly, with a little smile. Oliver couldn’t tell whether she was bewildered, or embarrassed, or simply pleased. It occurred to him that his secretary really shouldn’t be this shocked to receive a bit of consideration. Was he usually so thoughtless?

Oliver looked away as she took her first sip, shuffling the papers on his desk. When he spoke, it was in a calm and steady voice that brooked no opposition.
“At ten o’clock, Miss Farrell, you will be finishing up for the day. Take what remains of the day as leave. You have plenty accrued.”
She looked truly horrified. “But sir! The deadline, and-”
“I will manage, Miss Farrell. This is not, in fact, a suggestion: I insist that you get some rest.”
His secretary’s brow creased, a fretful look coming over her face.
“If the quality of my work has declined, sir, I-”
Oliver shook his head, feeling a mixture of exasperation and…yes, fondness come over him at her characteristic diligence.
“I do not doubt your ability, Miss Farrell, not one bit. But I would doubt my own good sense if I allowed my most valuable employee to work herself ill.”

That was apparently enough to render Miss Farrell speechless. Her blue eyes were wide, and unless Oliver was seeing things, she was actually beginning to blush. Again, it occurred to Oliver that she really shouldn’t have been so surprised. Did she not know he valued her so highly? Was he so inscrutable? So ungenerous with his compliments? He probably complimented her five times a day inside his head, Lord knew – but that did little good if she had no idea of the fact.

She was fiddling with her notepad, looking down at it.
“Well…sir, if you insist…”
“I do. Finish your coffee, and those two letters, and then the rest of the day is your own. I’ll want you back – energized – bright and early tomorrow morning, to run the numbers from Pennsylvania.”
Miss Farrell’s smile at that was eager, and gratified, and damn near radiant. “Yes, sir.”
Good Lord, she was worth ten other secretaries put together.

When she departed, and he was left alone with his work, Oliver noticed himself feeling quite unreasonably satisfied. It was the kind of feeling he usually had when he had just taken care of some financial or logistical problem. He realized, after a few more seconds, that the reason he was feeling so foolishly satisfied was because he had taken care of her. And that felt better than anything.

Oliver Warbucks didn’t often make allowances for himself. He didn’t like to waste time. He worked hard, staying up all hours, and only let himself rest when he was really seriously ill. It had gotten him to where he was today. Therefore, he was surprised how good it felt to show someone else the kind of gentleness he would never offer himself.

He smiled to think of Miss Farrell, at that very moment, retreating to her rooms. Taking off those treacherous-looking heels she wore, letting the tension ease from her shoulders, and allowing herself some proper sleep. Of course, he wouldn’t go so far as to actually think about Miss Farrell unpinning her hair…or rolling down her silk stockings, before falling into bed. (Although the image did occur, for one brief and quickly-banished instant.)

Oliver shook his head. Perhaps he needed more sleep, to be having such inexplicable thoughts. But no, he would push through. And anything he hadn’t resolved by the end of day, he and Miss Farrell could tackle together the next morning. They were, after all, a winning pair.

Chapter Text

Grace Farrell was feeling unaccountably nervous. After all, it wasn’t as though Mr. Warbucks never had guests to his house… In fact, quite a few important deals and working relationships had been forged in his oak-paneled rooms, over brandy and cigars. However, these meetings were usually one-on-one, and business-oriented. That was how Mr. Warbucks liked things. 

His home was his castle, kept just the way he liked. It was his place to retreat. And so he was bound to be…fractious, when enough guests to fill his long table arrived later this evening. Grace knew her employer well enough to anticipate that. She was surprised he had even invited the party of socialites who were to be in attendance. One of them was an art dealer, she knew that much… No doubt Mr. Warbucks had something in mind, in terms of making connections. 

The staff had been at work all day with preparations. The maids and footmen always looked well turned out and smart, but for tonight they had made an extra effort. And Grace herself was all in a dither. She had expected to spend the evening in her rooms, keeping out of the way while Mr. Warbucks entertained his well-to-do guests. But he had actually invited her to join them all for dinner! And so she’d had to think of what to wear. 

There was one dress, hanging in her closet, that she had put on and taken off again twice before deciding against. It was the most elegant dress she had ever owned, and really rather daring – at least by comparison to her usual professional wear. Grace knew it flattered her figure. Perhaps that was why she had ultimately decided against wearing it this evening. However kind Mr. Warbucks had been in inviting her, she was a secretary, not a society lady. She would surely embarrass Mr. Warbucks as well as herself if she pretended to be anything else.

So, Grace had chosen a rather more safe and staid option from her wardrobe. Still suitable for evening wear, but not showing anything in the way of back or shoulder. And now she was loitering in the hall, unsure of when to go downstairs. Her pulse jumped when she heard footsteps approaching, and it didn’t slow much when Mr. Warbucks came striding towards her. At once she could sense his mood: he was slightly nervous, while resolutely pretending not to be. (That made two of them.)

“Good evening, sir.”
“Good evening, Miss Farrell. Is everything in order downstairs?”
“Yes, sir. The staff are at the ready.”

Mr. Warbucks’ own choice of attire was just slightly upscale from what he usually wore. Not white tie formal, but a particularly well-cut suit and black bowtie…and it was upon this that Grace’s eye caught. 

His tie was just slightly askew. In his unsettled mood, Mr. Warbucks probably hadn’t quite been paying attention. But Grace always noticed these things – she felt it was part of her job, although it hadn’t been listed in the job description.

Now she had to gauge what would be worse – telling him, and having him bluster at her in embarrassed self-defense? Or not telling him, and allowing her employer to receive his guests looking less than perfectly attired? Obviously she wouldn’t stand for the latter, and so the former it would have to be.

But asking him to go back to his rooms and fix it would not be well-received. She had already noticed him check his pocket watch once, keeping a close eye on the time. Grace's fingers itched to reach out and fix the tie herself, although she knew that might be overstepping. It would take such a little adjustment to make it right. And he looked so debonair that for one small detail to ruin it would really be an awful waste.

Grace blinked. Had she just described her employer – inside her own head, thank goodness – as ‘debonair’? Oh, she didn’t have time for this! Ignoring the swooping sensation in her stomach, she took a breath and spoke.

“Sir? May I…? Your tie is just a little…”
“What? Oh…” Mr. Warbucks frowned, but to her surprise, he didn’t bluster. “Thank you, Miss Farrell. If you wouldn’t mind?”

She took a deep breath as she stepped closer, pretending that this was a perfectly normal thing to be doing, and not actually rather intimate. However, the result of that deep breath was that she inhaled Mr. Warbucks’ cologne, and this did not help matters. At all.

He was just that little bit taller than she was, which was…nice. At least her hands were steady. The silk tie was smooth beneath her fingers, easy to manipulate. She noticed Mr. Warbucks’ throat move as he swallowed, and hoped she hadn’t accidentally made it too tight. It wasn’t as though she often straightened men’s ties for them, and was some kind of expert.

All the same, as Grace let her hands fall and stepped away, she had to admit she’d done a decent job. Now, he looked perfect. (By which she meant, perfectly as he’d like himself to look. Obviously…)

“Thank you, Miss Farrell,” he said again – and to hear him speak only emphasized how complete the silence had been between them a few seconds earlier. “You'd think I'd have gotten the hang of this, by my age. But here we are…”  Mr. Warbucks gave a self-deprecatory chuckle, and adjusted his cuffs. “I’m only grateful I don't have to think so much about colors, or matching hat and gloves, the way you women do. Not that it's exactly time wasted… That's a very nice color on you, Miss Farrell.”

It sounded like an off-hand comment, and yet Grace's mouth nearly dropped open in shock. Mr. Warbucks had never complimented her appearance.
“Oh…thank you, sir,” she managed.

Some very unhelpful part of her brain chose this moment to wonder what he might think of her more daring dress… and she felt her cheeks burn.

“Uh, is there…is there anything else you need me to get ready, sir?” Grace stammered, desperately trying to distract herself from that highly inappropriate train of thought.
“Hmm, no, I don't think so. I'm glad you'll be there tonight. I'm not used to hosting so many people, nor these particular types. Perhaps we could establish some kind of code… If I get carried away and start talking someone's ear off about markets, could you start loudly commenting on the early Spring we're having this year, or something of that nature? And I'll take that as my cue to shut up.”

Grace actually giggled, enjoying the conspiratorial air with which he was addressing her. Then she scolded herself inwardly. Yes, it always felt like an honor when Mr. Warbucks’ eyes carried some joke or message intended just for her –  but that was no excuse to turn into a silly schoolgirl.

“I’ll do my best, sir.”
“I have no doubt about that, Miss Farrell. Well then, shall we?”

A few months later, Grace actually found an excuse to give that more glamorous dress an airing. She had procured tickets for an evening at Carnegie Hall, and took great delight in inviting her mother to join her. Now here was an occasion that called for fine attire!

She hurried down the main staircase, giddily aware of how very elegant she felt and – in all honesty – looked. She quickly turned the corner at the bottom of the stairs, and nearly collided with her employer.

“Oh! Miss Farrell…excuse me…”
Mr. Warbucks had put his hands out as if to steady her, but pulled back at the last second. They both caught their breath for a moment.
“I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t see you.”
“Yes, well...” He was looking at her, quite intently, apparently taking in how different she looked from her everyday style. “You’re…you’re going out for the evening?”
“Yes, sir. I put the updated files on your desk before I clocked off for the night,” Grace added diligently, in case this was a concern. He nodded.
“Thank you, yes, I found them. But, uh, where are you off to? I'm afraid I’ve forgotten.”

In fact, she hadn’t told him. She didn't like to bother Mr. Warbucks with irrelevant details.

“I'm taking my mother to a concert at Carnegie Hall.”
The man blinked. “Your mother… ”
“Yes. For her birthday. She's very excited,” Grace beamed. She couldn’t help it: she was really just as delighted about the night ahead as her mother was. Seeing this clearly, Mr. Warbucks smiled, too.
“Well then, Miss Farrell, don't let me keep you. But please wish your mother many happy returns on my behalf.”
“I will, sir. Thank you – she'll be delighted!”

As she turned on her heel and hurried out to the car, Grace was walking on air. Because of the upcoming concert, obviously.

Chapter Text

Oliver had taken the first opportunity to slip away from the party that night, and head home to Fifth Avenue. He had cultivated a reputation, over the years, for being the kind of man who would attend society parties, but never stay terribly long. This reputation suited him just fine. He would make an appearance and then head home to the peace and quiet of his own private space.

That said, he had left this evening’s festivities so early that it bordered on being rude. Oliver knew that…and yet, he couldn’t quite bring himself to care. If the most scandalous thing that happened tonight at that party was his own bowing out early, Oliver would eat his hat. He had probably avoided a headache and a lot of inane chatter by deciding to leave.

The Asp opened the car door, and stood to attention while his employer climbed out. But instead of going in the front door as expected, Oliver found himself turning aside, towards the garden.
“I’ll just take a stroll, then go in the side door” he informed Punjab, who nodded in silence.

It was peaceful out there, moonlight filtering through the trees, and glowing on the earliest of the pale spring blossoms. Oliver sighed, feeling strangely reluctant to go inside – but not really wanting to stay out there in the darkness, either. What did he want, then, damn it all? And why did he feel so…at a loose end, this evening? There were a hundred things he could have been doing, and yet none of them seemed to hold any appeal.

His wandering was taking him closer to the house, heading towards the side door as he had told Punjab he would. But as he neared that set of doors, which stood open on this mild night, Oliver paused.

Someone was playing his grand piano, just inside those doors.

And they were playing it fairly well, too. Not perfectly by any means, but with taste and feeling. Intrigued, Oliver tiptoed up the steps and through the first set of doors, trying to go unnoticed. He didn’t want to alarm the player. And he had the irrational sense that he was somehow intruding – in his own house, as if that were possible!

At this late hour, the room was only half-lit. Ornate lamps glowed golden in the corners of the room. And the lamp nearest the piano cast its gentle glow upon…Miss Farrell.

He would have recognized her – the outline of her shoulders, her hair – even in lower light than this. And yet, this was not Miss Farrell as Oliver had ever seen her. The way she bent over the piano, absorbed in the melody she was drawing forth… Her heels lay discarded on the rug beside her, so that she could better work the pedals in her stockinged feet. And she swayed in her chair ever so slightly as she played, nodding her head along with the melancholic lilt of the tune. She was entirely unselfconscious.

It was beautiful. She was beautiful.

It struck Oliver that possibly no one had seen her like this. He had the feeling that this was a moment not meant for his eyes, nor for anyone’s – and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to move, or look away. He hardly dared breathe.

Then she started to sing. Softly, but just audible from where he lingered in the doorway. Sentimental lyrics that Oliver had definitely heard before somewhere, probably on the wireless, and never paid attention to.

The way your smile just beams
The way you sing off key
The way you haunt my dreams
No, no, they can’t take that away from me

Oliver didn’t have much time for popular music. But maybe those Gershwin fellows really were as good as everyone made them out to be. Hearing this song played now…each note, each new chord seemed to lodge in Oliver’s chest. It was quite a physical sensation, a kind of ache.

He still had not moved by the time the song ended. But he couldn’t stay concealed any longer – he’d already done so for longer than he should, and was just starting to feel quite properly guilty. The only way he could think to announce himself was by applauding softly.

Miss Farrell jumped in fright, one hand leaping to her heart. Oliver’s sense of guilt worsened.
“Forgive me, Miss Farrell. I didn’t mean to alarm you. And I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“Sir! I…I beg your pardon, I didn’t expect…”
Tailing off in bewilderment, his secretary paused and checked her watch.
“It’s not even eight o’clock yet. I really thought you wouldn’t be home for another few-”

Oliver interrupted her, hating how thoroughly he had ruined this. Both her private moment, and the golden haze of beauty that had seemed to hang in the air until he’d made his presence known.
“Miss Farrell, you know you are very welcome to use the piano any time you wish, outside of working hours. I left this evening’s engagement very early, even by my standards. And I’m glad I did. My only regret is that I’ve interrupted your leisure time, which you were putting to such admirable use.”

His words sounded so formal, so sterile by comparison to the lush beauty of the tune that had filled the space before them. Miss Farrell still seemed disconcerted – and even more so when she suddenly realized that her shoes lay abandoned on the rug between them. She quickly stood up and retrieved them, her cheeks flushing as she bent to put them on. 

“Well, I was just about finished in any case. I had really better go to bed. Goodnight, sir.”
And almost that quickly, she was gone.
“Goodnight…”

Left standing in the half-light, Oliver looked over at his grand piano. He felt the irrational urge to walk over and touch it, to place his fingers on the keys Miss Farrell had played mere minutes before. Which was folly – he could not bring forth the magic she did from the instrument. Instead, as he walked upstairs, Oliver was humming a melancholy tune to himself.

“No, they can’t take that away from me…”