#faolan 02

@faolanmeadowes​

Spring cleaning rings as true now as it did then, it seems. Faolan and Caoimhe have had their hands full with it, anyway: painting and decorating and planting flowers. It’s a good way to keep busy, even if Caoimhe’s occasional bursts of incorporeality have led to multiple paint splatters from brushes suddenly dropped to the floor. Faolan’s apartment was nice, no doubt; but it looked as weary as the man occupying it sometimes did when he thought she wasn’t looking. Now, though, it’s beginning to look truly spruced. Their work is done for this evening, however. There are plenty of photos to be hung and walls to be painted, but Caoimhe is more tired than she’d like to admit. Besides, they deserve some rest. The apartment’s windows hang open to let in the light of the setting sun as well as some fresh air to combat the scent of paint. Sound emits out of the windows, too, coming from that spinning contraption in the corner – a record player, Faolan had explained, ever patient. Caoimhe’s rather fond of the funny thing, the music it emits, and of course, her present company. Her laugh rumbles low as her husband reaches out a hand, though she hardly protests, laying her fingers across his with practiced ease. After only a brief moment, her cheek leans into his shoulder, eyes closing as they sway without a word. “Were you always such a good dancer?” Caoimhe inquires after the first song reaches its end, straightening up so she can look at her husband properly, her grin impish. “I seem to recall you stepping on my toes quite a few times. No, in fact, I’m certain I remember! It was once so bad that you had to carry me home from Murphy’s because two of my toes’d gone blue.” There’s no malice in the memory, which Caoimhe recalls aloud with a genuine laugh. “It seems to me like you’ve improved – or am I just speaking too soon?” The next song is well into its first verse when she speaks up again, her cheek against Faolan’s shoulder once more, voice softer now. “You look happy, a ghrá geal.”

Her hands are shaking so badly, she cannot get her gloves off. There is blood on her gloved fingers up to her knuckles, but it was not the patient who made her feel like this -- instead, the screams of his wife after they’d announced time of death. When she finally disposes of her gloves, Fiona nearly stumbles outside, trying to breathe through the budding sobs currently stealing the air in her lungs. With still trembling hands, she swats at the tears streaming down her cheeks just in time to turn and see a somewhat familiar face. “O-Oh.” Fiona shakes her head, clearing her throat and swiping at her eyes once again. “H-Hey, Faolan.” Fiona ducks her head as if she has any chance at hiding her tears, glancing back at the door. “I’m sorry, am I in your way?”