Hello Aurum 👋 You said you were taking Declan requests. If you wanted to write some hurt/comfort or angst I would be very happy. 😊
Declan Tuesday
[Hello! I know it’s Wednesday… I got caught up in some stuff with work yesterday and had to finish up today. I hope emotional hurt/comfort works for you! I thought this might be something Declan needed in his life.
Also tagging @wespers by request. Please enjoy!]
Most people looked forward to the weekend because it was a break from their normal routine. A way to bask in a temporary freedom from the weekday grind. An escape. Declan Lynch drove away from the campaign office at 5PM on Friday with an anxious desire to get back to something that felt normal. Matthew had been expelled from school for playing hooky with a bunch of his friends to go to the Six Flags in Baltimore. They were going as part of their senior trip, and yet some dumbass thought it would be a great idea to go “without all the boring people around.” Sweet, adventurous, and sometimes gullible Matthew had eagerly joined the excursion and immediately shared the punishment of taking the rest of the week off. The only thing that saved Declan from having an immediate meltdown was that it wouldn’t affect his graduation, as long as his grades permitted it. That wasn’t the most reassuring outcome, but at least it only left Declan to figure out what to do with Matthew home for a few days. Not that he needed a babysitter at his age, but wanderlust was strong in that kid, and Declan didn’t want to risk another ‘great idea’ while he was at work.
Against his better judgment, he’d called Ronan. Partially to tell him what had happened and partially to invoke the right of “for dealing with academic delinquencies, he’s your brother” rule. Ronan chastised him for using ‘academic delinquency’ in a sentence, then immediately followed it with a promise to pick up Matthew and hanging up without saying goodbye. Declan resigned himself to accepting, once more, this was his life, and told Matthew to pack.
Not knowing what to expect when he got to the Barns chewed a hole in his stomach, which also reminded him he was hungry. A common problem with Declan Lynch was that he was almost always hungry and even more constantly too wound up to eat. He drove the familiar roads with his knuckles white on the steering wheel, both guiding himself to stay within the lines and away from some kind of breakdown. He didn’t have those; he couldn’t afford to. But in the weeks leading up to Matthew’s graduation, tensions ramping up on the political front, transitioning business behind the scenes to something new and unknown, he was tired. And he was absolutely incapable of expecting the worst of every possible outcome. Some days, he functioned on some auto-pilot that allowed him to get through the day partially detached from it, while somehow being hyper-aware of it. Going to the Barns often reminded him of more simple times, which complicated things because he didn’t want to get too comfortable. He popped one of his stomach pills one-handed with practiced ease and swallowed it dry.
Declan parked next to the BMW and took it slow approaching the door. Even he couldn’t escape some of the magic here, and sometimes he even remembered it wasn’t all bad. The porch swing sat empty, swaying in the breeze, but a new cushion had been placed on the seat, inviting. Perched on the railing was a glass pitcher of sun tea. Declan felt like he was stepping into another time, and it made him nauseous. Nevertheless, he pressed on, letting himself in.
Matthew’s laughter was the first thing to assault his senses, followed by food. Declan’s legs became unsteady.
“You little shit. You’re gonna clean that up,” Ronan grumbled, but hearing honest amusement in his voice had been so rare, Declan couldn’t help but recognize it now.
“What? Like you didn’t make all the rest of the messes in the kitchen?” Matthew challenged.
“We made the mess. It was a group effort because you’re a disaster.”
“Takes one to know one.”
“Shut the fuck up and hand me that towel.”
Declan leaned against the doorway to the kitchen, taking in the beautiful mess in front of him. Dishes of food were all over the counter, steaming bowls with mashed potatoes, a mountain of glazed carrots, dinner rolls in varying stages of ‘done’ that included ‘burnt’, and a dutch oven that could barely contain the roast smothered in caramelized onions. Now that Declan could see it all, he could categorize the smells apart from each other. The kitchen was also, as stated, a mess. The sink and surrounding surfaces were littered with measuring devices, prep bowls and coffee mugs. Flour streaked across cabinets and brothers alike, indicating more than a mere accident; there had been a friendly scuffle. Matthew wore his childhood apron, which looked absolutely ridiculous on him now, but it had fit over his head, just barely tied around his ribs, protecting at least part of him from the shenanigans with bright yellow sunflower fabric. Ronan also wore an apron, unsurprisingly all black, with the exception of silver text embroidery on the front. It said “Kiss me” and the I’m Irish scribbled out, replaced by “I made your fuckin food”. Declan wondered if he dreamt it, and if Parrish indeed kissed Ronan when he cooked his ‘fuckin food’.
The whole thing struck him as astonishingly domestic and endearing, a fact he didn’t even want to admit to himself, and that’s why it made his knees weak. Declan thought, for the first time in a long time, that the Barns actually felt like home.
“Hey! Declan’s here!” Matthew proclaimed, pointing a flour-dusted finger at him. “Time to give me my phone back!”
“I ain’t giving you shit back until after dinner.” Ronan turned to look at Declan. His expression went momentarily stormy, but it passed quickly, leaving behind wariness. “’Bout time you showed up. Just in time to set the table.” He watched, waiting to see how Declan would react.
Stunned, mouth dry, Declan found himself wanting to do it, even if Ronan had told him more than asked.
“Sure,” he said quietly.
Everything was exactly where he remembered it. The boys had done a rotation of who set the table and cleared it, who washed and who dried after dinner for most of their lives. Declan had no idea what to call the tightness in his chest, but he knew it was different, not entirely bad. Satisfied, Ronan went back to what he was doing. He couldn’t resist elbowing Declan a couple of times as he passed, and Declan eagerly returned fire after the first time. Ronan beamed when Declan almost dropped a handful of flatware, and Declan smirked when Ronan splashed gravy onto the already abused stove and cussed. They grinned like fiends at one another, expressions that had often resulted in tussles before bed and pulled hair. Matthew knew his place here, and as the last of the settings were being placed, he yanked off his apron and went to wash up.
“You took his phone away?” Delcan asked, leaning against the counter while Ronan put all the food on the table.
The look he got in return was amusingly indignant. “Getting expelled is a fucking punishment, dumbass. Of course I took his phone away. Video games too.”
Both of Declan’s eyebrows shot up. He hadn’t expected that.
“You look like shit, by the way.”
That he expected.
“It’s the current trendy aesthetic.”
“You wouldn’t know trendy if it bit you in the face.”
“Says the asshole who hasn’t let go of his goth phase.”
“There is nothing fucking wrong with liking black,” Ronan huffed, then added, “It’s slimming.”
Declan choked on a laugh. When had this banter become hard? And why was it so easy now?
Matthew rejoined them, and they all sat down. Ronan had put the other two chairs over by the counter so it was just them and a lot of food. Declan found himself between his brothers, and after a moment, he finally took a deep breath and reached his hands out to the side. There was no hesitation, both of them grasping on, Matthew’s hand still damp and Ronan’s grip like a vise. Declan bowed his head and said grace, the other two echoing a sincere ‘amen’ at the end.
They broke bread together for the first time since everything had taken a turn for the worse. Declan ate quietly, unable to think about dreamers and dreams, antacids and campaign fliers, dark markets and stolen goods. It could just be them, the brothers Lynch and their first real dinner in years. Later, he might have to pack everything he felt away, hide the heart on his sleeve beneath a grey suit jacket. But for now, all he could feel was peace.
The Gray Man’s phone rang with an unknown number. Not unusual, but maybe Maura had been rubbing off on him for him to think it a good omen to pick it up. So he did, saying nothing, only the click of a connecting line and a slow breath to indicate he was listening.
“It’s me.”
One brow shot up, genuinely intrigued. Still, he said nothing.
On the other end of the phone, Declan Lynch inhaled through his nose, let it out through his teeth. He said, resolutely, “I want in.”
