& GRIEF, EATING.

     “Night.”  The auburn-haired traveller farewells his brief companion, with a small rise of his bearded chin.

  That makes three who’ve risen --- and fallen --- to the challenge.  ( Hence why he’s had to move tables. They’re just not big enough to accommodate more than one beneath ‘em. )  And ten drinks. Not the best he’s ever quaffed, but certainly far from the worst, either.

  Golds and silvers clink pleasantly together, a mildly hazy, contented smile tugging at scar-edged lips, as he slides them from the center of the table, charts a course amidst the tankards, and off the edge into his pouch.

  He’s barely scraped his chair back and gotten to his feet when a strapping farm boy strides up, a handful of tarnished silver coins clutched in work-rough fingers. “I’ll take ya. I’ll have me a go.”

     Fionn just chuckles, warmly. Gives him a solid pat on the shoulder that also maneuvers him out of the way.  “Not t’night, lad. Save y’r coin.”  And he heads for the door.

  Almost there, he passes a table currently occupied only by a man in a worn coat --- although he himself had a companion until a few minutes ago; Fionn’s not fully sure just where she went. As he goes, he drifts a couple fingers over the worn wood top, like a pleasantly drunk man might, to keep himself steady on his path. In a low voice, he offers,  “Y’re bein’ watched, friend. Might wanna keep a close eye on th’ little one in here.”

  And with steady treads, new coin jangling at his belt, Fionn pushes out into the cool night air.

     His quick reply was promising ( and eased a bit of the ache in the pit of her stomach ), but she couldn’t quite read what was at the heart of it. Was he trying to protect her feelings or was he hesitant to let her leave his sight for fear she might go changing on him again when he wasn’t watching? She doubted he was totally sold on her new appearance–although her own people largely accepted such changes as part of one’s natural life-cycle, humans didn’t operate that way. And she’d read somewhere that human men were visual creatures, which added a whole encyclopedia of appearance-based worries to linger at the edges of her subconscious that she normally didn’t give a fig about…

     Still, he was trying. His breath on her knuckles softened her a bit more, even if the words that made it out of his lips didn’t quite match up. Obviously, he was a mess of conflicting emotions, which made him difficult to read. She felt a bit the same way, but the familiar way he held her hand–kissed it–caused a faint smile to curve her lips.

     Without looking up, she made a small movement to shift closer to him, her upper arm pressing against his ( much further down than before, she noted ). 

     “Nope. I’m fine right here,” she said quietly, tipping her head just enough to rest lightly on his shoulder. “No place else I’d rather be.”

     That weight of her head on his shoulder --- even if it was at a different angle than it used to... Should feel good. Did feel good. Even if he had to make himself think it felt good, he’d bloody well feel it that way, and that was that.

     Fynn took a slow, careful breath. Let it out, slow and careful, just the same.

     Somewhere in the following silence, he found himself --- a whole lot easier than when he’d first come to live inside her walls, that was for sure --- thinking to the TARDIS.   Maybe a little music? Y’mind?   Something to soothe the savage beast, so t’ speak.

     And a few seconds later, the silence got gently slipped aside by distant strains of violin.

     “Cheers,” he said, softly, to the ship.

                         “Y’know, I’m...” 

     Went quiet, for a moment. Trying to sort out the words. Another voice piping up in his head was telling him he needed to talk to her. That they’d been together long enough for him to have gotten it through his thick head that she couldn’t read his mind.  ( Unless, of course, she was reading his mind. But that was... uh... bit much, maybe, just now. )

     “Not much of a good Catholic, these days. Not much a follower o’ the Old Ways, either. But... Way I figure it...” Would’ve shrugged, if not for her head on his shoulder. Couldn’t help his tone slipping a bit more towards a question, the further he went.  “Bit of a belief in rebirth can’t hurt, in any man’s religion.”

     She didn’t ask him! Her Look makes that very clear!   “You gonna go home tonight and admit a ninety-two-year-old woman can still kick your ass?”   She smiles back, but there’s still the Look to reckon with.   “Or do you wanna eat another three cupcakes?”

     In fairness, back home, he’d known at least a couple ninety-something savage biddies that could’ve kicked his arse from Foynes to Dublin. An’ probably back again. Partly on account of that, partly on account of trying not to choke on a laugh and the last mouthful of cupcake, Fynn can’t respond right off.

     “So it’s a fight y’re wantin’, is it?”  There’s a hint of challenge in the sparkle of his blue eyes. Wouldn’t be Fynn O’Malley if there wasn’t.  “A birthday fight?”

     The hardness that had crept its way into her frame melted a bit, though she still felt like she had been punched in the gut. She sighed, her lips twisting a bit this way and that, trying to figure out what exactly should come out of them.

     Finally, she settled on, “No. It’s alright.” She gave her head a small shake and looked down at their hands, his so familiar and hers so… new. She struggled with the next bit for a moment, feeling awkward and unsure of how exactly to console someone after one’s regeneration. She was normally more on the relieved side, happy to still be breathing. “I appreciate the honesty, anyway.” 

     She let her gaze drift from their hands to a spot in front of her where the wall met the floor. “I won’t lie and say I’ll be exactly the same as I was. Every new form comes with its own little quirks. But they will be Andromeda quirks.”

                                      As if that explained it all. 

     She chanced a glance up at him. “I can go, if you would rather try to get some sleep without me here.” She felt a bit miserable offering that, after having spent so many nights with him, and knowing how badly he had slept before that, but she wanted him to be comfortable in his own home. And if he wasn’t comfortable with the new her just yet, she could give him time and space to work through whatever he needed to. She just hoped it wouldn’t take until her next regeneration.

     It wasn’t all right. And the sour twisting of his lips just narrowly managed to contain it. There was a whole lot goin’ on lately that was pretty far from all right. She’d DIED, for fuck’s sake. And he hadn’t been able to do a thing to prevent it. Just like he’d always worried.

     Was the absolute bloody worst when your paranoias went ahead and came true.

     His neck and shoulders were burning with the tension set into them. Clenching his jaw, he twisted his head --- none too gently --- from side to side. Little bit fruitless attempt to loosen up. Little bit expression of frustration that he wasn’t sure how to.

     Now that he’d said what he felt he had to, Fynn didn’t much want to say anything else. Second she said she’d leave, though, that seal on his mouth cracked open like an eggshell.

     “No.” Hour from now, he’d be giving himself the works for how quick --- and how vulnerable --- he let that come out. Dark-shadowed eyes flicked up to her face for the briefest of seconds, then dropped down again. Was trying to fight down that hot-ice sensation of panic trying to rise in his guts as he focused on the weight of her hand in his. Squeezed it, gently. “I don’t... don’t want y’ t’ go.”

     Couldn’t think of much in this instant that he wanted less than that.

     Before he could think too much about it, he half-bent his head, half-raised her hand, and put a soft kiss on her knuckles. He kept it there for a while, ridges of her bones pressed into his lips. Shut his eyes.

                                                           Still tasted like honey.

                         Should buy a new guitar.

     Head tipped back, staring up at the ceiling, he muses,  “Y’ ever think about that kid we saved, that one time?”  Christ, it’s been years.  “Time I rang y’ for help in th’ small hours, ‘cause I’d been shot two ‘r three times an’ had ‘er with me, shelterin’ in some dodgy warehouse?”

     Good god, he made her weak in the knees. And he didn’t even have to kiss her to do it. Her eyes flitted shut for a moment, thinking he was moving in to kiss her lips again, only to get a kiss on the nose instead. She tried not to be disappointed. 

     “I am faster than you. You cannot outrun me unless I let you.” She was vaguely aware that was not what he meant, but that’s what came out of her mouth anyway. And it came out fairly inarticulately, too. Oh well. Her mind had already moved on to the more important bit that promised lots of touching.

     She raised her eyebrows, her expression probably somewhat exaggerated by the ginger wine still making its way slowly through her system. “All I can say is I am looking forward to you fulfilling your duties with the same skill and dedication you have put into the other things I’ve seen you do.” Even though her words were somewhat slurred, she could still manage to string quite a few of them together anyway.

     He smiled, a bit, absorbing her words. All of them, as they came to him, through the swaying, lingering  ( but still fading, tragically )  haze of his inebriation.  “Skill an’ dedication,”  He echoed, dutifully, nodding. One of his hands left off touching her to tap a couple fingertips off his forehead in a short, comical salute.  “Aye-aye, cap’n.”

     Had been years since he’d saluted anybody. Didn’t really plan on doing it seriously to anyone ever again, if he had a choice.

     Anyways.

     Carefully --- movements still a little too deliberate --- Fynn eased away from her, and away from the wall. He firmly collected her hand into his, though.  “Makin’ sure I’m fulfillin’ m’ duties,”  he pointed out, wholly unnecessarily, as they headed off.

     The door to the pool room turned up, soon enough, and he pushed it open. The wave of warm, humid air that swept into his face was just what he’d been hoping for, and only served to reinforce the urge to find a nice, comfy stretch of tile to lie facedown on. Soon as he’d got Andromeda settled, anyhow.

     Oh, so serious. She continued to smile mischievously at him while he groused about suits. She could only imagine the grumpy complaints that were probably filling his thoughts on that front. Actually, she’d heard the complaints often enough out loud that she probably knew them well enough by heart. No peeking into his head necessary.

     “There’s nothing wrong with a good disguise, especially if you can use it to your advantage. Of course, it’s not so much the suit as the way you pull it off so well.” She grinned wider. “Perhaps it’s more to my advantage to have you in a suit.”

     Much as his position against suits was long-held and well-defended, her smile and the accompanying compliment --- not veiled in the least --- made it harder than he might’ve liked. Still close, still looking down into her face, his jaw did a... thing. Little sideways slide. Little show of his bottom teeth, sort of pulling at his upper lip.

     “Is it, now?”

     And that was really all he had. No game, O’Malley. Y’ve had more’n a year now t’ practice an’ y’ still got no game.

     Fynn drew a thoughtful breath, gently pulling her just a little nearer.  “All o’ a sudden, th’ leprechaun’s gotten it into his head t’ grant a wish. Pro bono, like.”  Christ, he hoped he was using that term right. Shrugging off the thought, he let his voice slide into a murmur.

     She tosses her head back, regarding him.   “Fynn, how would you like it if I called you mortal all the time?”   She does call him mortal all the time. But only in a general sense — you humans, you mortals, you with your linear futures all stretched out before you. Not, like, in direct address.

     But the Argo smiles, like he’s said something cute.   “You’re not going to get it out of me so easily, you know.”

     His chin stabs down. Rest of his head tilts the other way from before. It just... does that.

     “When've I ever gotten anythin' easy outta you?”

     When's he ever gotten anything easy outta life, wonders that relentless, self-pitying voice that's always chiming in. ------PLAY THE TINY VIOLIN A LITTLE LOUDER, SAD VOICE, WE CAN'T QUITE HEAR Y'.

     “What's y'r game, then?”  It's just an idle wonder. He's just playing. Isn't like he's got much of anything better to do.  “What pries th' secrets from y'r claws? A good flatterin' o' your ego? My life secrets?”  His eyebrows about pop off as he very precisely enunciates, teeth on every consonant,  “Cat treats?”

     Goes down hard on a knee from the force of the blow. Weathers the storm of a few more punches and kicks, and then he’s lunging up again --- bulling that same bruised shoulder right into the solar plexus of the one who’d swung the bat. Gets him good, too: fella goes spilling into a pile of bins and rubbish, trying to curse but a little too out of breath to manage it.

     Blood in one eye, Fynn squints as he turns on the cluster of local toughs still to go. Rocks his throbbing jaw, and tips his head back to let his chin protrude.  “Alright, mates? C’mon now --- there’s still seven of ya. Who’s next?”

  Matt scoffs a laugh as he sets down his glass. Luckily, avoiding a spittake by a narrow margin. The conversation is already going better than expected.

     He can tell Fynn is considering what to say, but the eventual words surprise him a little. His profession is no big secret; half the people in the bar could tell a story about Nelson and Murdock stepping in to help them, one time or another. Still, Matt’s eyebrow lifts.   “Is it the tie?”

  It’s a shame he has to keep his own observations to himself if he doesn’t want to raise suspicion. He can’t turn off the analytical part of his brain anymore than he can turn off his heightened senses. ( Unless he’s about do to something really stupid, as Foggy would be quick to point out. Apparently, in that case, he has no problem ignoring his fine-tuned instincts whatsoever. ) And anyway, more inconveniently, he wants to show off.

     “I don’t bite, if you’re wondering.”   A small smile tugging at one side of his mouth suggests otherwise. It takes more restraint than Matt possesses not to add,   “And yourself?”

    Fynn’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a bit impressed with himself. Even if it was a bloody guess.

    His fingertips drum a quiet rhythm on the bar  ( bit sticky, that --- unfortunately he’s no stranger to it )  as he tips his head to the side. Studies the expression on the other man’s face. Feels like his da would’ve had something to say about that.  ( Statement, not the smile, t’be clear. )  But then, that was just Da. Always in trouble with the law one way or another. And lawyers had it right in the name, as he’d say.