Fishing was so, so relaxing, Kieran honestly couldn’t get enough of it. It brought him such a nostalgic, peaceful feeling in an otherwise terrifying daily life. The reflection of the sunset on the water, the nibbles of fish under the surface, everything -- he remembered his first few trips fondly, and every time he fished, he couldn’t help but long for that sense of security again.
However, it was a bit different with another person - especially a person he wasn’t completely comfortable in silence with yet. Coughing slightly, Kieran chanced a glance over at the intimidating man, trying to drum up a conversation topic in his head. “So-- so, uh, you obviously been, er, ridin’ with Dutch’s boys for a while, yeah? H-how long?”
Most of his life, Kieran hadn’t known peace - or at least, he wasn’t very familiar with it. Fear and anxiety were constants, always keeping his shoulders weighed down and his heart at a quick pace. It was an exhausting way of living, but what choice did he really have? With the threat of both the O’Driscolls and some of the Van der Lindes, Kieran couldn’t help but be on edge.
However, there was one Van der Linde member he wasn’t so nervous around, one he could say brought him the closest to that safe feeling: Mary-Beth Gaskill, one of the prettiest and smartest girls he’d ever laid eyes on. It wasn’t difficult to see why he’d fallen for her, though he knew it was pointless to even imagine those feelings being reciprocated. Still, if he could just spend as much time with Mary-Beth as was allowed, he would be happy; being near her made him feel like things were, in some way or another, going to be okay.
Kieran caught himself staring towards Mary-Beth that particular day, his face heating up once she caught his eyes. “Ah-- s-sorry, Ms. Gaskill. I... I been spacin’ today, I guess.” It was a flimsy excuse, and she could probably see right through it, but he couldn’t think of anything better.
Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to poke the bear - metaphorically - but Kieran occasionally felt those slight bursts of confidence. His recent fishing trip with Arthur had helped him gain that tiny bit of energy, after all, and he’d be remiss if he didn’t follow up at least. Hurrying up to the older man, he gave a slight smirk, hoping Arthur was in a good enough mood to chat. “Thanks, er, thanks for fishin’ with me the other day -- didja manage to catch that legendary fish yet?”
Despite having to deal with prepubescent tweens and hormonal teenagers, Hunter rather enjoyed his cushy position at Hogwarts. He never got to hang out in a place as nice as Hogwarts as a hit wizard and this beats sleeping in dodgy inns and roadside motels for sure.
Plus, he’s able to hang out with his co-workers (which is novel, in it of itself, seeing as he has co-workers to even like) and they give him candy and shoot the breeze with him late into the night.
Hunter couldn’t remember how the conversation started but they were currently on the subject of names and things were getting interesting.
“It’s a nickname. I mean, because your real name can’t possibly Idaho, right?” Skye insisted as she toss the last bite of her Chocoball into her mouth, licking away the remnants of chocolate and fire whiskey that stuck to her finger.
“Nope. Real name.” the guest instructor casually refuted, as he passed his bag of Fizzy Wizzy to Hunter. The groundskeeper looked content not adding to conversation as he helped himself to the bag of sweets.
“Because you were born in Idaho.” Skye guessed.
He shook his head once. “Nope. I was born in Puerto Rico.”
“But you grew up in Idaho.”
“Jacksonville, Florida.”
This time, Hunter threw his hands in the air in abject frustration. “Bloody hell, man, do I know anything about you?”
“Nope. And let’s keep it that way.”
Crestfallen, he pocketed the rest of the Fizzy Wizzy, despite Idaho’s protest. “I thought we were mates.”
“Well, we are,” he said as he reached in to Hunter’s robes and pulled out his bag of treats before getting up and made his way out of the staff room. “That’s why you can never know my true identity.”
Skye’s eyes lit up as she whipped around and whispered to Hunter, “Oh my gosh… is he Bruce Wayne?”
This was not the first time Jemma had made herself worry enough to get physical symptoms, and it probably wouldn’t be the last – but that didn’t make it any more enjoyable.
Her throat ached and there was pressure behind her eyes and she was pretty positive she’d managed to give herself a fever if her chills were anything to go by.
(There was the chance that her symptoms weren’t from stress and worry but were, perhaps, from something mixing poorly in the cleaning spells that Skye had wielded so nonchalantly around her classroom the other day, but, well, until she could examine her stores she couldn’t swear by it. And as she was currently stuck in the infirmary, despite her insistence that she was fine, it would be some time before she could check.)
She actually felt bad – yes, she’d panicked and broken a jar or two of cheap but messy ingredients, but she hadn’t actually wanted to not teach the lesson with him.
It was just that watching him teach was, well.
She’d made the mistake of ducking into his last class of the day two days ago, just five minutes before the end so they could iron out details of their joint lesson after and he’d been –
He’d had his robe off and his button down sleeves rolled up and she was fairly sure that sort of thing was illegal. Not to mention how animated he’d been, talking the second years through simple defensive spells. It was especially nice to see when most of the time these days the first thing she noticed about him was how tired he looked.
And so then she’d scattered the ingredients.
And now she was sick, and she really was ill but that didn’t stop her from feeling guilty. Guilty that he’d think she didn’t want to teach with him, even though she had half-heartedly tried to get out of it. (Not that he knew that, of course. Or, at least, she hoped he didn’t. She’d have to kill Skye, if he knew.)
Which was maybe why she’d tried to escape the infirmary and had to be wrangled back into her bed by an exasperated Streiten, who had assured her, yet again, that he’d inform Professor Ward that she wouldn’t be able to make it to their lesson and that she was very sorry. And then he’d dosed her with…something.
It wasn’t one of her potions and she was a little put out that he was getting them elsewhere, that was rude. Potions were her job. Did he not trust her potions?
Her thoughts wandered and she thought she must have lost time, based on how much further along the sun was on the stone when she blinked her eyes open again.
And Ward was there. Or, well, for a moment she thought Ward was there but it was the middle of the day and he had a class (she had to know his schedule so they could meet up to lesson plan! That was the only reason she knew his schedule, really!) so maybe he wasn’t really there.
Still, she informed him that it was insulting if Streiten wasn’t using her potions, and then she was sure it wasn’t him. Because she was sure that Ward would never be so improper as to sit on her bed and brush her hair out of her face and kiss her forehead and tell her to get better.
It was probably a hallucination, but as she drifted back to sleep it left her warm down to her toes.
