The noise fades slower than it started.
Boots dragging across the floor, low groans from the ones still conscious, and the dull scrape of wood can be heard over the new hustle and bustle of the bar, people once again joking and laughing.
Pierre grips one of the Bracken boys by the collar and drags him across the floor like dead weight, boots leaving faint streaks behind him. The man groans once when his shoulder hits the doorframe, then goes quiet again.
"Careful," Augustus mutters, though he doesn't sound like he means it. "We don't want you to break him more, now do we?"
Pierre chuckles and smirks. "No, no we don't, it might make things worse"
He pushes the door open with his foot and dumps the body just outside under the overhang, rain mist creeping in around him.
Richard handles another, more methodical about it—lifting instead of dragging, setting him down with something that almost resembles care.
Johann nudges one of the unconscious men with his boot before crouching down, scooping under his arms and carrying him to the door.
"Thankfully they are all still alive," he says as he plops him beside the others.
"Yep, thankfully," Pierre replies as he steps back inside while rubbing his abdomen.
Johann huffs and follows him in, shutting the door with a click.
Inside, Quinn sits at the bar examining the situation while sipping on some ale.
That went a lot better than I thought it would, good thing I didn't have to help, I am still not used to this body and I am not in the best condition.
Skip stands behind the counter, wiping down the same section of wood he had been cleaning before any of it started. His expression hasn't changed much—just a faint crease at the corner of his mouth, like something mildly amusing had happened rather than seven men being put on the floor.
"Thank you gentlemen for the help but remember the rule, you break it, you fix it." he says without looking up.
Johann glances at the shattered table and rubs the back of his head.
"…fair."
He sets his hammer back at his belt and begins moving pieces of the table.
Augustus grabs a chair and flips it upright, testing one of the legs before setting it back into place. Richard gathers broken pieces of wood and stacks them neatly off to the side.
Pierre picks up the largest half of the broken table and carries it over to the wall, leaning it carefully like it might still be worth something.
Quinn watches for a moment more before setting down his mug and stepping in, helping where he can—lifting smaller pieces, clearing space, trying not to get in the way more than anything else as he stumbles and limps around.
It doesn't take to long for everything to be cleaned up with all of them working, it isn't fully fixed, but it is functional again.
Johann reaches into his coat and pulls out a small pouch, setting it on the counter with a soft clink as the four boys get ready to leave behind him.
"Sorry for the trouble, Skip."
Skip finally looks at them.
Then at the pouch.
Then back at the room.
"…keep it."
Johann pauses and looks at him questiongly.
Skip shrugs.
"They were going to break something eventually."
A beat passes as Skip hands him the pouch.
"Next time," he adds, "try not to break anything, or let it begin in the first place."
Pierre huffs a quiet laugh as he grabs umbrella off the wall.
"No promises but I'll try."
The rain hasn't let up.
It comes down steady and cold, turning the street into a dull mirror of reflected lantern light and blurred shapes.
Quinn pulls his coat tighter around himself as they step out, the smell of ale clinging to him stronger now that the cold air cuts through it.
I reek, but it is better than smelling like blood.
Richard glances over once, then gestures forward.
"Let's get you home before that becomes a problem."
The quintet set out from the bar, August and Richard under an umbrella, Quinn and Johann under one and Pierre leading the group with his umbrella on his wrist and hat in his back pocket as he enjoys the rain.
The walk is quiet, not tense, just settled.
Boots against wet stone, water dripping from rooftops and the distant rumble of thunder rolling somewhere far off feel like they echo in the silent street, almost as if they overwhelm everything in the world at this time.
Pierre walks further ahead with a faint smirk, hands in his pockets and his shoulders loose despite the fresh bruises forming beneath his shirt.
Johann falls closer to the back as Richard takes his place beside Quinn, Johann stares at the group, occasionally brushing the bruise under his eye that is already darkening.
Augustus keeps his usual pace as he holds the brim of his hat and saunters to the left most part of the street, eyes flicking now and then to passing alleys, corners, windows—never lingering, but never missing anything either.
Richard now stays near Quinn close to the middle of street, he isn't guiding Quinn he is simply there to make sure he stays dry and upright.
Quinn is lost in thought as he thinks about the day before the Hatchlock house comes into view with a faint glow in the window which causes his chest to ache, making him slow as he is flooded with memories of late nights and an empty dark house, the memories slowly fade into Quinn's, although the nights are late the house is not empty or dark, Quinn was always welcomed when he came home. The memories fade as he begins to think.
They're awake, I don't think I am prepared to explain what happened or make an alibi.
The door opens before he even reaches the doorstep.
Roran stands there, broad frame filling the doorway, arms crossed tight across his chest. His expression is already set; it is a mix of worry and anger.
Behind him, Maris lingers just over his shoulder, worry written plain across her face.
Roran's eyes land on Quinn first, examining his state before the smell hits and his nose wrinkles.
"…you've been drinking."
Quinn opens his mouth to refute then closes it.
"…a bit."
"A bit," Roran repeats flatly. "You've got work at the school tomorrow."
"I know." He says even though he didn't, this isn't a part of Quinn's schedule in his memories.
"You don't look like you know."
Quinn exhales slowly.
"I'll be there."
Roran studies him and the four behind him for a moment longer, eyes flicking over the small signs—the small gash on Quinn's forehead, and the way he sways just slightly along with how he is putting more weight on one leg then the other.
"…what happened?"
"Just a bar fight," Quinn says, keeping it simple to get away from the conversation.
Roran's jaw tightens as he squints, not much convinced by Quinn.
Maris steps forward before he can press further.
Her eyes move past Quinn—taking in the others standing behind and beside him.
Pierre. Johann. Richard. Augustus.
She notices the bruises first then all the small things, the same ones Roran saw.
"…you should come in," she says gently. "All of you. It's too cold to be standing out here."
Roran glances at her.
Then at them.
He doesn't argue with his mother and steps aside.
Quinn enters with a stagger sheepishly walking past Roran before the four follow behind him, standing in the entryway as Roran walks in.
The warmth hits immediately as Quinn moves to a spot to sit.
Maris moves quickly, already pulling out cups, setting water to heat without needing to ask.
"Sit," she says. "Please."
Pierre hesitates for half a second before stepping into the room, boots heavy against the floor. Johann follows, ducking slightly through the doorway out of habit more than necessity.
Augustus and Richard enter last.
Quinn sits on a wingback chair with a faint groan, the room is familiar and not at the same time.
Pierre sits on a sofa beside Johann, Roran tosses Pierre a towel as he goes into the kitchen to help his mother.
Richard sits on a chair and Augustus sits on the arm of the sofa Pierre and Johann are on.
Soon after everyone get comfortable Roran and Maris enter with tea, Roran having Maris sit down as he pours the cups of tea.
As he does so the introductions begin.
Richard first.
"I am Richard." He says as he accepts tea from Roran with a smile.
Augustus follows as he adjusts his hat, putting it on as he accepts his cup of tea.
"Augustus. Most people just call me August."
Pierre lifts a hand slightly with the towel on his head and his cap on his lap.
"Pierre and thank you for the towel."
Johann gives a small tilt of his head as he accepts his cup of tea.
"Johann, thank you for inviting us in."
Maris smiles at each of them in turn, committing the names to memory.
"I'm Maris," she says. "And that's Roran." she says pointing to him and patting the spot beside her
Roran gives a short nod and sits after giving Quinn a cup of tea and setting down the tea kettle.
Quinn accepts his cup of tea with both and sips it as the warmth sips into his skin
Pierre finishes drying his hair and places the towel on his lap, his hair a mess as he takes the cup of tea that was prepared for him.
Maris's eyes return to the bruises.
Pierre's split lip.
The slight stiffness in how they all carry themselves.
"…a simple bar fight?" she asks softly.
Quinn nods, simply trying to avoid the conversation.
"Yeah."
He sips his tea and stifles a yawn.
"…we handled it."
Her gaze lingers a moment longer.
Then she nods, she doesn't push.
The house settles and the rain continues outside.
Inside, it's just warmth, quiet voices, and the soft clink of cups against wood.
For a moment—
it feels normal.
Borrowed, Quinn thinks, staring down into his tea.
But… still.
He takes a sip.
And lets the warmth sit as it dulls the ache in his bones.