Declan was exhausted and not the normal kind he had learned to exist with. This was the kind that spoke of sleeplessness, the kind that had been interrupted by caroling in the middle of the night. And while Declan lay in the strange motel bed with scratchy sheets, studying a particularly unsettling water stain on the ceiling, he thought: Ronan wouldn’t do this. This was a nightmare of mediocrity and plainness. The sort that Declan strived for, that he understood on a deep level, and one he had often expected Ronan to run from.
He also expected to wake up in the bed at the townhouse when he managed to snatch a sad number of hours of sleep. He did not. The water stain seemed more spiteful in the early morning light, as if to say yes, I got bigger overnight. Declan decided that he was not staying in bed any longer.
Getting ready was done with minimal effort and minimal supplies. He didn’t want to wear the provided clothes—too extreme for the cultivated Declan Lynch—but there was no way around it. He went with the least conspicuous black sweater, the pants he wore yesterday when this whole mess started, and his shoes. His beloved, stupid shoes.
Declan hadn’t bothered with the network since last night (afraid to see his brother doing something else that was moderately illegal under the guise of being a “team player”) and took the long walk to Cafe Tropical.
Surprisingly busy for the morning, Declan wanted to seclude himself at a corner table with something palatable, except his whole mouth went dry at seeing Jordan Hennessy already there. Declan was instantly unsure if he was even awake at this point; perhaps his subconscious was playing a truly awful joke. He hated it already.
He took five evenly measured strides, dodging patrons and ignoring an overzealous waitress, to reach her table. Declan took a deep breath before saying, “You’re here.” It should have been a question, but he needed to state the obvious, as if saying it might make it untrue. Or he was convincing himself out loud that it was.
Jordan was used to abrupt change. She’d had to up and move more times than she could count. Never to Canada though. The first day in town had been a lot of reading back over the network and wandering around town, discovering the weirdness that kept them trapped in town and making sure Hennessy wasn’t anywhere to be found. Neither of them would ever bloody blend in in a place like this. So rural. So white. At least twenty people had looked at her neck tattoo before really looking at her face.
They’d all been nice about it, at least. The girl at the diner had smiled brightly and introduced herself. Twyla was a batty name but Jordan had met worse. Playing up her own charm had gotten her a cozy booth in the back before the rush. Her food sat half eaten in front of her and she was scrolling through the network again with her chin propped on her hand when Declan’s voice snapped her eyes up to his face.
She managed a cool voice, not in the least affected. It’s not like he could hear her heart beating like it meant to jump out of her dumb chest. “Well, well. Suppose I should’ve known the Lynch brothers were involved in this mess.”
Declan was off his game at seeing her here. Much like the last time they met, he was charmed, a little thrilled. But unlike the last time, the familiar way she suggested the Lynch brothers being behind this mess threw him, and his expression soured considerably. Something felt wrong, but he tried not to show it.
"I hate to disappoint you," Declan said, and he did. Disappointing anyone was never his intention; it was only that most people did not like the truth he unabashedly shared. "But my hands are clean of involvement, as well as my brother's. Canadian small towns are not exactly destinations."
He eyed her half eaten breakfast, then tipped his chin to the seat across from her. "Waiting for someone?"
Jordan squinted up at him. Things had gotten tense the last time they’d been alone, before the horror that sat like a weight at the back of Jordan’s mind. When she’d thought things were going quite well for a minute there. Too well, it seemed. Bloody well figured really. She’d never been enough inside her own head. Why should it be any different for him?
Her eyes tracked down and stayed on his shoes for a second before sliding back to his face.
“Being involved and being at fault aren’t the same thing, you know.” She raised an eyebrow at him and then finally sighed, gesturing at the seat across from her with her chin. Dropping her hand away from her face, she went back to pushing her food around her plate with her fork. “Don’t suppose the agency is behind this. They would’ve just filled us with bullets and called it a day.”
"You have to claim responsibility to be at fault. Exact correlation," Declan said, sliding in across from Jordan. "You're welcome to look, but it would be a waste of your time." He sounded simple, factual, boring, but there was a joke there, a flirtatious teasing that was subtle. The way Declan tended to work. Despite being tired, and despite their situation, Jordan was a welcome distraction.
Their previous date had been too, when everything was going to shit.
"Yes, the agency," Declan repeated, attempting to sound agreeable, tilting his head ever-so-slightly as if considering being filled with bullets.. He did not know what she was talking about, but bringing that to her attention felt premature. He searched his sleep-addled brain for something to make a connection, something that would not give away his own lack of information about said agency.
He went with a safer option; the same question that Ronan had asked him. At the time, Declan thought it was unnecessary. Now it felt as common as a greeting, or a really terrible pickup line. "What is the last thing you remember between you and me?"
She couldn’t help but smirk at his hoity-toity reply, one eyebrow climbing. He had a sleepless look about him and it should’ve been unattractive but since he was always so pulled together, it tugged at her insides. She wanted to reach across the table and run the tips of her fingers through his hair.
Their knees brushed under the table and she didn’t move away.
“Between you and me? What kind of question is that?” She’d been in a daze when he’d called her out on what she was. But she remembered the sadness on his face and the feeling that she was suddenly a burden for someone other than Hennessy. Jordan frowned and stabbed at a piece of sausage on her plate. “We were headed for the Barns if that’s what you mean. You said you’d let me drive.”
When Declan blinked, it was a slow exaggerated sort, the only indication that yes, the casual touch of their knees under the table was enough to let his thoughts slide sideways for a moment. He didn't shy away either, even if the conversation was taking a difficult turn.
It felt like she was striking a match, prepping a fire with each word. Barns. Let her drive. Lynch brothers. It rattled around inside him like a warning; a Pavolvian response to things that meant danger, too close. He expected her to say Matthew next, and he didn't know how he would keep it together if that were the case.
"That's not—" Declan started to say, and he swallowed hard. They were playing leapfrog with events. Gansey behind Ronan, Ronan behind him, and Declan clearly behind Jordan.
He was quieter when he spoke, but no less intense and serious. "That's not how I remember it. You called. After the market, you called. There was a Manet exhibit. Our desire to come prepared with familial background checks was our commonality." There was no driving, or Barns, or brotherly introductions. It had been a nice time, one that he wanted to repeat, only not here.
He shook his head, once, rueful. He didn't even have to ask, he knew the answer even as he said, "There's more."
The more he said, the more Jordan frowned. Was it some kind of test? Did he think that because she was a dream, she would be easy to manipulate? What would even be the point? She pulled her knees closer to her side of the booth and pointed at him with her fork.
“That’s not funny. My entire world has been ripped apart and you’ve what...got amnesia?” The fork made a little clatter as she dropped it to her plate. She’d never felt quite so alone. She’d have given anything to look up and see Hennessy sliding in next to Declan. “You could just say you want out, you know. I know you--” That thought refused to force it’s way past her lips so she pressed them together for a second before giving a cavalier shrug. “Hennessy’s not even here.”
When Jordan pulled away, she took with her not only that singular point of contact, but all the hope he had left for this strained reunion. Declan was used to the sting, but it didn't mean it affected him any less. His mouth hardened into a straight line, he went a little dead behind the eyes because that was an easier pill to swallow that what she was trying to tell him now.
The same things he had accused Ronan of, actually. The irony was not lost on him.
"If I wanted out, I would have done it by now. You would know." Whatever Declan was in, it was because he chose to be. There was a reason behind it. He could say that for certain, regardless of having the memories or not to support it. Something had had happened between them, enough to confide in her about his brothers, the Barns, the relative safety—and subsequent risks—of his life. Not knowing how much though was the problem.
There was a brief flash of confusion, before that neutral expression was back across his face. "You're Hennessy."
“Wow. You’re really doing this,” Jordan whispered breathlessly. It felt like getting kicked in the gut, those words. You’re Hennessy. She had a lot of experience reading people and she usually knew a forgery from the real thing, but Declan had a special talent at hiding what he was thinking behind a blank facade. She’d thought she’d been given a pass through that gate, but…
It doesn’t matter, she told herself.
It did matter, in a way that left her turning her face away to avoid giving herself up.
“I’m Jordan,” she said, like those words were bigger than the whole diner. Then she flicked her gaze back to him and frowned sharply. “Does this mean I have to watch your face again when you realize what I am?”
This was becoming aggravating. Her disbelief at his word choices were demoralising. For once, Declan was telling the truth, and even then it seemed his credit was shot. Why did he even bother?
Declan watched the complicated emotions flit across her face, the way she turned away. All the same tactics that he had tried to avoid when talking to people, especially when lying. They were tells of something else he was missing, and his gut churned uncomfortably with the realization. He had notably forgotten his roll of antacids, and his stomach was pathetically empty. The whole feeling was unpleasant as tension built between them.
"Jordan," Declan repeated, as if to keep her attention on him when she finally looked back. It also sounded possibly like an apology, or as close to one as he could get for the offense he didn't realize he made.
"What you are—" And his mind started to fill in the blanks: thief, criminal, murderer. Declan had met them all, was unfazed by them all, and somehow he still couldn't seem to piece together the more personal, the more obvious answer. Not yet at least. "Don't tell me and you won't have to."
“Right. Easy enough.” Jordan smiled tightly. With someone else, it might’ve even reached her eyes, she was that used to faking it. She didn’t understand what he was playing at, or if this place really had buggered up his memories, but she didn’t plan on letting her guard down as easily this time. He’d snuck up on her before. Even now, looking at his face, she wanted to say something to inspire that wry little smile of his. Maybe even draw out a laugh.
She settled for some measure of her normal breezy cool.
“Are you going to eat something?” She gestured lazily towards the counter and Twyla behind it. “The food’s not half bad. For a creepy experiment full of loons.”
It didn't feel easy enough, but it was a solution for the moment. For all of Declan's meticulous planning, it felt impossible to do in a place where everything was created to go against that. Quiet chaos, he thought; Declan did not thrive in chaos. So for now, they were slapping a bandaid on a wound that Declan couldn't quite feel yet. Another thing to be braced for.
Declan's eyes narrowed, not unkindly. He was contemplative of Jordan, considering his options. He could eat. He could sit here and listen to her talk with her lilting voice. He could use another hour of sleep. All tempting options, but it seemed that Jordan's casual gesture had caught Twyla's attention at the counter, and the decision was made. Eat.
He glanced down to Jordan's breakfast, and he reached across the table to push nonchalantly at the rim of the plate. "Depends. What do you recommend?"
I hear the smoothies are good was on the tip of her tongue, despite hearing decidedly the opposite. But Jordan couldn’t push the words out of her mouth. She was not getting soft. This was just...strategic. Causing Declan discomfort might turn Ronan against her, and therefore against Hennessy. Assuming they ever found a way back to Hennessy.
“I don’t know.” She lightly rapped her fork against his reaching fingers, a taunting little smirk flickering in and out of place. “Does Declan Lynch eat pancakes? Or is that something he’s only allowed to do in his attic?”
Jordan had been to his townhouse. She had been in the attic. That knowledge caused the corners of his mouth to quirk up, quick, tight, against better judgement. He tucked that piece of information away to take out later, pull apart and wonder about until he found a way to ask more.
His face returned to the same impartial expression, as he drew back his hand from her plate. "If you assume pancakes are meant to be consumed in secret. And—" He lifted his chin to silently count the other patrons who were currently consuming a short stack, "I believe at least seven other people here might say otherwise."
When Twyla approached to take his order and rattle off specials, Declan watched Jordan and didn't look away when he said, "Pancakes," like a challenge. Then he added, "and whatever the smoothie of the day is."
Jordan could have warned him, she supposed. But the flicker of real emotion on his face being followed up by such a challenging stare made her heart beat out a complicated rhythm. He was as impossible to pin down as he had been from the start and it was equal parts infuriating and intoxicating.
Which deserved a little comeuppance, really.
“Just a refill for me.” She lifted her cup and sipped the last bit of tea, watching Declan over the rim with a mischievous stare. “But bring him some whip cream for those pancakes, will you? Let him live a little.”