(TM) 280. Deep Thoughts
What do you think?
“Sooo ...” Abby drawled. “What do you think?”
“Mmm?” Ruairí blinked and smiled down at the petite brunette under his arm. They'd just finished lunch with Cait, and he'd offered to walk his Dr. Lockhart back to the hospital for her afternoon shift. “About what, love?”
She gave him one of those looks that clearly said she thought he was being deliberately dense. “I can't believe you're asking. Breaker Street's GMA spot this morning? Your son on stage, screaming crowd, national TV exposure … were you there, or did Cait and I spend the whole time standing next to one of those life-size cardboard cutout replicas?”
“Ah.” He gave her a squeeze as they walked. “They did beautifully. I knew the first time we saw them play that they'd likely get this kind of attention, especially with Robin's help. Of course it's a bit odd for me to compare the man up on stage with the little boy in church choir all those decades ago--”
Abruptly turning in front of him, Abby brought both his feet and his words to a halt with a smack to his chest. “Ruairí. You know damn good and well I'm not talking about their musical ability.”
“I do?” He did. In truth, he did.
“Of course you do.” Exasperation took over her expression. “Because even with all of the congratulations you heaped on the band, every time none of them were looking you got this wrinkle in your forehead. The same one you've got now, by the way.” She poked him in said wrinkle to forestall any denials. “Something's worrying you. So you can tell me now, or I'll get Cait to help me dig it out of you later. Your call.”
Not too drastic as threats went, but it did stir up Ruairí's recent memory. He'd sat at Tadhg's table in Santa Barbara and lectured all four of his children on how they needed to stop being so stubbornly independent and start talking to each other when troubles arose. They were family; they were supposed to rely on each other. Abby was family too, as uncomfortable as she sometimes seemed with the idea. He couldn't brush her question aside without indulging in more hypocrisy than he felt comfortable with just then.
Plus she'd likely hit him again.
Gently he guided her over to a nearby shop front window, out of the worst of the foot traffic, where they only garnered a few isolated glares from their fellow pedestrians. He could think better there, and gods knew he needed to figure out how to explain a very fey situation to his very human lover.
“Tadhg told me,” he sighed, “that Rory's audiences have a definite effect on him. You've heard about musicians and other stage performers feeding off the energy of the crowd? Because he's fey, Rory apparently can carry that metaphor to a more literal level.” A furrow had started on Abby's brow to match the one on his. “He draws feelings, impulses, all kinds of emotional energy from the people watching and listening to him. With Tadhg's warning I was able to see some of what was happening, though not in as great a detail as he could.
“I didn't expect such an intense end result though. He was … nearly blazing.” Frustrated at the lack of better terms in English, Ruairí raked the fingers of one hand through his silver hair. “Tadhg worried that maybe larger audiences would have a deeper effect on Rory, and it looks like he may have been right.”
“Deeper effect.” Abby was definitely frowning by now. “What kind of effect are we talking about here? Something that could overload his nervous system?” She'd entered doctor-mode, he could see. “Performers also talk about craving that crowd energy, having a need for it.” Her teeth caught at her full lower lip for a moment. “Ruairí, could this whatever-it-is-hoodoo become addictive?”
A most logical question for a doctor to ask, especially a doctor with an addiction of her own. His mouth opened in automatic denial. Rory was púca, after all. Alcohol had no power over his kind, nor did nicotine or a host of other drugs. Púca just didn't do addictions.
But his jaw hung suspended, the words unspoken. Tadhg's worries and his own combined to still his tongue.
“I don't know, Abby,” he whispered at last. “I don't know.”
abbytude appears with permission from her magnificent mun. The link to Rory's journal in the third paragraph leads to a post that contains RP of a sexual nature involving two men in the comments, so don't read all the way down if you're offended by such material plskthx.
Muse: Ruairí MacEibhir
Fandom: The Grey Horse
Word count: 756
“Sooo ...” Abby drawled. “What do you think?”
“Mmm?” Ruairí blinked and smiled down at the petite brunette under his arm. They'd just finished lunch with Cait, and he'd offered to walk his Dr. Lockhart back to the hospital for her afternoon shift. “About what, love?”
She gave him one of those looks that clearly said she thought he was being deliberately dense. “I can't believe you're asking. Breaker Street's GMA spot this morning? Your son on stage, screaming crowd, national TV exposure … were you there, or did Cait and I spend the whole time standing next to one of those life-size cardboard cutout replicas?”
“Ah.” He gave her a squeeze as they walked. “They did beautifully. I knew the first time we saw them play that they'd likely get this kind of attention, especially with Robin's help. Of course it's a bit odd for me to compare the man up on stage with the little boy in church choir all those decades ago--”
Abruptly turning in front of him, Abby brought both his feet and his words to a halt with a smack to his chest. “Ruairí. You know damn good and well I'm not talking about their musical ability.”
“I do?” He did. In truth, he did.
“Of course you do.” Exasperation took over her expression. “Because even with all of the congratulations you heaped on the band, every time none of them were looking you got this wrinkle in your forehead. The same one you've got now, by the way.” She poked him in said wrinkle to forestall any denials. “Something's worrying you. So you can tell me now, or I'll get Cait to help me dig it out of you later. Your call.”
Not too drastic as threats went, but it did stir up Ruairí's recent memory. He'd sat at Tadhg's table in Santa Barbara and lectured all four of his children on how they needed to stop being so stubbornly independent and start talking to each other when troubles arose. They were family; they were supposed to rely on each other. Abby was family too, as uncomfortable as she sometimes seemed with the idea. He couldn't brush her question aside without indulging in more hypocrisy than he felt comfortable with just then.
Plus she'd likely hit him again.
Gently he guided her over to a nearby shop front window, out of the worst of the foot traffic, where they only garnered a few isolated glares from their fellow pedestrians. He could think better there, and gods knew he needed to figure out how to explain a very fey situation to his very human lover.
“Tadhg told me,” he sighed, “that Rory's audiences have a definite effect on him. You've heard about musicians and other stage performers feeding off the energy of the crowd? Because he's fey, Rory apparently can carry that metaphor to a more literal level.” A furrow had started on Abby's brow to match the one on his. “He draws feelings, impulses, all kinds of emotional energy from the people watching and listening to him. With Tadhg's warning I was able to see some of what was happening, though not in as great a detail as he could.
“I didn't expect such an intense end result though. He was … nearly blazing.” Frustrated at the lack of better terms in English, Ruairí raked the fingers of one hand through his silver hair. “Tadhg worried that maybe larger audiences would have a deeper effect on Rory, and it looks like he may have been right.”
“Deeper effect.” Abby was definitely frowning by now. “What kind of effect are we talking about here? Something that could overload his nervous system?” She'd entered doctor-mode, he could see. “Performers also talk about craving that crowd energy, having a need for it.” Her teeth caught at her full lower lip for a moment. “Ruairí, could this whatever-it-is-hoodoo become addictive?”
A most logical question for a doctor to ask, especially a doctor with an addiction of her own. His mouth opened in automatic denial. Rory was púca, after all. Alcohol had no power over his kind, nor did nicotine or a host of other drugs. Púca just didn't do addictions.
But his jaw hung suspended, the words unspoken. Tadhg's worries and his own combined to still his tongue.
“I don't know, Abby,” he whispered at last. “I don't know.”
abbytude appears with permission from her magnificent mun. The link to Rory's journal in the third paragraph leads to a post that contains RP of a sexual nature involving two men in the comments, so don't read all the way down if you're offended by such material plskthx.
Muse: Ruairí MacEibhir
Fandom: The Grey Horse
Word count: 756