Dean was tired. He was generally tired these days. If it wasn't work keeping him up and in the office after hours, it was his own annoyingly reeling brain, too busy unwelcomingly concocting worst-case scenarios to give him a moment's peace - the forest wars expanding beyond their Scottish borders, Hogwarts (and everyone and everything he cared about within its walls) getting caught in the crossfire, the barely-stiffled bigotry against all 'others' catching fire again, a full-blown exposure disaster with the Muggles. He felt like his whole world (both sides of it; the one firmly engulfed in magic, and the other, still comfortable in his parents' countryside home, very thoroughly Muggle and ignorantly safe) was teetering on some edge, and he wasn't sure whether the precipice it hung above was real or a figment of his paranoid imagination
( ... )
Orla was steeling herself to be a round of comments about entitlement from the middle aged men spread almost evenly through out the line.
Then a vaguely familiar voice she hadn't heard in a while caught her attention instead.
Grinning, bright and a little bit proud, Orla turned toward Dean, ignoring the comments she was expecting and crossing over to him instead.
"It's a gift. I know people in high places, what can I say." Orla shifted her bag on her shoulder and shrugged. "This seat taken?" She asked, belatedly realizing she still had paint splattered over her nails and not in a freshly manicured way and in random dots that didn't quite leave a pattern up her arms.
Dean extended a hand, motioning to the chair as he pushed it back with his foot beneath the table with a short laugh and a shake of his head.
Orla Quirke. They'd definitely broken the mold when they made that one.
"All yours," he nodded, shuffling his papers and notepad aside to make room for her cup on the table.
"Hard at work today, I see?" he added, noticing the splatters and wayward strokes of paint dotting their way up her wrists. Then, pressing his lips together to hold back a laugh as he glanced up at her properly, he reached up to dab a finger at a spot on his own cheek. "You've uh- got a little something-"
Smiling her sweetest smile, Orla dropped into the chair he pushed out for her.
"Looks like you are, too," she gestured with her cup toward the array of paper in front of him.
Dean Thomas, as she lived and breathed. The only man she'd ever met who could make paperwork look appealing.
"Oh, bollocks." Orla huffed and flipped her hair over her shoulder, hand coming up to mirror his, dragging carefully over her cheek without getting more than halfway across the smudge.
"I'm such a disaster, I swear. Did I get it?" She looked over at him hopefully.
Comments 47
Reply
Then a vaguely familiar voice she hadn't heard in a while caught her attention instead.
Grinning, bright and a little bit proud, Orla turned toward Dean, ignoring the comments she was expecting and crossing over to him instead.
"It's a gift. I know people in high places, what can I say." Orla shifted her bag on her shoulder and shrugged. "This seat taken?" She asked, belatedly realizing she still had paint splattered over her nails and not in a freshly manicured way and in random dots that didn't quite leave a pattern up her arms.
Hopefully it wasn't on her face.
Reply
Orla Quirke. They'd definitely broken the mold when they made that one.
"All yours," he nodded, shuffling his papers and notepad aside to make room for her cup on the table.
"Hard at work today, I see?" he added, noticing the splatters and wayward strokes of paint dotting their way up her wrists. Then, pressing his lips together to hold back a laugh as he glanced up at her properly, he reached up to dab a finger at a spot on his own cheek. "You've uh- got a little something-"
Reply
"Looks like you are, too," she gestured with her cup toward the array of paper in front of him.
Dean Thomas, as she lived and breathed. The only man she'd ever met who could make paperwork look appealing.
"Oh, bollocks." Orla huffed and flipped her hair over her shoulder, hand coming up to mirror his, dragging carefully over her cheek without getting more than halfway across the smudge.
"I'm such a disaster, I swear. Did I get it?" She looked over at him hopefully.
Reply
Leave a comment