SKYFALL, Johnny Kavanagh

Fond memories

Maeve's Point of View

The hotel room was quiet.

Not silent – the radiator hummed, traffic crawled past outside the window, and Niamh's soft breathing filled the space beside me – but it was the kind of quiet that settled in your chest.
The kind that made you feel like time had stopped moving, even though the clock on the nightstand ticked its way toward six a.m.

I hadn't slept.

Not even for a minute.

Just sat curled at the end of the bed with my back against the headboard and my knees pulled up to my chest, the hotel duvet tucked tightly around me like I could fold myself into a smaller problem if I stayed still enough.

Niamh had fallen asleep sometime around four, her head resting on Feely's shoulder.
He sat beside her on the floor, legs stretched out, quiet and still as stone.
She shifted occasionally – a twitch of fingers, the gentle rise and fall of her breath – but she didn't stir.

At three a.m., Gibsie and Feely had knocked on the door.

"It's us." Feely had said quietly when we cracked it open. "Hughie passed out like a corpse, so it's just us."

Niamh let him in without a word, and now the four of us were sitting like statues in the gloom of a too-warm hotel room, waiting for something – anything – from the hospital.

I didn't want to talk about the match.
Or the collapse.
Or the blood.

I didn't want to think about anything that had happened after Johnny went down, because every time I did, I could still feel the moment he didn't get up like a blade between my ribs.

So when Gibsie cleared his throat and said. "Alright. I'm about to do everyone in here a favour." I didn't stop him.

Feely raised an eyebrow. "Please tell me this isn't another one of your weird conspiracy theories."

Gibsie snorted. "No, it's better. Story time. You remember the camping trip?"

Feely blinked. "Jesus. That one? When we were fifteen?"

"The very same." Gibsie said, grinning as he sat cross-legged on the floor, his hair sticking up wildly in every direction. "Maeve, buckle up. This is the tale of how I nearly set us all on fire in the middle of nowhere and Johnny Kavanagh actually laughed."

"Sounds promising." I said, voice quiet but steadier than it had been all night.

"Right, so." He began. "We convinced Johnny to come camping in the first place, which is a miracle on its own because he thinks tents are 'a structural liability' and that trees are 'suspiciously noisy at night.' His words, not mine."

"That tracks." I murmured.

"He agreed because it was right after exams." Feely added, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "And his coach at the Academy had said he needed to blow off steam before preseason started."

"We chose this mad little campsite out by the river near Clonakilty." Gibsie said, already animated. "Supposed to be scenic, peaceful, you know – reconnect with nature and all that crap."

"Gibsie forgot the tent poles." Feely interjected.

"Details." Gibsie waved him off. "We improvised. Dug a little trench, set the tarp up between two trees. Johnny tied it with the kind of knots you'd see in a survival show. Like he was born for it."

"I still don't know where he learned that." Feely said.

"He probably watched six hours of footage beforehand." Niamh mumbled, eyes still closed on Feely's shoulder.

"Anyway." Gibsie continued. "Night falls. We've got this little fire going – very wholesome. Very rustic. Johnny's actually relaxing. He even took his boots off. That's how you know it was serious."

I raised an eyebrow. "Sounds fake."

"It was magic." Gibsie said solemnly. "He even toasted marshmallows."

Feely snorted. "We were trying to make hot chocolate on this little camp stove and Gibsie thought it'd be a great idea to 'speed up the process' by adding lighter fluid."

I gasped. "No."

"Oh yes." Feely rolled his eyes. "Nearly blew the pot sky high."

"There was a WHOOSH." Gibsie said, throwing up his hands. "Flames everywhere. I think one of my eyebrows is still shorter on the left side."

"Johnny tackled him." Feely said, deadpan.

"Saved my life." Gibsie added dramatically. "Then screamed at me for fifteen minutes like I was a toddler who'd run into traffic. Called me an 'unqualified arsonist' and said he was putting me on permanent fire ban."

I laughed and it felt weird in my chest, like my ribs had forgotten how to make space for anything but fear.

"But then." Feely said, softer now. "When we'd all calmed down, and the fire was out, and the pot was a melted tragedy, he sat back down and said, 'Well... at least the stars are nice.'"

Gibsie nodded. "And we just sat there. All four of us, in the dirt, wrapped in blankets, eating half-charred marshmallows off sticks. He didn't say much after that. But he looked happy."

I swallowed. "You guys must have a lot of stories like that."

"Some." Gibsie said. "Not enough."

Feely's voice was quiet. "He doesn't let himself stop often. But when he does, it's like watching him exhale after holding his breath for years."

I looked down at my hands.

I hadn't known that version of Johnny – the barefoot one in a blanket under the stars. But I wished I had.

And I wanted to know all of him now.

Every inch of him – even the parts he only showed when he thought no one was watching.

Niamh stirred slightly and shifted her head more comfortably on Feely's shoulder.
He didn't move.
Just let her stay there, eyes still on Gibsie, but softer now.

The silence that settled after the story wasn't sharp anymore.

It was warm.

Like the kind that fills a room when everyone knows they're waiting for something, but also knows they're not alone while they do.

I didn't say anything else.
Just leaned back against the headboard and closed my eyes for a second.

The next time they opened, I'd be ready.

And the second the phone rang – the second someone said he's out of surgery or you can come see him – I was going.

No hesitation.
No questions.

Because I wasn't running from this.

Not anymore.