lindsohalloran

[lindsohalloran]

❝ ach, dinnae apologize fer tha', ryder! ❞ lindsay waves off the words with a wave of his hand ; make no mistake, he does appreciate the sentiment ― and he can tell from it that the man standing across the bar from him now is far more mature than the young cadet he'd met ages ago in belize ― but he doesn't actually find it necessary by any means. ❝ ye were all feckin' stupid, tha whole lot o' ye, ❞ he adds, but there's a fondness to his criticism that's carried by his laughter. ❝ bunch o' rowdy young men dropped tae tha middle o' the jungle, 'course ye fuckin' were. ❞

what serves as a fond memory to him seems to touch a tender spot for the younger man and lindsay's expression sobers slightly, though he keeps his smile as ashton speaks. ❝ wouldnae be frettin' yerself o'er tha', lad, ❞ he offers, honest, when mention is made of his father's grave. there's sympathy in his tone now, his words a little softer than they'd only just been. ❝ ah dinnae think he'd fault ye for it, sure yer a busy man. and after all, tha's nae where his spirit lives, aye? ❞ he leans forward then, and in a gesture that would seem uncharacteristic were it not for the sentiment behind it, taps ashton squarely in the center of the chest before settling back onto his stool. ❝ ye dinnae hafta visit somethin' yer carryin' wi' ye. ❞

he's grateful for the natural duality of their conversation, the organic ebb and flow that mean the heavier moments don't last, that they're tempered by laughter and witticisms and friendly jibes. the comment about him pooping out the shoe is just crude enough to have heat rising to already liquor-flushed cheeks ( a curse of his pale skin and a genetic enzyme deficiency, he's always pink after a drink or two ) and he lets out a sheepish laugh. ❝ aye, and i dinnae ken she'd want a feckin' shoe covered in dragon shite either, ❞ he points out, his grin returning in spite of himself. ❝ tha shoe's gone, i think, my deepest apologies tae her and cinderella. and tae yer friend, ruth, 'cause she's nae gettin' a laugh outta me tonight. and dinnae ye feckin' dare tell her either, ryder ― this is between us. ❞

"I was just keeping you on your toes, blood pressure on a healthy level," Ash snorted, feigning no regrets for the consequences of his actions at a stupid young adult. But he was a different man now, Lindsay could've probably tell right off the bat, good or bad he wasn't too sure, hopefully changed for the better. "If it's any consolation, I'm sorry for my stupidity in my youth." If he was too stubborn to apologize then, he at least had less of an ego to be able to apologize now.

Like father like son, he wanted to believe the way Linds describe it, but it felt like it'll be discrediting how much more influential his mother was to him as a role model. The role model of his father was always just an idea he chased, not really knowing the actual person other than stories from his mom and Lindsay. "Haven't thought about him in awhile," Ash still chuckled as he admitted, not really sure the reason for bringing it up, but perhaps because he hasn't talked about it or had anyone or any reason to talk about it ever since then with his mentor, "I didn't manage to visit his grave all of last year either." The irony of having bought his own grave near to his father's, preparing for the worst while he served, and now if he died guess he'll never get to use it. Doesn't really matter perhaps, they can focus on surviving rather than cherry picking where to die.

"Oh it's a waiting game, we'll wait for you to poop it out. I don't think Maisie would wanna hurt the poor dragon." He still had a cheeky grin as he listened to Lindsay go on embarrassed about it, "Ruth won't mind, trust me, I know her; she's my best friend," pretty sure she's seen weirder things from her ER stories over the years. "More likely she'll thank you for the good laugh."

[lindsohalloran]

❛ you didn't think i'd give up so easily, did you? ❜

no, he didn't. christ, but he didn't! lindsay had never known a man to bear a heart with such depth, such dedication, as the one that beats in the chest of the man standing before him. the same heart he used to feel racing beneath warm, tanned skin as he pressed fervent kisses across a bare chest or thrumming out a steady, comforting beat against his ear as he dozed with his head pillowed against santi and his body curled into the familiar heat of his side. to be frank, he didn't think it possible for santiago to give up on anything he cared about ; the phrase simply does not exist in his vernacular.

( did that mean santiago still cared about him? even after all this time? just the thought is enough to have his own heart twisting with an ache that feels caught somewhere between hope and desperation. )

he doesn't trust himself to speak again, not yet, so he's shaking his head, another watery breath of a laugh escaping him. and, christ, but he's laughing at himself! before him is a man he used to know beyond a fragment of a doubt would walk to the ends of the earth for those he loved. how could he be so silly, so foolish to not assume as much to be true even after the world went to hell in a hand basket? no, the santiago he knew would always keep searching. ( and feck, but doesn't that make what he's done sting just that much more? )

somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows he should say something more. try to, at least. santiago deserves more apologies than he can count on both hands ― even before he lost half of the one, it still wouldn't have been enough. but even though he'd spent so much of the last twenty-four hours trying to figure out what he would say to him ― his other half, a ghrian ― it's as if every single fully-formed thought in his head has vanished at the sight of him. it's a wonder he was able to stutter out a request at all.

lindsay o'halloran is not a fearful man, but it would be a disservice to his honest nature to admit he is anything other than afraid to look up for several moments after he speaks. rejection does not bother him, not usually ― christ alive, but it was all he knew for the longest time! ― but he can't bear the thought of santi pushing him away. not here, not now, not when he's so close for the first time in longer than lindsay cares to remember. even worse, if he had to see him step back ...

but lindsay doesn't need to look up because not even two seconds after he's managed to spit out something that sounds more like a plea than a question ― he's not too proud to beg in this moment ― there are strong arms wrapping tightly enough around him to nearly squeeze the last of the air from his lungs and it's all lindsay can do to hug him back. hands curl into tight fists around the fabric of santiago's jacket as he's suddenly pulled close to him, clenching tightly in a white-knuckled grasp as if afraid the moment will end the second his grip loosens.

he buries his face in the crook of santi's neck and breathes in deep the familiar scent of him ― he smells like home, and oh, but how lindsay has missed it! ― as a few tears slip free from eyes squeezed tightly shut. ( under normal circumstances, he might feel abashed by such a display, but it's taking everything in him not to break down sobbing in santiago's arms and a few errant tears feel a fair enough compromise from his heart. ) he tries to focus on what santiago is saying and not just how feckin' incredible it feels to be wrapped in the warmth, the security of his embrace again.

a few words catch his attention in the midst of his emotions and it's enough to have him shaking his head again, holding santi impossibly tighter as he stammers out a response against his skin. he wants to pull back, at least far enough that he can meet santiago's gaze, but he just can't let go yet. ❝ nae, ye cannae ― ye cannae leave, christ, i winnae let ye― ❞ it's an unfair thing to say for more reasons than he can count ; he would never dream of trying to control santi, even if he thought he could ( he doesn't! ) and christ, but isn't he the one that left in the first place? he's not even apologized yet!

feckin' hell, he's not apologized yet!

lindsay suddenly pulls back then, just far enough that he can look him in the eyes ; his arms are still wrapped around him but he releases his good hand from santi's jacket, lifting it to gently cradle his jaw. his own gaze is blurry with tears but he blinks past them, staring instead into deep brown eyes that feel almost like an embrace all their own. ❝ i'm sae sorry, santi ― feck, i'm sae sorry. i dinnae ken why i thought ― but christ, yer really here, mo ghràdh, i cannae believe ― but ye found me. how am i ever s'posed tae let ye go again? ❞

it was strange what the mind could do. for santiago it used to start right around ten at night when the exhaustion of the day was finally setting in enough to allow sleep to come and he'd lose himself for a minute or two. he'd stare up into the sky or at the ceiling and the tinnitus he'd developed from years being in and out of warzones would turn into a melancholy soundtrack to whatever recollection or reminder opened the floodgate. he'd close his eyes and the wave of memories would play like a torturous film on the back of his eyelids until he could shut it off again. the mind was a cruel thing, crueler yet to do it with his eyes open.

the uptick of his heartbeat bringing a rush of heat over him and he could see their bodies curled around each other like two perfect circles entwined in the tropical heat. he wouldn't stop, nay, couldn't stop loving this man. despite the hurt of rejection that tainted those memories. it was the swipe of moisture from his eyes that had his mouth falling slightly agape at first. his hand twitched to remind him that's it's job, but he curled it into a ball and released it again to quell the uncertainty of it all. the watery smile fading nearly made his heart lurch right out of his chest. dios mio, holding back would be the death of him. it was taking all he had not to reach out and comfort lindsay. this sweet, gorgeous man, he's never stopped loving for a second.

there was a click of his tongue and the slightest of nods when he made the same observation. it was a knowing sound, his tongue made again. "you didn't think i'd give up so easily, did you?" even if the world had not changed or the sky had began raining flames down onto the ground, it wouldn't have stopped him. no, he would've always needed to hear it directly from those scottish lips that they were through. he'd stop searching when there was nothing to look for or nowhere left to look. it was the only way to keep his heart beating, even if it was breaking with every day that passed and they were still apart.

the trouble with the level of behavioral analytics that santiago possessed was that he could never really turn it off. in situations like these, where mystery and the catharsis of hearing words out loud meant something more, it was hard not to look past the fumbling of lindsay's words to see the remorseful tics and read the shame that was mixed with the yearning. now, did santiago know if this was a reminiscent yearning? no. did he know if he was remorseful for not telling him they were through, sooner? ashamed he's there in front of him now? or even embarrassed to have it unfolding a few feet from his niece? also no. that's why it was an exceptionally annoying skill to have in situations like these.

the accompanying words told him enough and if lindsay had looked up he would've seen santiago's brow wrinkle and his head slightly shake while his lips mouthed stop without actually saying the word. because he needn't ask, he merely needed to give him permission and santiago had already closed the rest of the distance and wrapped him tightly in his arms. "i just needed to know you were still alive, if you want me to go i will but i couldn't— " he choked out past an overwhelming wave of emotion he'd contained. the declaration was left unfinished. there was an underlying hurt to the joy he felt holding him then, but the relief was certainly worth the sting. "la vida estaría vacía sin ti. te amo."

[lindsohalloran]

oh, but lindsay catches that glimpse of a smile just a half a second before it disappears from sight and there's a twinge of guilt to accompany the stuttering of his heart as it pounds an almost painfully erratic rhythm against his chest. it's enough to have his breath catching in his throat again ― christ, but you'd think he only just learned to breathe what with the way he's struggling! ― but he manages to choke back the pathetic sound that threatens to escape him enough that it sounds more like a cough and less like the whimper it tries to be. gods above, but it really is him! there's no mistaking it. not that lindsay ever could.

it feels surreal, in a way ; he'd been so certain he'd never again get to see that handsome face, to hear the warm, rumbling timbre of that voice murmuring his name, or ... or―! lindsay is getting carried away by the sight of him, a million and one different emotions cycling through him like frames on a roll of film he's helpless but to project. relief. anxiety. love. guilt. confusion. countless questions linger on the tip of his tongue ― and even more apologies wait just behind them ― but he's unable to utter a single one, caught in a moment's silence with his gaze locked on santiago.

when santi speaks, lips that have been pressed into a hard line to keep from trembling twitch up at the corners in a watery smile and a breath of a laugh slips through ; not so much amused as he is shocked, lindsay wonders if santi knows what speaking such a name does to him. what it does to his heart. media naranja ... how long has it been since he's heard that? christ, but he cannae even look at an orange anymore without choking up. his right hand lifts to swipe roughly under his eyes, the pad of his thumb a preemptive defense against the unshed tears stinging at the corners, and he clears his throat for what feels like the thousandth time.

❝ aye, ❞ he answers softly, though whether because he wishes to keep the conversation private from maisie or because he simply does not trust his own voice in this moment remains unclear. ❝ aye, sae i am. and sae're ye. ❞ he falls silent for a moment after the lame reply, his hands almost frustratingly still at his sides for the conscious effort it takes to keep from reaching out even as his eyes continue to move non-stop, searching santi's face for something, even if he's not sure what. when he speaks again, the words are spoken with all the hesitance and repentance of a confession. it's a wonder he hasn't fallen to his knees.

❝ ah ken i dinnae deserve it, and tha' there's sae much i need tae say tae ye first, santi ― if ye'll allow me, o' course, but i just― ❞ he begins, swallowing hard as his gaze finds the floor. he's not been so nervous around santiago since the first night they met ― flustering over winks and smiles and fleeting touches, blatant flirtations the likes of which he'd been wholly unused to. this anxiety, this fear, it's different, but it makes his heart race all the same. he doesn't have the right to ask, he knows it, but the words tumble out before he can do anything he'll regret. like hold them back. he takes a half-step forward and looks back up at santi. ❝ ―christ alive, but i just want tae hold ye. please, mo ghràdh, sólo por un momento. ❞

he'd only come there to help and then planned to be on his way again. they were all strangers to him there, weren't they? but then there was the quarantine and he had to admit the warm shower and actual bed were a nice addition. it had been awhile since he last was able to enjoy those luxuries. he may have stuck around a week longer for that alone until he'd run into an old recruit on the roof that morning. poor kid, it had been so great to see him but santiago couldn't tell you a thing he said after he'd heard lindsay's name. there was a ringing in his ears that made the sound around him go in and out from there.

after saying his goodbye to ashton he made his way down the stairs, trying to figure out if he should go find him or not. lindsay hadn't wanted him there, nor asked for him to be there. he'd come on his own, because— well, because he didn't think he could keep going on with his life with that question haunting him. was he okay? now he faced the dillema he should've forseen all along. can he really leave and not say anything? no, no santiago had decided before his feet hit the landing of the second floor that he would not be able to, in fact, just leave.

he'd opened the door to see the man enter into the common room with the cardboard and his niece in tow. right then he could've made his presence known. say something. but he didn't. no, instead he'd taken a step back and like any good soldier, he caught his breath. level out, breathe. in through the nostrils— one, two, three four. hold— one, two, three four. out through the mouth— one, two, three four. hold— one, two, three four. repeat.

then, all at once, he was moving and only stopped once he was inside the doorway. and there he was, his pedacito de cielo, in all his glory. looking just as angelic and gorgeous as he did in the dim yellow lighting of the setting tropical sun all those years ago, err a bit older. santiago didn't say a word while he listened and watched him get up from the floor. his voice. how was santiago supposed to stand his ground when that accent dripped out like citrus soaked honey in the sun, and twice as sweet. he certainly couldn't help the smile that formed when he looked at little maisie giving her uncle a quick salute after his suggestion.

the smile faded as lindsay turned and moved toward him, his fingers twitching slightly at his sides near the blended fabric pockets of his tactical pants. "media naranja," he nodded after looking him over a moment. "you're alive." an obvious observation but it was the only other thing he could think to say in the moment. for a man of many words, he found himself speechless.

[lindsohalloran]

who @santiagodiazmunoz where the common room when april 5th

there are at least a dozen or more chairs scattered throughout the common room and yet, maisie has insisted that the pair of them sit on the floor because ❛ there's more space down here, uncle lindy, duh! ❜ and lindsay, to his credit, does not argue her logic. it's likely he would've conceded to her regardless of the circumstances ― she's not wrong, after all, and coloring the walls of a soon-to-be cardboard fort is hardly a task to be contained to a table and chairs ― but in truth, he's been on auto-pilot for the past, what? twenty-four hours? thirty-six?

( he should be keeping better track ; his mind feels clumsy, uncoordinated. )

he catches wind of a name, a scrap of information with zero context as its churned from the rumor mill, but even just the sound of it has his heart stuttering an anxiousguiltyhopeful arrhythmia in his chest. lindsay o'halloran knows better by now than to get his hopes up ― it isn't as if the name is uncommon, and the likelihood that it's actually him ... well, linds has never been much of a mathematician, but he's aware enough to know when the odds are stacked against him. ( more so, even, knowing he's the reason they've been placed that way. ) even so, it's as if a few simple syllables have thrown his heart for a loop and sent his mind scrambling desperately after it. santiago. a name that once found a home on his tongue and now scarcely comes to visit. only in the wee hours of the night, in the melancholy embrace of solitude. his own fault, it's his own fault!

oh, but does he miss it!

his good hand is curled around a dying washable marker as he continues to fill in flower after lopsided flower ( his fault again, not maisie's ― her sunflowers and daisies look lovely, and his wilted in comparison ) but his head is over three thousand miles away, somewhere hot and humid and sunny and aching. there's been a lump in his throat for hours now, too thick and too stubborn to be swallowed down ; he chokes out laughter around it, smiles at maisie as if nothing's wrong. nothing is wrong, is it? no more than it has been. nothing has changed. he's only allowing himself to get carried away in his imagination, in the messy work of holding out hope. how long has it been since he's been a hopeful man?

the sound of footsteps approaching the common room is enough to have eyes like tumultuous waters lifting toward the door. lindsay isn't entirely certain who he expects to find ― mal, perhaps, come to collect maisie for another afternoon of physical education and self-defense, or roman and june to provide two extra sets of hands on their makeshift, cardboard construction site ― but he hadn't even allowed himself to dare think that it might be ... that it could ever possibly be ...

❝ mo ghràdh. ❞ the words are whispered so softly they're heard to no one but lindsay, disappearing beneath the clatter of plastic against tile as the marker falls from his hand. he swallows thickly, suddenly struggling to breathe for the air that's been so swiftly snatched right from his lungs. lindsay looks back to maisie, tries to keep his voice calm and level as he addresses her. ❝ m-mais, luv, be a good lass an' finish up the north wall, will ye? i'll, ehm ... i'll be righ' back. ❞ a hand reaches out to pat her head and gently ruffle her curls, and when he pulls it back, it's shaking. his throat feels tight and his eyes are burning as he rises to his feet but he steels himself as best he can before turning to face a man who's felt more like a memory for months.

( ach, but he doesn't even have the right to be so emotional, does he? he doesn't deserve that grace. he's not forgotten how he left things. )

his face has changed. lindsay's footsteps slow to an eventual stop a few paces away and for a second, it's all he can do to stare ; to take in each and every detail, new and old, commit and recommit them all to memory. his face has changed, but not by much. lindsay's just never forgotten what he looks like. he never could. he's lost weight ; his face is thinner now, tired, a fair bit scruffier than he'd last seen. but there's a familiar crease of smile lines hidden beneath the rough, a warmth still lingering in his gaze that warms him somewhere deep inside, a lit hearth on a freezing night. fingers twitch at his sides ; lindsay wants to reach out and touch him, to cup his jaw in his hand and graze his cheek with his thumb and feel him, but he makes no move to initiate such contact.

there was a time when he wouldn't have hesitated to run into the other man's arms, but he could never assume he'd be allowed such a privilege, not now.

instead, lindsay clears his throat, lest any words get tangled in the tightness of his chest. and then he asks, simple and soft and shaking and sounding not even a shred like the man he tries to appear, ❝ santiago? ❞

[lindsohalloran]

do you wanna find the antidote? driving with the holy ghost holy death, the holy smoke and does it start again? i've been drinking from a periscope trying to watch my obstacles see how fully I've been broke and let me start again goddamn diabolical — god forgive the prodigal and let me start again.

[lindsohalloran]

️SUNSHINE.️

[lindsohalloran]

truth be told, lindsay believes birdie to be as honest as she claims. he does not expect her the type to entertain bullshit, much less to perpetuate it. he does not lend trust easily, but her actions in not only looking after but protecting his niece have done well enough to convince him she's someone he might be able to rely upon. for maisie's sake. he does not intend to take advantage of her kindness toward the young girl, expects nothing from her, and yet in crisis, were something to happen to him to leave his niece on her own, he's no doubt he'd want maisie to find her. he doesn't say as much aloud and, to be frank, he does not ever actually intend to either. christ, but that's a lot to put on a veritable stranger! he would never. all the same, it remains the truth.

❝ aye, well, i cannae disagree wi' ye on tha' one, ❞ lindsay concedes instead, tilting his glass in agreement. he abides by a personal code of conduct that not only condemns dishonesty but, in an ideal world, renders it moot. actions, decisions that he would not stand behind are few and far between. ❝ feckin' messy work, tha'. reality is complex enough, sae it is, nae need tae muddy it more wi' fiction. ❞

another sip of whiskey is nearly choked on as lindsay snorts into his glass and he's chuckling as he lowers it to the bar. ❝ are they now? i'll confess, i've nae much luck wi' the spread o' snacks tonight, lovely as it is. ❞ he's eaten a plastic feckin' shoe, as it were, and has stuck to mostly nursing his drink since. ❝ we used tae have this sweet back in belize ― tableta, i believe it were ― wi' just sugar and coconut wi' a wee bit o' ginger and orange zest tae give it some kick. ❞ he eyes the macaroons with something akin to disdain. ❝ every time i think o' coconut, christ, but i miss it. i reckon anything else tae be a disappointment in comparison, like. ❞

she shakes her head appreciatively. she's not lying, and whenever it finally comes up, there's a fifty-fifty shot that linds will regret ever having said anything at all. but that's the fun of ious, and shes' certainly not going to take it for granted with such a small community. fair is fair— though she wonders what fair will come to be defined as. "works for me." things rarely do not— that is the perk to being her.

"i don't really lie." she lets him peek behind the curtain, if only for a second. because they're at a party, and he's already said it. given the penchant for the way most things had been running with the wexley, she wasn't even sure it would be the most exciting thing he'd remember about the night, day, week, or month. "too much effort." which was not to say that she was well-acquainted with the truth. but shades of difference. "which is why i can tell you these macaroons are trash."

[lindsohalloran]

if lindsay wants to make a comment about his repeated request for the younger man to ❛ quit callin' me sir, ryder, bleedin' christ! ❜ the words die on his tongue because, for a moment, all he can see is that cocky little blond shite he used to force to run in full gear through the stiflingly humid jungles of belize for cracking a smart comment none of his other brothers in arms had the balls to make. and it's enough to turn his own grin into a hearty peal of laughter, his head thrown back in genuine mirth as he recalls their relationship years prior.

❝ ah ken tha's right, ye feckin' bampot! dinnae ye pluck enough o' my nerves back in ladyville? swear t'were ye tha's the reason for most o' my early greys, sae ye were. ❞ and even so, lindsay admired ashton then ; he had a certain sort of pluck about him, charisma and guts and ingenuity in rare union, and a fire under his arse to do well to boot.

his amusement eventually mellows into a softer smile as he continues. the former scotsguard isn't expecting a stroll down memory lane, but a few swigs of hard liquor have softened the edges of the past into something less melancholic and more fond, tempering the memories into something to be enjoyed. ❝ aye, tha' he did, like. christ alive, but i only knew the man fer a few weeks, and d'ye ken he gave me pure hell fer the feckin' half it? tha's why i was sae certain when i saw ye, i'd have my feckin' work cut out. and feck if i wasnae right! ❞

eyes widen in surprise at ashton's comment and lindsay lets out a rather undignified snort. ❝ aye, right, and will ye be cuttin' straight intae my guts fer it, ryder? 'cause i can assure ye, there is nae a feckin' chance any o' ye will be wantin' it back otherwise. ❞ as it stands, he's not particularly thrilled at the thought of its exit, either. ❝ i am nae checkin' in wi' the doc fer ingestin' a feckin' shoe, ryder, have ye lost yer mind? like i could look her in the eye and utter the feckin' words ― christ, but i'm only tellin' ye 'cause i'm halfway tae pissed and i cannae take a secret like that tae the grave. ❞

As if Lindsay's faux offended insistence to continue his laughs spurred him on, he did just give Ash the permission to laugh and so he did, knowing Lindsay found it just as amusing as he did. "That's because I'm a pure fucking shit just for you, sir." As if there wasn't a day young Ash didn't give Lindsay a headache. It took Ash perhaps an entire month when they first met to understand Lindsay, perhaps it made the blows of him yelling at the young recruits when they didn't understand half of what he was saying, and yet everyone was too afraid to ask. But now, it was almost second nature, some words still slipping past Ash but he can make out most of it.

His laughter had settled by the time Linds mentioned Ash's father, and his expression softened into a lulled warm smile, "did he?" avoiding the twinge of an emotion he hasn't thought about in a few years, he couldn't quite place whether is was sadness or longing or curiosity or disappointment or grief, but it was somewhere in between, that sore spot always in correlation to his dad. But Ash still managed to lift his gaze with a growing grin, "I guess I got it from him." He'll never know if he did.

He really had to swallow the laughter all back in as Lindsay began explaining himself with such animation, as if he wasn't in the wrong, the shoe was. "So are you now the dragon they have to slay to get the glass slipper back? I might just have to help them if they're recruiting for a party." Time for the princesses to take things back in their own hands. "At least I don't think it'll be a problem, you could check with Ruth just in case if you're worried."

[lindsohalloran]

christ alive, but there must be something in the booze making him unusually sentimental tonight! or perhaps it's simply the sight of his niece in a moment of true happiness, unhindered by the grim reality that exists just beyond the walls of the warm, decorated atrium ; the strange and almost alien sensation of normalcy ― or at least, something as close to resembling it as lindsay's seen in months, maybe even years ― that comes from a celebration like this.

( he's reminded of chile, of a family built both by blood and by choice, biology and community ; a family that might not have been his own, but which welcomed him warmly with open arms as if he were. the feeling is not quite the same here, not by far. and yet, it still stirs something deep in his chest. in his heart. feckin' hell, it must be the booze! )

lindsay chuckles at her casual dismissal of his words, shaking his head. he'd not expected her to be quite so humble. she might intend to downplay her efforts, but lindsay is no fool. he can clearly see what she's done for these girls, and selfless acts are as rare a sight as any these days. ❝ it seems tae me ye though' o' it at the perfect time, ❞ he says, a simple truth as his gaze drifts between her and the girls. ❝ and please, tell me if she thanks ye for it, if she's nae done it already. good girl, sae she is, but we've been workin' on rememberin' her manners, like. ❞

if his smile falters at all at the mention of her father's sentimentality, lindsay is swift to hide it behind his glass until he's managed to conceal a twinge of something he can't quite identify. ( his own father couldn't be arsed to hold onto his phone number, much less anything from his childhood, but in raising maisie, he's come to understand that level of devotion through the opposite lens. how many spelling tests and paintings were still hanging on the fridge of the flat they'd had to leave behind? ) he clears his throat and tears his gaze away from where it's been hovering on his niece to look back at ember. ❝ aye, and good on him fer it. as he should've. ❞ a brow lifts and he chuckles. ❝ were ye an honor roll student, then, miss wexley? ❞

when she mentions the bats, it's lindsay's turn to wave away her gratitude with a casual shake of his head. ❝ ach, but it's nae really somethin' tae be embarrassed about, is it? if i recall correctly, we were all caught in a squall o' bat entrails, runnin' about like wee chickens wi' our heads cut off tryin' tae take cover. ❞ he would argue he had more to be embarrassed about for thinking it wise to take on a biter with little more than his bare hands and a rush of adrenaline, the way birdie had saved his arse. ❝ there's no shame in bein' scared, least of all if ye dinnae let it hold ye back survivin'. and look at us, aye? we're both still here. ❞

It was nice. Seeing something that she'd loved and had had so much fun with bringing smiles like that to the faces to who might be the last of the children left. At least in the city. Such a small thing. A plastic dollhouse far too big for most spaces, something she'd forgotten about so long ago, and here it was making all the difference in the world for two incredibly special little girls.

At least they had each other.

Looking over as Maisie's uncle approached, Ember remembered him from the Bar and the bats, and thus offered him a smile of familiarity, though she admittedly didn't actually remember his name.

His words hit her in the chest just enough to make her eyes mist over, and she had to blink back the tears lest she ruin her make up and embarrass them both. Clearing the thickness away from her voice as she waved away his words like they didn't actually mean everything, Ember gave a slightly bleary little roll of her eyes.

"No, no, it's nothing, really. I'm just... I'm glad to see this stuff going to good use. I can't believe I didn't think of it earlier. Dad is such a sap, you know, he could never get rid of anything from when we were kids. I think I found my third grade report card in one of those bins." Chuckling a little, she offered up her cup for a little cheers.

"Thanks for helping make sure I didn't get more than bat guts in my hair. That was..." Chuckling, she cringed a little at herself "so embarrassing."

[lindsohalloran]

make no mistake, lindsay o'halloran is inherently not a particularly social creature ; extroversion does not ( and has never, really ) come naturally to him. and surely there are a laundry list of reasons for that, reasons that only years of consistent therapy could ever lure out of the dark and hermetically sealed recesses of his highly compartmentalized mind. but he's never truly been one to ask for help, has he? was scarcely ever given the opportunity, truthfully. and christ alive, but how he'd done so wrong by one of the only two people who'd ever made him feel safe enough to make such a request! he's no doubt they're oceans apart, a distance that feels nigh impossible in this new world. and the other, his sister, already gone.

no, to even approach the wexley was so uncharacteristic of the former scotsguard that the thought would never have even crossed his mind were it not for maisie falling ill. ( he might never ask for help for himself, but christ only knows he would move mountains for that little girl! ) she's the reason he's slowly crept from his shell the longer they stay, her need for interaction, for socialization, luring him from the peace and solitude of their loft. he supposes, for that, he should be grateful to her ; when left to his own devices, lindsay has been known to fester.

fortunately, much as he'd like to use his recent injury as an excuse to retreat into himself, maisie doesn't allow that either. every moment spent in his company, she's engaging him in some way ; strong-arming him into tea parties with imaginary finger sandwiches and charming her way into endless games of pretend, he's scarcely got a moment to wallow in any regret for his poor decision-making. she's a clever girl, more perceptive than she lets on. he suspects she's doing it on purpose. gone are the criticisms of ❛ you're playing it wrong! ❜ and instead, she casts him as princes and knights, vigilantes and superheroes. it's endearing and unnerving in equal part ; he needs to do better hiding his own feelings for her sake.

they're in the midst of a game about fairies and elves and a quest for a magical fountain of wishes ( a handful of pennies scattered across the floor of an empty bathtub ) when a knock at the door halts their journey, and lindsay breaks character to ruffle her hair before starting across the room to answer it. he can hear the conversation happening just outside before he even reaches it and his lips twitch up in a wry smile as he swings the door open.

❝ grumpy, is it? nae a chance, drake. pain is in the mind.❞ at least, that's what linds has been telling himself every time the dull ache in his hand shifts into something more acute. it doesn't really work, but if he repeats the mantra in his head for long enough, he can ride it out. ❝ tae what do we owe the visit? ❞ from behind him, maisie's already picked up on their newfound company, and she's already got her hand latched around june's, dragging her into the apartment.

❝ are you here to play? uncle lindy and i were just playing fairies! ❞ she asks, hopeful, before her eyes drop to the card in june's hand. ❝ what's that? ❞

@lindsohalloran lind's apartment

he was working extraordinarily hard to not be a helicopter parent. roman and hannah had several long conversations when they'd been in quarantine, attempting to formulize a plan to navigate shared parenting in the apocalypse. they'd agreed on a few ground rules which gave them both peace of mind; the biggest of which that june was never to be without a trusted adult. roman, hannah, birdie, and ashton were the only ones on that list so far.

now that the swelling and bruising had begun to go down roman had taken up watching june the majority of the time so hannah could focus on 'stopping my last string of sanity from slipping through my fucking fingers' as she'd put it.

june had wanted to check on maisie and her uncle and roman saw no reason against it. she'd made a card with broken crayons and stickers and had asked roman to help her write a message inside of it. she skipped ahead of him in the halls as they approached the o'halloran's apartment. she looked at him expectantly and roman nodded in return, giving her permission to knock on the door.

"remember june, he might be a little grumpy. i don't know if ruth found any medicine to help with his pain."

she looked at him with a momentary frown before nodding. 'like how i was grumpy after i hit my head.

[lindsohalloran]

thick brows twitch inquisitively at the poorly-timed pun, but truthfully, it's not the ironic quip that catches him off guard so much as the frankly horrific context that accompanies it. that she might have experience with such a grisly procedure is a thought to behold. ( though he does find her a fairly logical option in such a situation if he stops to truly consider it, obvious medical professionals aside ; he suspects she wields better knife skills than most of the wexley's residents, given her proclivity for feeding them all. )

he chooses not to press the subject, at least not now, however curious he may be. ( and curious, he is! ) this is neither the time nor the place for potentially dredging up unpleasant memories. instead, he says, ❝ ach, charlie, but ye dinnae hafta apologise tae me. please. ❞ and he means it. he knows she means no offense, whether for startling him or stumbling upon an aptly unpleasant turn of phrase.

his nose wrinkles at her mention of necessity. he shudders to think of the wet, stinking viscera from those rotting bats pressed into his wounds. ( his immunities, he's almost certain, would not extend to rabies or any other chiropteran diseases. ) suddenly, the plate of food she's describing with enthusiasm seems far less appetizing than it had just a moment ago. he's inclined to wait until the thought's passed for his next bite, so instead he speaks. ❝ where'd ye even find a live chicken in this city? ❞

the polite smile he's kept pinned to his lips is easy enough to keep as the offer of babysitters comes up ― he truly believes she's right about that, these people have been undeniably kind, helpful to him ― but it tightens a bit when charlie mentions her brother. a chuckle escapes him, a little drier than he intends. ❝ is he now? would nae have guessed, dinnae seem the caregiving type. ❞ he means that, too. there's a reason niamh didn't stay with him.

but his smile does soften a bit as he continues, his words surprisingly earnest. ❝ i cannae express enough my gratitude fer ye, fer all o' ye. if i coul' be candid wi' ye, charlie, i dinnae ken what i'd've done were it not fer findin' this place. ❞ a lingering thoughtful glance is spared in the direction of the table where maisie continues to play with somebody's cat. ❝ what we'd've done. ❞

"Oh, sorry about that. Didn't mean to sneak up on you." Chuckling softly, she offered a little shaking of her as well, face a little sheepish at having given him such a start like that. "Well, I suppose my recent experience in amputations definitely came in handy." Cringing a little as she realized her inadvertent pun, all she could really offer for that was a soft. "Oh, sorry."

Blinking at the unexpected compliment, she gave a little chuckle and waved it off. "Honestly it was more out of necessity. The last thing you needed was me pressing whatever it was I was soaked in, into your wounds." Offering him a little pat on the shoulder, she motioned down to the eggs in front of him. "They're real from an actual chicken. Even the bacon is honest to goodness the store bought stuff." Maybe a hint freezer burnt, but that had been nothing a little magic in the kitchen hadn't been able to solve.

"You'll heal up in no time, and in the mean time you have a whole building of baby sitters." Some better than others. "And don't let Jeremiah tell you otherwise, he's super good with kids."

[lindsohalloran]

❝ ach, well, tha's braw wi' me, ❞ the scotsman concedes when the man confesses that he thinks he knows how to play chess. good enough. to his credit, lindsay hasn't actually played a match in something like years ( there was a board set up back on the coffee table of the flat he'd shared back with his partner in belize with games that would stretch out weeks as moves were made casually whenever either would happen past the pieces ) and though he could still recall the rules and mechanics of the game with complete clarity, he was arguably rusty when it came to strategy. ❝ yer still a fine shot at winnin', like ― i can swear tae ye that. ❞

the younger man's blank stare was matched in earnest as lindsay tried to process his words. he was familiar with each of them, but never in conjunction with one another, and certainly never in that order. ❝ isnae tha' redundant? casa house? lt's like sayin' atm machine. ❞ it's clear he doesn't get the reference. ( had he taken maisie to see the barbie movie? yes. had he fallen asleep in the theater part-way through? also yes. not a fault of the movie, he's sure it was lovely, but something about the dark, cool air of the theaters... ) he lets the subject drop after that, if only because there are more important matters to address.

❝ i'm nae on any feckin' drugs, ❞ he retorts, though there's no offense in his tone. instead, he's more amused than anything. he can thank the liquor for that. ❝ and ― christ alive, i'm nae talkin' abou' real horses! feckin' chess pieces, mate ― the pawns an' the knights, like. ❞ the remark that punctuates the other man's statement gives him pause though, and he thinks on it a moment. it is a strange place, even if he does appreciate the kindness of its' residents. he's never seen a safehold with a casual, open door policy, even if it did work to his and maisie's benefit. ❝ aye, well i reckon i cannae argue wi' ye there. ❞

judah had tried to teach jonah all the rules to chess but he never could quite get a grasp on it. the horse moves in an 'L' shape, which he could say with about eighty two percent confidence. checkers was his jam in the world of board games. that and pictionary but he never could get anyone to play that with him. currently he had a set board in front of him, though, hoping to look smart while he watched people play dance dance revolution. the thick accent caught him off guard. "uh, chess? kind of, i think." he motioned to the seat across from him while the other man was already sitting down. "barbieland? think you need to find a mojo dojo casa house and live your best ken life." jo snickered at his own reference. he'd taken a date to that movie, he thought it was going to be lame but it ended up being truly amazing.

jonah stared blankly when the last words rolled out of the older man's mouth. "okay dude, i don't know what you're on, but it's fuckin' downright rude not to share." maybe it was the accent but jonah had no fucking clue what the man had just said to him minus a few picked out words like matc, plastic handbag, and horses. "but uh, i don't think there's any horses here. maybe though, it's kind of a weird place so far."

[lindsohalloran]

lindsay reaches out to rest a hand atop his niece's head only to find that maisie has already rushed a fair few meters ahead of him ; a blink of the eye and she's standing directly in front of the easel, bouncing on the balls of her feet as hannah addresses her directly. and there's something in the gentle, maternal warmth of her tone that has his heart swelling in his chest. he is immensely grateful to the women of the wexley, well-aware of all they provide to maisie that her occasionally clueless and frequently out of his depth uncle cannot.

( there's a sick sort of irony to it, the way that when he's struggling, when he needs help because he doesn't know how to raise a little girl, the first person he wants to call for is niamh ― but it's exactly her absence that is the reason he needs her. )

❝ ah, but dinnae let her accent fool ye! it's half my fault ― ❞ she'd had a touch of an accent from her mother, after all, but nearly a year spent in lindsay's company ( and several months only in his company ) has thickened her wee scottish brogue, ❝ ―but this wee lass is a new yorker through an' through. born and raised. ❞ maisie, to her credit, lit up at the woman's praise, a wide smile illuminating her wide, doe-like eyes. in the dress she'd borrowed from june, with her hair braided and her face decorated with glitter for the occasion, she did feel like a super model.

she bounds over to the chair set up in front of the easel, her hand hooking on her uncle's along the way to drag him along with her. lindsay is pushed down into the chair with tiny hands before maisie is climbing up onto his lap, and he helps her smooth out the tulle skirt of her dress before turning his gaze back to hannah. any chance he has at answering is immediately cut off by maisie, however, as she delightedly cheers, ❝ silly! silly! ❞ and, as always, he's not inclined to refuse her. ❝ ach, we're no' but a bunch o' silly geese, are we then, mais? ❞ he teases and the girl erupts into peals of bright, giggling laughter. ❝ aye, ye heard the lass, then! a silly portrait it is! ...please. ❞ he nudges maisie as he remembers his own manners and she echoes the last word, her eyes still hopeful and locked on hannah as her giggles die down.

it had been her hope that before the night was over she would have lindsay ohalloran sitting in front of her, captive at least until she'd finished his drawing. june and maisie had grown close in the few weeks that they'd been able to know each other. their friendship was both beautiful & terrifying; protecting a child in this world had been difficult enough before there was one more thing they stood to lose.

she peeks first at linds and then at the small girl beside him, her smile is safe && warm, an offering from a mother to a daughter even if maisie is not her own. "well it's about time i've gotten some real talent in front of me this evening," hannah shifted in her seat and let out an exaggerated sigh. "i thought new york was supposed to be supermodel capital but maybe we had the wrong continent." she didn't know much about scotland but if lindsay and maisie were anything to go by scotts were dangerously adorable.

hannah motions to the couch before picking up a pastel in her dirty hand, blackened from smudging the oil all evening. "are we doing serious or silly?" her question was directed to maisie, though she figured linds would prefer the former.

[lindsohalloran]

❝ ach, i ken ye dinnae do it fer me, ❞ lindsay immediately concedes. and it's true. everything birdie has done for maisie since the pair of them arrived at the wexley has been just that ― for maisie. as much as lindsay can appreciate the brief moments of solitude he finds when his niece is under birdie's watch so that he might be able to think, to process without concern of question from her curious young mind ( and christ, but does he feel guilty thinking that he might be grateful for even a second without her, that he should even allow himself the thought―! ) he knows it's never been for him. if anything, that knowledge only serves to make his gratitude that much more sincere. maisie was his entire world and she'd protected that. protected her. ❝ but tha' disnae diminish my thanks fer it all the same, like. ❞ he punctuates the subject with a tip of his glass and a swig of his drink at the cheers.

a half-full drink finds the bar top as he lifts a brow in her direction, but there's a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. ❝ ach, well, fair is fair, aye? summat says tae me yer no' lyin', but i do mean it. ❞ there's a levity to his tone that belies the serious nature of his promise. he owes her. and quite frankly, given the extent of the emotional debt he carries, there's hardly a request she could cook up that he thinks he might refuse. he doesn't say as much ― it's implied. ❝ ye jus' say the word, birdie. ❞

much like when hannah had tried to offer her thanks for getting june to the wexley, linds attempt to offer some kind of speech about her actions in the hall were not appreciated. she didn't make the choices she did to try and appease whatever irrational choice a parent made. she was the stopguard. "i did it for maisie." she corrects with raised eyebrows, though she's not about to defend her position any more than that— because it's a party. so instead, she raises her soda up to help him cheers, adding her own favorite version: "vashe zdorov'ye"

"i know how to call in a favor." the kind of debt he was talking about were saving lives and preventing death. which was not her idea of a great time. there were plenty of other creative ways to implement an iou, and that was the thing to sit on. besides a promise was a promise, and he'd loosened up plenty given the drinks on offer. which made him kind of likable when all was said and done. "so make sure you mean that."

[lindsohalloran]

❝ oh, aye, go on then! gae a feckin' giggle at my expense, like! ❞ though there's a tone to the exclamation that would suggest an undercurrent of offense at the younger man's barely-contained amusement, there's a grin twitching at the corners of lindsay's lips that implies otherwise. as a matter of fact, he'd expected exactly this sort of reaction out of the blond and still ( perhaps a bit foolishly ) thought to tell him all the same. ❝ yer still a pure feckin' shite, y'ken? absolutely wicked sense o' humor, jus' like yer da, tae. ❞ he continues over the sounds of ryder's laughter as if he's not also chuckling. ❝ swear tae christ, some things never change. ❞

lindsay drains the last of the liquor from his glass before returning it to the coaster on the bar with a thud, his brows lifting almost comically at the question. ❝ how did i―? she came righ' along back not but five minutes later lookin' fer it! and completely feckin' gobsmacked,she were as well, startin' tae panic when she cannae find it. apparently they were playin' princesses wi' the barbies and t'were cinderella's missin' glass slipper what went down my gullet, just mixed right in wi' her snacks, like. and then there she is, lookin' at me fer all the world like i'm the biggest feckin' numpty she's ever seen because i had tae tell her i feckin' ate it. ❞

Ash knows that being a bartender you hear some of the craziest stories from where you work, even as a young man working the bar, he was told stories he still has a hard time believing. But he didn't expect anymore to crop up at the end of the world as they know it. Ash simply gave his mentor a long confused stare back as he went off on a long explanation for the predicament he was in - very unlike Linds to not go straight to the point. But damn it was a rollercoaster ride as he blinked at Lindsay listening to the entirety of the story before it ended with the conclusion - a missing barbie shoe, location? Down his esophagus. It took an additional moment or two of silence for it to actually sink in before Ashton broke, "pfft.." He tried holding back his laughter but it instead came out in full force the more he tried to hold it back, with pure unadulterated joy and amusement, a light to distract from the dull ache from tonight.

"Oh my god," Ashton sucked in a breath he hasn't taken since he started laughing, feeling as young as the time he was a recruit standing in front of this man. He was only comfortable to laugh knowing that Lindsay wasn't in any apparent danger from choking on a barbie shoe, seemingly okay with the lodge of plastic, "wait how did you even know it was a barbie shoe that you ate??"

[lindsohalloran]

who ashton @ashton-ryder when mr. wexley's birthday bash where the w

❝ ―look, it wasnae my fault, ryder, ❞ lindsay defends himself, leaning against the bar of the w as he fixes his long-time friend ― and the event's makeshift bartender ― with a pointed and unwavering stare. ❝ she came up tae me with a feckin' fistful of 'em, talkin' all ❛ can ye hold 'em for me please, uncle lindsay? ❜ as she's dumpin' jelly beans in me palm. and i was jus' gonnae hold 'em fer her 'til she was done playin', but i've a heavy feckin' sweet tooth― ❞ ashton knows this about him, certainly ; street food sweets were one of very few vices for the ex-scotsguard back in belize, and he could frequently be found with pockets full of of fresh wangla from one of the vendor carts near the base. ❝ ―and i couldnae resist, figured just a few couldn't hurt. and jaysus were they stale, like ― probably from last feckin' easter, so they are ― wee, hard lumps o' sugar. how was i s'posed tae know there was a feckin' barbie shoe mixed in with the lot? t'weren't no more or less toothsome than the candy. i couldnae tell a feckin' difference. ❞

there's a shake of his head and a chuckle in spite of himself as lindsay lifts his glass to his lips. ❝ christ alive, i cannae believe i ate it. ❞

[lindsohalloran]

who jonah @jonahfisher when mr. wexley's birthday bash where the games room

❝ d'yae play? ❞ the question is thrown out at the first body to walk past the small table where lindsay has found himself sat in the games room ― it's far enough away from the epicenter of action that lindsay does not feel overwhelmed by the mirth of the festivities surrounding him ( what a surreal thing, to be celebrating in such a fashion in times like these, even if he does see the benefit of improving morale ) but still within the party enough that he doesn't appear avoidant. it isn't as if he's trying to be. he clears his throat, offering a half-smile and gestures toward the chess board in front of him before taking a swig of his beer. ❝ t'would appear i've been banished from barbieland, ❞ he confesses with a nod toward the media room. ❝ dinnae ken how tae proper match a pair o' heels wi' a plastic handbag like, so i've been relegated tae the stables an' the wooden horses. ❞