WHO: Declan and Ronan Lynch WHAT: Reunion at the Barns WHEN: Friday November 13th, afternoon WHERE: The Barns WARNINGS: References to violence, blood/gore, poor communication skills
His head hurt, even more than the first time Declan had stepped out into this interdimensional dumping grounds. It had been a few weeks since then, both with regard to what had happened back home and according to the calendar here. A quick survey of the network revealed that things were mildly better here than back home. No governmentally backed black ops organization had tried to kill them between the last time Declan was here and… today. A rather notable checkmark in the pros column.
His Über driver was the same as last time. Small town. He greeted Declan as though it was the first time they had seen each other, which suited Declan just fine. At least it was during the day, not the middle of the night. Muted, with closed captioning, Declan was catching part of a true Hallmark masterpiece, some Christmas fluff movie that wouldn’t have warranted his attention if it hadn’t headlined his brother’s name and face. The haircut confirmed it was Ronan, not Niall, not… the New Fenian. But if that were Ronan, actually something Ronan had done and filmed or even fucking dreamed, Declan would eat his tie. It wasn’t like his brother at all.
A five star review and moderate tip later, Declan found himself staring down the ranch house they had all grown up in. Ironic given that was where he had been headed when he had come here. All roads lead to Rome. He chose not to look into his townhouse, to discover its state, but instead walked crisply up the steps into the house his brother loved so much. “Ronan,” Declan said, like that could summon his brother.
--
Ronan had only just returned from Lindenmere an hour or so before. He went there almost every day, partly because he had nothing better to do. Sometimes one or more friends joined him, but today he had gone alone. Just to sleep and dream, or just to be awake in a dream. To breathe properly. To feel alive.
The Barns felt like that too, but it also carried memories of Adam, of his dad, his mother, his brothers. When Blue and Gansey weren’t around, he was alone here with his dream things (a nightmare). Lindenmere was his dream thing but it also wasn’t. It was a thing unto itself and it knew him, loved him, offered him company and comfort.
He was just pulling leftover pizza out of the fridge when he heard his name in Declan’s voice. Of course it was Declan again; why would it be anyone else? He loved his brother, had even put him on the Santa wishlist (he would have to erase that now, because the portal had delivered first -- but he did not regret putting it down, because it had worked for Gansey and now it had also summoned Declan back somehow), but he would have given anything for Adam or Matthew.
Still, he set down the pizza on the counter and went to open the door. He didn’t stand in the doorway but almost immediately turned back toward the kitchen; they weren’t big on hugs or any display of emotion. Over his shoulder he said, “I didn’t do it this time.”
--
It was difficult to tell from the condition of Ronan’s jeans how many days he had been wearing them. A car had been absent from Monmouth Manufacturing (how strange that was at the Barns, along with his townhouse). Gansey was possibly being a responsible human being and working a job. But Declan’s instinct was to assume a more negative tack. The lack of daytime drinking or other horrid behaviors made him doubt Gansey was gone, the way people got gone around here. But he worried about Ronan nonetheless. Adam Parrish still didn’t seem to be there (again, going by cars).
Declan followed Ronan into the kitchen because he hadn’t come into the house for anything except his brother. “It was just me this time,” Declan said. Much less fuss. Much less time. Different guard. He paused, taking the time to pull out two plates, and served himself some of Ronan’s pizza. The silverware drawer coughed up a fork, and Declan took his plate to the kitchen table. At least here he looked no more out of the ordinary than he ever did.
“I know it’s been a few weeks,” Declan said. He understood how calendars worked. If not time. “It’s been a few weeks for me too. Back home.” Not that Declan wanted to break so many parts of that news to Ronan. But he could vaguely talk around some of the issues. Not mention Cambridge. Or the end of the world. Maybe nothing at all. He hadn’t even had time to process it himself.
--
Ronan snubbed the plate, which he hadn’t been planning to use, and just picked up a piece of pizza and bit into it. He dropped into the chair in a way that suggested he wanted to throw himself irreverently into it, but didn’t have the energy. His brow furrowed.
“I got memories,” he said, “Like… a week ago?”
--
The things his brother could say with a straight face. And when it came to many ridiculous statements, they weren’t lies. Had Ronan dreamt himself his memories? Or had they simply happened to him. “Yeah?” Declan said. He cut the tip of the pizza off with the side of his fork. “What memories?”
Because Declan wasn’t about to spill what trouble Ronan was neck deep in if he didn’t have to. Not with a portal and a thousand miles between them and a group of assassins and them and Him, Bryde, the man the Fairy Market couldn’t shut up about. And Declan trusted as much as the group of assassins. Which he would grant at least were forthright about the manner in which they wished to destroy his brothers.
--
There were so many memories and not all of them were things he would share with Declan. Many of them weren’t. But he sorted through them in his head and then decided to work backwards chronologically until he found a common point. That was, of course, assuming that the memories he’d gotten were real, but he had no reason to believe they weren’t. They felt real, even if the other dreamers -- Bryde in particular -- felt impossible. Not to mention the woman with his mother’s face, or the Ronan sitting next to her.
Eventually he eyed Declan and said, “Sundogs ring any bells?”
--
Declan’s face managed to get more bland. That such a word meant the teeming formless black masses or teeth and violence was astonishing. Matthew (and Declan and Jordan) would have been dead without them. But the ‘sundogs’ had not much distinguished between them and the threats once the threats were gone. Their current residence was also not confidence boosting.
“Yes,” Declan said. “I doubt I could forget them any time soon if I wanted to.” The killing squad had already made rough work of his townhouse, shooting holes into his sofa among other things. But Ronan’s sundogs were the ones who had littered a bloody arm on his bedroom floor. Declan wasn’t going to be sorry about that, for whoever’s arm it had been. But blood was damn hard to get out of carpet like that.
“We also went to the diner,” he said neutrally. As though it had been a perfectly typical and benign activity, not a shelter in the storm of people hunting them.
--
“And then you went back to the Barns,” Ronan added, as if they were telling a story together. He decided not to mention Jordan or Matthew for the sake of not pushing his brother’s buttons too soon. He also didn’t want to bring up the way he and Hennessy had ridden off with Bryde; Declan had known he was going to do that, that didn’t mean he needed to know the details. “Yeah. That’s about the end of what I remember. Anything else I should know?”
--
It felt strange to recount the recent past with such trepidation, that leaping ahead could leave the other person behind. Neither of them provided painful details, ones Declan preferred not to share if Ronan didn’t know. And he knew little about Ronan and Hennessy’s efforts, if they had gotten that far. Only that they were not dead, so much as Declan could tell. He nodded.
“We hadn’t reached there, when I came here,” Declan said. He shrugged. “I still haven’t learned much from my contacts. Nothing more that is useful.” Despite knowing they were in another world, he half expected his phone to buzz. Everything around him spoke of their childhood, of the home he had left behind. It was strange, them both knowing what was going on back there.
But the men and women who had burst through the front door of Declan’s townhouse, the people he had fired at and fled from, always keeping Matthew behind him, Jordan as much as he could help, the assassins funded by their government, by other governments, whether their bland legislative language specified it or not, from offices like the one he had worked in, those ones were not on their way here this very instant. The welcoming spiel had included living their lives laying low, not letting people know they were fictional -- a warning Declan hadn’t needed but heeded.
“Anything threatening happen here while I was gone?” Declan asked instead. This world’s dangers were more immediate.
--
So they were approximately on the same page. Ronan wondered if that had been the purpose of the memories he’d gotten. He hadn’t analyzed them like that before. It felt like the portal had dumped a bunch of crap on him, and then in the middle of it he’d gotten a present: Lindenmere. He appreciated Lindenmere being here, but he really didn’t need the feeling of tamquam left unread when he was even further from Adam and even less able to do anything about it, for example. He didn’t need to know Matthew was angry at him because he knew he was Ronan’s dream thing when he hadn’t seen Matthew in literal years.
He dragged his thoughts out of that quagmire and back to Declan’s question. “Not threatening,” he said, “But Lindenmere came through with the memories and I’ve taken a few people there.”
Chainsaw waddled into the room and fluttered up onto a counter; Ronan broke off a piece of his pizza crust and tossed it in her direction. “I made it so most people wouldn’t notice it or want to go in, though.”
That had been more for Lindenmere’s safety and for the safety of any hapless soul that might stumble across it and accidentally summon their worst nightmare and die. But it would also serve the purpose of dissuading all but the most determined of magical hunters. Probably.
--
Oh good. More new magical geographical features that had not been there before. Were satellites as deterred as people were? Or would someone in the Department of Commerce pick up on the topological shifts in weather data? Could Lindenmere spark the beginning of something like the group of people hunting Ronan at home? For a moment, Declan had been relieved when he returned here, or rather, once he had returned here, upon remembering that Ronan was here. And that meant Ronan was safe from them as long as this lasted. His brothers didn’t need the world to break to court danger and disaster. They were Lynches. The world had always been good at killing Lynches.
It was still their first conversation. Aware though Declan was that he expected Ronan’s normal sarcasm and irreverence to rear their heads, he was just so relieved to see his brother alive again. Declan didn’t want to argue. He decided having more information was the responsible choice. “How far away is Lindenmere from the Barns now?” Declan asked. “What, if anything, of civilization is near it?” Too close didn’t risk only discovery but the attention nudging people away from an area could gather over time. If anyone noticed, well, people liked to go where no one wanted to go.
But he ate more of the pizza. Logistics. He had been distracted, simply trying to watch Ronan, before. And he had been so much better about being on the rails. Living the boring life Declan had set out for himself like his gray suits. Tumbleweed was far too strange to let that be his norm. No, he needed something of a routine, a schedule. Declan needed a job.
--
“It’s a little ways outside the edge of town,” Ronan said, waving a hand vaguely in the direction of it. “There were already some trees there.”
He didn’t deign to call the other trees a forest. Maybe by Texas standards they were, since everything here was dusty and scrubby, but he was used to the lush Virginia hills. And compared to Lindenmere, they seemed even more lacking.
--
Ronan’s words technically qualified as an answer, but the resounding lack of detail rendered it almost entirely useless. Declan’s Texan geography wasn’t much either; Austin, Dallas, Houston yes. A vague sense of Galveston. He would need to learn more about this place, without calling attention to himself. That would only bring more eyes on Ronan, and his brother attracted enough of those on his own.
“At least it seems some people’s places arrive here as well,” Declan said. “Without dreaming them.” That made them stand out less. A camouflage of flagrant differences. Though from his sights around town it was blended in fairly well. Or looked like a tourist trap. He finished cutting his pizza into pieces. What was he going to do here?
Not panic. Declan had worked through worse situations than this. “What are the… usual ways people find work around here?” he asked. He didn’t expect Ronan to know or provide a useful answer. But it wasn’t a bad concept to remind Ronan of.
--
“That’s how the Barns got here,” Ronan said, in case Declan had thought he’d dreamt it. It hadn’t been here at first, and Ronan had not recreated it -- partially because of the power it would have taken, which had been in short supply at the time without a ley line (although he’d then made one of those himself by accident), but mostly because he didn’t want a copy. He’d just stayed in Monmouth until the Barns had arrived.
Speaking of: “Did your townhouse come back? Or do you want to stay here?”
He eyed Declan, so that he could assess his emotional response to that question. He knew the Barns had never been a space Declan had been made to feel welcome in. But what he didn’t know was whether he wanted to be welcomed here now or if he had moved on beyond that.
The last question made him snort. “The way people usually find work,” he said. “Get your fake credentials and shit from the Bureau and go hunting. There’s displaced that own businesses, but I dunno if any of them are your speed.”
He tried to imagine Declan waiting a table or working at a bakery -- the main displaced businesses he knew about. Well, there was that magic shop. But that seemed even less likely. “We don’t need money though. The karts and roller coaster bring in plenty and the portal gave me a bunch too.”
--
Declan gave a small nod. It was a legalistic victory but a victory nonetheless. And he would embrace what he could condone of his brother’s behavior. Not that it surprised him that the Barns would follow his brother across universes. The place had never behaved rationally. The rolling hills of grass and gentle Virginian climate stood out starkly in Texas a way it had not in Virginia. Still, still…
He glanced out the window, not that he could see the townhouse from this seat in the kitchen. Large trees bordered it where his neighbors previously had lived. That barely lessened the out of place look it had. “I haven’t inspected the townhouse yet,” Declan said. “If it came from the time I did, then… you saw the mess it was.” Destroyed furniture, graffiti on the walls, a bloodstain where the arm had lain for hours. He would have to clean up that mess, whether he moved back into it or not. But he was unsure on the point.
The question -- to his mind -- was not, what did Declan want? The issue was, what would help Ronan? Either way, there would be more proximity than the four hour drive that had been the norm. Did the benefits of being in this house, for his brother, outweigh the increased possibility of arguments? If Declan could get Ronan into a routine, even something like the one Declan had seen written up, that would be good for him. Parrish wasn’t around, though Gansey was. Gansey stayed in the rather visible Monmouth Manufacturing, looming outside one of the windows. But if Gansey were not around? “I can stay here,” Declan declared. It was a sentence. He considered the kitchen. “Though I’d like to bring my espresso machine over.” Something that functioned without a dreamer.
Fake credentials didn’t bother Declan, not if they were as well done as the driver’s license already provided. A college degree, some internships, that would fill out nicely for… what Declan wasn’t sure. Local politics wasn’t his arena. Nothing in a small town like this felt anonymous. But he looked back at Ronan, at the mention of the go karts and the roller coaster. “How much are they netting a year?” Declan asked. Presumably, the costs were low. Nothing for supplies. Perhaps a minimal staff. Or just Ronan. And Texas was a low tax state.
--
Ronan remembered what a mess it had been. Blood and destruction. “I could help you clean it up,” he offered. If for no other reason than it was something to do, and, well. The destruction was partially his fault a few times over.
Also he really couldn’t tell if Declan was saying he’d stay at the Barns because he really wanted to or because he wanted to micromanage Ronan’s life. Or both. Even if it was the former, he’d probably end up micromanaging Ronan anyway. Or trying to, at least. So it would probably be a good thing if, eventually, he had another place to go if he didn’t want to stay here anymore. It wasn’t far away, but it was more of a distance -- a boundary -- than between two rooms in this house.
He didn’t bother protesting the espresso machine. It was probably going to look ridiculous in a kitchen full of dream things. But it was just as much Declan’s home as his, at least on a legal level. Ronan had laid claim to it more.
“I dunno,” he said, shrugging. He looked down at his pizza. “Adam was keeping track. Gansey might’ve done a bit since he’s been gone.” Ronan didn’t care, so he didn’t pay attention. All he knew was that his bank account was comfortably in the 6 digits and increasing, because he rarely spent money. Gansey had used some of it, but he was more scrupulous here too, and he had started to earn his own money as well.
--
Declan nodded. He had experience working blood out of many kinds of fabric. Even carpet. Replacing the damaged items in the townhouse would cost a fair bit of money. Gray and neutral as everything had been, it had been quality furniture. Declan had hidden or removed anything their father had dreamt, kept it to the closets or other nominally safer locations. Given his inheritance hadn’t come with him, Declan was aware of the irony of turning to Ronan for money. But the pleasant aspect was that Ronan wouldn’t miss it. He didn’t pay attention to money that way. Didn’t need much money.
When had Adam Parrish left? Well, Dick Gansey would have made sure the proper taxes were filed, certainly. Dick’s parents were responsible about such things. Also they made money in a legal manner. Niall’s money had been cash or safely transferred behind accounts the IRS couldn’t find a seam to take a crowbar to. As their inheritances spoke to, the Lynches had been doing decently well financially. Niall’s mouth, his stories and promises, had been the problem. “I can take a look at them,” Declan offered. If nothing else, that was familiar work. And families of four were less likely to stick Ronan up at gunpoint.
--
Ronan gestured in the vague direction of the stairs. “Adam put a desk in one of the guest rooms. It’s all in there.”
He didn’t entirely like the idea of Declan messing around at Adam’s desk. But it was going to be either Declan or Gansey, because looking at the desk made Ronan angry. Because it hurt to look at a part of the Barns that Adam had claimed, and he had no desire to deal with the books to begin with.
--
Though Ronan had barely said anything, just enough to permit Declan to get the job done, the blackness of his mood lingered around the table, as though it were enough to make the pizza taste like ash. It was not a pizza that could taste like moods. At least, not literally. Declan considered the Barns as he remembered it, as he had last seen it. No, not as he had last seen it, as he had last seen it here. “I’ll take a look later,” Declan said. He didn’t speak to Ronan’s anger, what was upsetting him. But he planned to make the sitting room more palatable to business work. Anything was easier than working out of hotel rooms. And Declan didn’t actually want to do it in his bedroom. Even this one.
Then because it was absurd, and Declan did not know of anything else he could say that might break the painful dark mood, he said, “I saw part of your movie.” It had been ridiculous and cheery in that sappy way that could never hold ground around Ronan in real life. Even his dream things didn’t compare. They were far more than the lighting rigged up in the movie.
--
Ronan picked irritably at his pizza while it was silent. He didn’t have anything else to say; he had, in fact, spent the last few years perfecting the art of not talking and specifically not talking to Declan.
But they were trying. He was at least not actively avoiding talking to Declan and trying not to fight, and that was about the best he could do. He could tell Declan was doing the same, especially when he continued the conversation even after the important stuff was over.
Although it was possible, knowing Declan, that he was worried the stupid Hallmark movie was a threat to the family somehow.
Ronan huffed dismissively. “Not my movie,” he said, “The only part that makes even a little sense is I was matched up with a fucking alien.”
--
No, Declan doubted anyone could convince Ronan to make something like that. Acting required taking direction, something Ronan had failed to learn how to do. And anyone claiming Ronan was a politician, that he could be simply because they had somehow stuffed him or someone looking just like him in a suit was out of their minds. It was untenable unbelievable shit. Though the quality of the fake was rather impressive. It almost made Declan think there was another dreamer about, pulling people from their dreams. But googling had revealed other movies with the names of other people who were on the network. If it were a dreamer, it was probably easier just to take the movies, to make them, than deal with how many people that would be.
This place showed it didn’t have to be a dreamer. There was other magic. And the portal doing whatever sleazy untrustworthy things it did. “The Lord help anyone who asks you for physical therapy,” Declan agreed. At least politics was a hands off proposition. But he still smiled a little, mostly a bland smile out of habit. And he was too exhausted for anything more than that. Not with the dregs of fear based adrenaline crashing through his system. “What time is it?” Declan asked. Because if he needed to get on a new schedule, he needed caffeine.
--
“I’d send them to physical therapy,” Ronan said with a wicked smile. Declan had been on the receiving end of plenty of his punches, and there weren’t many that could take the hit as well as he did. So he didn’t need to elaborate.
He glanced over at the clock. “Almost three.”
It was a disorienting time, because he felt like he’d spent only a few hours in Lindenmere that morning, but outside of the forest half the day had passed. It could have been worse, of course. He’d disappeared for days in Lindenmere before when it had felt like less than an hour. But looking at Declan, he thought his brother was disoriented in the other direction. He looked exhausted.
--
So long as they didn’t murder Ronan where they found him, Declan thought. He could punch as hard and as cruelly as Ronan did. And he had punched some of the people who tried to kill them. Sometimes, it hadn’t even landed. The confidence -- the arrogance -- of that statement felt familiar. But Declan only smiled and nodded. Perhaps Ronan hadn’t met them yet, hadn’t had to fight them. If only that stayed true.
“P.M. All right,” Declan said. Like that was enough to convince his body to go along with it. He pulled some antacids from his pocket and popped one into his mouth. He stood, to take his plate and fork to the sink and wash them. What was he going to do with seven hours? What could he do? There was never much for him at the Barns, and he hardly felt fit to look at books of numbers. The expense reports Parrish wrote up.
“I’ll just check out the townhouse, since it’s here,” he decided.
--
Some part of Ronan felt that maybe he should offer to go with. It wasn’t as if he had anything else urgent to do. But he felt that things had so far gone too well with Declan here and didn’t want to push his luck; moreover, there was a possibility Declan was purposefully trying to put up that boundary.
“Cool,” he said, “I’m gonna head out into the fields and find something to do.”
--
The statement sounded like it was calling for trouble, looking for it. Declan wanted to warn Ronan, to curb whatever dark potential was there. But it was on the Barns. And when he had arrived, at least, Declan hadn’t seen anyone else there. And he didn’t want to argue with Ronan. He just wanted to see him again after they parted ways.
His grip tightened around the antacid bottle in his pocket. But Declan didn’t comment on that. “See you later,” Declan said. Paused. “When do you do dinner?” He’d come back by then. For that. Eating together was a proper family thing, and he had always tried to do so with Matthew.
--
Ronan eyed him. He didn’t have a scheduled dinnertime and he knew Declan would see that as a sign of depression. Probably it was, but it was also a function of not having much of anything important to do with himself. His people were important. The Barns were important. Lindenmere was important. But none of them put specific demands on Ronan’s time on a regular basis.
There was always lying. But Ronan still did not think of himself as a liar, even though Matthew calling him that made him feel closer than anything else ever had. So he just didn’t answer, letting the silence answer for him.
--
There was silence between them. Right. Declan tried to remember Ronan’s schedule. The one they had come up with. Ronan the activities, Declan insisting on a time. If this were lunch, it had been late. So perhaps, an hour later? “See you… sometime between six and seven,” Declan suggested. “All right?” It was just a plan to eat dinner together. And it wasn’t like Ronan answered his texts.
--
To his relief, Declan didn’t say the word routine. But thinking about Matthew had still made him angry, so he shoved the table away with some force as he stood up. He said simply, “Yeah.”