Chapter Text
To put it lightly, Adam Parrish hates flying. He tolerates it, because he has to travel occasionally for work, but given the option, he much prefers to rent a car or take a train. Except the only other way to get to Dublin from Boston is by boat, so a plane was really his only choice if he wanted to seize the opportunity of speaking on a panel about sustainable vertical architecture at the annual conference of the International Union of Architects.
And right now, Adam is really hating this choice. Hating his selection of flights, at least. He should have booked the direct flight from Logan, but ever economical and trying to show his boss he wasn’t like his colleagues who book business class tickets without a second thought, Adam had selected the cheapest flight available. Which laid him over in Lisbon too early for stores to even be open in the airport so he could catch a relatively small plane to Ireland just after sunrise. A small plane with an arcing flight path that would approach Dublin from the west. A small plane currently facing a series of mechanical failures forcing it to make an emergency landing at a private airstrip outside of a town called Dingle.
Which is about as far from Dublin as you can be while still being in Ireland.
Adam assumes that, as far as emergency landings go, this one must go very smoothly, because the oxygen masks don’t drop from their overhead compartments and the landing gears deploy, so there’s minimal shuddering upon touch down. But that doesn’t stop him from gripping his armrests in white-knuckled fear as the woman in the seat beside him continues to make her way through saying the rosary, which had started as soon as the announcement was made that they would have to land in Dingle.
“But there’s no airport in Dingle!” the woman had wailed, and that’s when Adam had started cursing his luck.
While the pilot and flight attendants meet to speak with airline representatives about what to do with the roughly fifty passengers on board, Adam pulls his phone from his messenger bag and turns it on. When it finally connects to service, he brings up his map app and lets it find his current location. The blue dot appears on a peninsula on the western coast of Ireland and as Adam zooms out, he takes in the expanse of green separating him from his destination. Tapping on Dublin and then adding an additional few taps to get directions there from Dingle, it’s actually not as bad as Adam thought it would be. Three hundred forty kilometers, about four hours. He’s still got over a day and a half to get to Dublin for his conference. While landing in Dingle was bump in the road, it’s not insurmountable. He can make it to Dublin with plenty of time to spare for his panel.
At least this is what he thinks until one of the flight attendants announces the airline won’t be able to get a bus to take them to Kerry Airport, the closest commercial airport, until the next morning. That they’ll work on getting the passengers on flights to Dublin once in Kerry, though that may be an extra day. But the flight attendant says not to worry, that the airline will provide vouchers for food and accommodations, all passengers will get full refunds, and they’ll also receive a free round trip ticket to the destination of their choice, though some restrictions do apply.
After that, Adam thinks he’s screwed.
He’s not the type to complain. Adam will leave that to the guy sitting four rows back who starts yelling as soon as the flight attendant finishes. But Adam is the type to start methodically working through his options as soon as he realizes he has a problem. So as the guy in row nine screams his head off at the flight staff, Adam starts planning how he’ll get to Dublin.
Looking back down at the map on his phone, he zooms in on his current location. The plane landed outside of Dingle, but not terribly far from the town center. Walkable, if he needs to. Then from the center of Dingle, there’s a road that heads east off the peninsula and leads straight across the country, almost directly to Dublin. If he can rent a car or find a car service, or maybe even catch a bus, he can be to Dublin in time for dinner. Worst case scenario, he can get to Kerry Airport and find a flight to Dublin from there.
So Adam starts Googling car rental agencies and finds that the closest one is, not to his surprise, at Kerry Airport. Then he looks up car services, and the only one he finds is a local taxi company that proudly states Exclusively Serving County Kerry on their outdated Website. Adam almost doesn’t bother looking up the bus, but he does, and the next bus out of Dingle to Dublin doesn’t leave until the following afternoon. He searches for a train, but Dingle apparently is too small for even a train station.
Then Adam pulls up Kayak and looks at flights from Kerry to Dublin. There’s one in two hours, which he thinks he’s unlikely to make, and the next doesn’t leave until early the next morning. But if he can get to Kerry Airport somehow and get a rental car, then his problem should be solved, so he pulls up his Uber app and looks for local cars and… nothing. Adam goes back to the taxi company site and clicks on the Call Us button. He holds his phone to his right ear for only long enough to hear the Irish rendition of ‘Your call cannot be completed as dialed.’
It’s only then that Adam thinks he’s royally fucked.
Eventually, just before noon, the flight staff lets the passengers deboard and start to collect their luggage that one of the pilots has started pulling from the cargo hold. Adam retrieves his small suitcase and his garment bag, ignoring the calls of the flight staff to wait so they could guide him towards accommodations as he starts walking towards the center of Dingle.
About fifteen minutes into his walk, an old diesel Land Rover pulls over on the gravel shoulder ahead of where Adam is walking. As Adam approaches the SUV, the driver rolls the window down and asks, “Lad, were you on that plane that just had to land at O’Connor’s farm out there? We all thought he was crazy for building that air strip, but it looks like it was finally of use to someone other than himself.”
“It was better than a water landing,” Adam says wryly.
The driver chuckles at this. “Going into town? I can give you a lift.”
Adam graciously accepts, thanking the man and stowing his bags in the back before climbing into the passenger seat. The driver asks him what happened with the plane, and when Adam can’t relay any good gossip about fires or belligerent passengers, the man just hums and asks him where he’s heading.
“I need to get to Dublin, but it was going to be a few days before the airline could get everyone taken care of,” Adam tells him. “So I really just need to find someone who could drive me to Kerry Airport. I should be able to find my way from there.”
The driver hums again and taps his fingers on the steering wheel as he looks over at Adam. “I’ll drop you at The Greywaren. They’ll be able to get you sorted there.”
The way the man talks, Adam assumes The Greywaren is a inn or a hotel or some other sort of business that would have a car and driver at the ready, but when the Land Rover stops outside of a two story stone building just on the edge of downtown Dingle, Adam doesn’t know why he’s surprised to find The Greywaren is a pub. Adam thanks the driver again after he gets his bags out of the backseat, and then Adam stands on the cobbled sidewalk, looking up at the gold and green sign of The Greywaren. Maybe the guy who drove him into town knows something Adam doesn’t, and Adam has to have faith that this is the case, because Adam’s never gone into a bar or pub for assistance. So, shouldering his messenger bag and picking up his suitcase and garment bag, Adam steps into the pub.
The Greywaren is exactly how Adam would describe an Irish pub if asked. It's shabby in a well-used type of way, rather like how Adam still feels on the inside sometimes, his imposter syndrome still rearing its ugly head even after he proves time and time again that he deserves to be where he is in life. There's worn wooden floors, a number of mismatched stained glass pendant lamps hanging from the ceiling above equally mismatched tables, bench seating lining two of the walls. Directly across from the door, the bar runs most of the length of the back wall of the pub, dotted with two sets of taps, and shelves cluttered with liquor bottles loom behind it.
Though it's barely lunch time, at one end of the bar is a small cluster of middle-aged to elderly men, and they're all talking animatedly with the much younger bartender. Seemingly as one, as the door bangs shut behind Adam, they all turn to look at him, five pairs of eyes moving between Adam, his luggage, and each other.
The bartender stands up a little straighter, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans against the counter behind the bar. His pale blue eyes move down Adam and then back up again before he finally asks in a deep brogue thicker than any Irish accent Adam has ever heard, “What can I do you for?”
Setting his suitcase and garment bag beside the door, Adam makes his way to the bar. He hates asking questions he already knows the answer to, but maybe this bartender and these patrons at The Greywaren know better than Google considering the apparent non-existence of public transportation in Dingle, if the internet is to be believed. So Adam starts, “I was just on the plane that had to land at… O’Connor’s? I think it was O’Connor. O’Connor’s air strip. And I really need to get to Dublin. Is there a car service around here?”
The bartender cocks an eyebrow and an amused look tugs at the corner of his lips. “You realize Dublin’s a good three hundred kilometers away, right? No taxi around here is going to take you that far.”
Gritting his teeth for a moment, Adam takes a deep breath before continuing, “Then is there some other way? A bus? A train? Is there a car rental place?”
“Best bet would be to go to Tralee and get one of those from there, but…” The bartender trails off.
“But?” Adam asks warily.
“Train from Tralee to Dublin will have left for the day since it’s after twelve, and there’s only one. Won’t be another ‘til tomorrow at ten. And the bus…” The bartender waves his hand back and forth in a ‘so-so’ gesture. “Good luck with that. It’s unreliable on the best of days. And most days are not the best days.”
Adam is closing in on his wit’s end with this guy. He’s on the edge of laying into the bartender when one of the middle-aged patrons pipes in.
“Ronan Lynch,” the man at the bar says in a scolding tone, accent just as thick if not thicker than the bartender’s. “What would your mum do? I don’t think she’d take too kindly to you not helping a lad who’s in a bit of a spot.”
The bartender throws a leer in the direction of the man who had spoken. “My mum would have given him the keys to her car and told him to not bother returning it, Callahan. Is that what you’d have me do?”
“I’ll pay. Five hundred euro,” Adam cuts into the conversation and his stomach clenches at the amount he’d thrown out, even though he has more than enough to cover it. “Look, this is a huge opportunity for me, and I really, really need to get to Dublin. I can pay anyone who can help me get there. If it’s not you, just point me in the right direction.
Ronan, Adam assumes the bartender’s name is, assesses Adam for a long while, like he’s weighing, measuring, and finding Adam wanting. But he finally nods. “Fine. Give me an hour to get someone to watch the pub, then we’ll be on our way.”
Adam chooses to withhold the largest sigh of relief he’ll ever heave in his life. Instead, he holds his hand out across the bar. “Thank you. I really appreciate it. Adam Parrish.”
Ronan’s gaze falls to Adam’s extended hand. With that gaze, with his chilly blue eyes, Adam thinks Ronan can see every minute of manual labor Adam has performed in his life, every scrape, every grease and oil stain. The stuff Adam had tried to scrub away for so long. But Adam keeps his hand extended, and after a long, uncomfortable pause, Ronan reaches out and shakes Adam’s hand, giving him a formal introduction. “Ronan Lynch. Nice to meet you.”